She offers to try it on, just to see his reaction

I let the fabric drape teasingly over my palm, watching the strings sway between us. "Maybe I'll model it for you," I murmured, tilting my head with a giggle that didn't quite reach my eyes. The words tasted dangerous, sticky-sweet like stolen jam. "See if Mum's taste holds up."

James chuckled—a rough, **** sound—and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. "I'm sure it'll look great," he said, voice carefully neutral, but the way his gaze flicked to my collarbone told another story. His fingers twitched at his sides as if resisting the urge to pluck the bikini from my grip. "Though I’m not sure how Sarah will feel about it." His reference to his wife bursting my bubble very slightly.

"Doesn't she wear them anymore?" I asked, twisting one of the strings around my finger, watching the fabric pull taut. The question came out softer than I intended, laced with something almost coy. I imagined Sarah Hartwell—tall, competent, perpetually in scrubs—owning some sensible navy one-piece and felt a ridiculous surge of triumph.

James exhaled sharply through his nose, nudging the torn envelope with his socked foot. "Not like that." His voice dropped, almost to himself. "Not in years."

I let the silence stretch, draping the bikini over my wrist like a bracelet. The gold rings caught the sunlight, casting tiny crescents across his forearm. "That’s a shame," I said, deliberately casual, running my thumb along the edge of one triangle. "Sarah always looks like she stays in shape."

James’s jaw flexed. He stepped back abruptly, as if the distance would protect him. "She does." His tone was clipped, defensive in a way that thrilled me. The delivery van pulled away with a rumble, leaving only the sound of my pulse in my ears.

I traced the delicate stitching of the bikini with my fingertip, watching his eyes track the movement. "Must be hard," I said softly, "when she’s always at the hospital." His Adam’s apple bobbed—a tell. I pressed on, emboldened. "All that energy and no one to… help you burn it off." The words hung between us, thick as the summer air.

James went very still. The muscle in his jaw twitched once, then twice. His fingers flexed at his sides before he deliberately shoved them into the pockets of his running shorts. "Felicity." My name sounded like a warning, low and rough. The kind of voice that could make a girl’s knees weak.

"Oh, come on," I teased, twirling one of the bikini strings around my finger. "All those ridiculous distances you run—Brecon Beacons, was it?—that’s not just for fun." I tilted my head, catching the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly. "Bet you come home dripping sweat, still wound tighter than a spring." The words tasted dangerous on my tongue, sweet and forbidden. I leaned back against the hallway wall, deliberately slow, my sports bra and low slung leggings revealing my bare stomach.

James exhaled sharply through his nose, his broad chest rising and falling faster than before. His hand flexed once at his side before he stepped back, throat bobbing. "Right. The board meeting." The excuse was weak—transparent—but he seized it like a drowning man. "Emails to draft." His voice had dropped to a rough murmur, his gaze flicking past me toward the stairs.

I let him go, watching the tight line of his shoulders as he retreated. The worn fabric of his running shorts hugged the curve of his ass—and lower. My breath hitched. Was that...? I bit my lip, shamelessly tracking the faint outline pressing against the seam as he turned the corner. The sight sent a bolt of heat straight to my core. *Fuck.* He was hard. For me.

The stairs creaked under his hurried footsteps—too quick for a man just heading to draft emails. I leaned against the wall, straining to hear the soft click of his bedroom door. Silence. Then—after a beat too long—the muffled groan of mattress springs. My imagination painted the scene in vivid strokes: James sprawled across the marital bed, those runner’s legs spread wide, one hand already working himself while the other clutched at the sheets. Would he think of me? The way my hips had brushed his in the kitchen? The turquoise strings pooled in my palm?