Competition Riles You Up

The competition in her voice riles you up more than you want to admit. You sit back in your chair and meet her eyes, feeling the familiar heat settle low in your gut.

Cheryl’s brunette hair is the same dark shade as Natasha’s, but that is where the resemblance ends. At thirty-six your wife has softened and filled out in ways that used to turn you on and now mostly frustrate you. Cheryl is pure tone, the kind of lean muscle that comes from teaching yoga three evenings a week. Her blouse sits smooth over a flat stomach and high, firm breasts. You have caught yourself staring at the way her hips move when she walks the floor, imagining what that body would look like bent over a desk.

You hate the crystals she keeps on her shelf and the way she casually drops astrology into conversation like it means something. Still, more than once you have lain awake next to Natasha’s sleeping form and pictured wiping the smug, aloof look off Cheryl’s face with your cock buried deep in her tight arsehole.

She taps the folder again. “You are already behind on the conversion metrics. I can take the account if you prefer. Or you can prove you still know how to close.”

You keep your voice even. “I close just fine when the data is clean. Maybe your projections are the problem.”

Cheryl’s mouth curves. “Cute. Keep telling yourself that while I am the one the partners actually listen to. Six o’clock. Room B. Bring your numbers or bring an apology. Either way I will be there.”

She pushes off the desk and walks away, hips rolling with that easy yoga-teacher grace. You watch her go, the ache from the morning returning sharper, and open the folder she left behind.