Testing

It started like any other night.

Claire walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, skin still damp, hair clinging to her collarbone. The cotton hugged her curves, threatening to slip with every step. She moved slowly, deliberately, like she didn’t mind who was watching.

Marcus was in the kitchen, shirtless, sipping a protein shake. Mesh shorts hung low on his waist. He didn’t say anything when she passed by, just moved a little to the side—but not enough. She had to brush against him, and when she did, she felt it. His solid frame. His warmth. The deliberate stillness of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Claire didn’t flinch. She didn’t apologize.

She just kept walking.

⸻

The three of them ended up on the couch again—like always now. Claire in the middle, wearing the towel like it was a dress, her bare legs folded underneath her. Marcus to her right. John to her left.

Claire picked the movie. Something dumb and funny. Nothing serious.

She settled into the cushions, and this time didn’t leave a gap. Her thigh touched Marcus’s. The contact was subtle, casual. But it was there.

John noticed. Of course he did. But he said nothing.

Halfway through the movie, Claire shifted.

She leaned forward for the remote and the towel slipped down—just a bit. The curve of one breast showed for a second before she pulled it back up. She didn’t look at either of them.

Marcus’s eyes flicked. Brief. Controlled.

John sat stiff beside her, jaw tight.

Claire said nothing. But she smiled at the screen like she was enjoying herself.

⸻

Later, John got up to grab drinks. When he came back, Claire had her legs draped over Marcus’s lap. Not flirtatious—casual. Like it just made sense.

Marcus didn’t touch her, but his arm rested along the back of the couch, fingers close to her shoulder.

John froze in the doorway for a second.

Then walked over and handed Claire a soda.

“Thanks, babe,” she said, not even looking up.

John sat on the other end of the couch. The movie kept playing, but no one was really watching it anymore.

“You’ve been quiet,” Claire said, glancing at him.

“I’m watching,” John muttered.

“Are you?” Her tone was light. Teasing.

Marcus stayed silent.

Claire shifted again. Her towel pulled higher on her thighs, looser at her chest. Then she adjusted her seat—slowly—and the top slipped just enough to reveal the side of her breast.

She didn’t fix it right away.

Marcus glanced down. Not long. Just enough.

John swallowed hard.

No one spoke.

⸻

That night, back in their bedroom, Claire peeled off the towel and slipped into a tight tank and panties. The door stayed half open.

John sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

“You let him look,” he said.

Claire turned slowly, leaning against the doorframe. “You didn’t stop me.”

“You knew what you were doing.”

“So did he,” she said calmly.

She walked over and sat beside him. Her thigh touched his again.

John looked at her, face tight. “And you liked it.”

Claire smiled. “I loved it.”

“You’re testing me.”

“No,” she whispered. “I’m showing you.”

“Showing me what?”

She leaned in close. “What I could do. What I might do. What I want you to think about.”

John’s throat was dry. His jeans felt tighter than they had all night.

Claire slid a hand down his thigh, cupped him gently. He was already getting hard.

“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

She leaned closer, kissed the edge of his mouth, then his ear.

“I haven’t even touched him,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

Then she pulled away, stood up, and walked to the bathroom.

John sat in silence.

The sound of water running filled the room.

And in the quiet, he imagined things he never thought he’d want to see.