The tease continues next morning

By the time my vision cleared, the doorway stood empty. A cold draft licked at my sweat-slicked skin—the door still ajar, the hall beyond dark. Distantly, the groan of floorboards under hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, punctuated by the muffled click of the master bedroom door snapping shut.

I dragged the sheets up with trembling fingers, pressing the fabric to my racing pulse. The scent of my own arousal clung to the cotton as I strained to hear—anything—from down the hall. The rhythmic creak of bedsprings? The choked-off grunt of a man losing control in his wife’s vacant bed? The wet slap of skin on skin as James spilled himself imagining me spread beneath him?

My thighs clenched around the aftershocks, still slick from my performance. Moonlight painted silver stripes across the tangled sheets where I’d arched and moaned for him. Had he watched until the end? Had his knuckles turned bloodless gripping the doorframe while I chanted his name like a prayer? The thought sent fresh heat pooling low in my belly. I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle a giddy laugh.

Dawn arrived too soon, slicing through the curtains with cruel precision. I stretched slowly, every muscle singing with the memory of last night’s theatrics. The crumpled vest and shorts lay discarded where I’d peeled them off—still damp with sweat and something darker. I kicked them under the bed with my toe. Evidence.

The wardrobe yawned open, revealing a carefully curated arsenal: the tight white athleisure set that made Bella wolf-whistle, the micro shorts with the frayed hem from last summer’s festival, the obscenely cropped tank top with the plunging neckline. But today demanded something subtler. Deadlier. My fingers closed around soft navy fabric—a tennis skirt so short it barely qualified as clothing, paired with a crisp white polo knotted just below my ribs to expose a sliver of sun-warmed stomach. Perfectly innocent. Perfectly obscene.

The thong was an afterthought—white lace edging peeking above the skirt’s waistband when I arched forward, the triangle of fabric barely covering what mattered. I hesitated with the bra dangling from my fingertips before tossing it onto the bed. The polo clung to every curve, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the peaked nipples still sensitive from last night’s fantasy. Let him look. Let him remember.

Downstairs, the scent of coffee and burnt toast clung to the air. Bella was already sprawled at the kitchen island, shoveling cereal into her mouth while scrolling through her phone. "Christ," she muttered through a mouthful, eyeing my outfit. "You trying to get arrested for indecent exposure?"

I smirked, deliberately bending over to retrieve a mug from the lower cabinet—hearing Bella's spoon clatter against her bowl as the skirt rode up dangerously high. "Thought I'd practice my tennis serve later," I lied smoothly, stretching onto my tiptoes to reach the coffee tin. The movement pulled the polo taut across my chest, the thin fabric leaving nothing to imagination.

Bella snorted. "Bullshit. You haven't touched a racket since Year—" The back door creaked open, cutting her off mid-sentence. James froze on the threshold, gardening gloves dangling from one hand, his gaze snagging on the strip of bare skin between my skirt and knotted polo. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"Morning," I chirped, deliberately turning to face him fully. The morning light through the window turned the white fabric translucent—his sharp inhale told me everything. "Sleep well?"

His knuckles whitened around the gloves. "Fine."

The word came out hoarse—rough as gravel dragged over skin. Coffee sloshed dangerously as I poured, letting the silence stretch taut between us. Behind me, Bella snorted into her cereal.

James cleared his throat, dumping the gloves on the counter with unnecessary ****. "Sarah’s working a double today," he muttered—too casual, too studied—while grabbing the milk carton. His forearm brushed mine. A spark leapt between us, static-charged and deliberate.

Bella rolled her eyes. "Dad’s got garden rage today," she stage-whispered, kicking her legs against the stool. "What’s your excuse?"

I shrugged, stirring my coffee in slow circles—letting the spoon clink against the ceramic just to watch James’ shoulders tense. "Just felt like looking… presentable." The words dripped with false innocence as I leaned against the counter, thighs pressing together to make the skirt ride higher. James fumbled the milk carton, catching it just before it hit the floor. His wedding ring clattered against the tile.

"Right. Well." He cleared his throat, retreating toward the hallway like a man fleeing a crime scene. "Work calls."