Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving crept in with soft winds and low gray skies, the kind that wrapped the world in quiet. Emily woke early—earlier than she had to—and got to work.

Hair curled just so. Skin moisturized, powdered, flushed. Her lipstick was a subtle shade—something warm, innocent. But her eyes were sharp. Her dress was new. Tight enough to cling, soft enough to hint. Deep green, cinched at the waist, just long enough to pass.

She wore nothing underneath.

Every inch of her had been planned.

Family dinner was at Sarah’s house again. Emily arrived second to last, just before the food was plated. Jason at her side, hand on the small of her back like the good husband he was. She smiled through greetings and wine-pouring, catching bits of conversation about turkey, travel, weather. Everything normal.

Until she saw him.

Mickey was standing near the fireplace with a glass of soda, shoulders tense, collar loose. He looked up. Their eyes met.

He smiled.

Her heart jumped.

She didn’t let it show—but she saw the way his gaze dropped, how it flicked over her body, stalled at her hips, rose again with something helpless behind it.

And she saw the shift in his stance. The twitch at his fly. He was already half-hard.

He kept glancing.

She kept pretending not to notice.

Emily floated through the rooms, complimenting her sisters, hugging her parents, nodding at Sarah’s husband. Mickey barely spoke a word, just lingered close to whatever doorway she was about to cross.

In the kitchen, while everyone else had filed into the dining room, they brushed shoulders.

Tight space.

She didn’t just pass by.

She dragged—her breasts brushed the line of his back, deliberate, soft pressure just above his waist. She felt his breath stutter.

She leaned in, close enough that her lips nearly touched his ear.

“Think you could give me a hand in the pantry?”

He went hard instantly. She felt it—his body tensed, hips shifted, a flush climbed his neck. He didn’t answer. Just made a sharp turn and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Emily exhaled.

Three minutes.

Four.

Five.

She slipped into the pantry.

Shut the door behind her.

Dark, small, stacked with jars and foil trays, the smell of spices and dust in the air. She pressed her back to the shelf, heart pounding, thighs already slick.

Her fingers slid under her skirt.

One long, slow stroke through wet folds.

She bit her lip.

He had walked through this room. Still hard. Still flushed. Still trying to hold it together.

Her fingers circled her clit.

She imagined him turning back. Locking the door. Grabbing her by the hips and bending her over the shelf. Sliding inside her, hard and hungry, **** after weeks of silence.

She rubbed faster.

Her breath hitched.

What would he do if she moaned? If he heard her now, fingers soaked, whispering his name through the pantry door while the rest of the family passed mashed potatoes in the next room?

She came quietly, thighs trembling, forehead pressed to the cool wood, her slick fingers trembling against her cunt.

No one knew.