(Fictional) The start of a 5 year affair with a college friend while her husband works away

I've been away for a while had a break from life over Christmas, it gave me some time to sit back and write some fictional works, so I hope you enjoy, as always your support is appreciated, you can buy me a coffee or leave me a donation, there is a pay pal short link in my bio, enjoy........ as always feedback and collaborations are always welcome, all people in any of my works are over the legal age.

The doorbell rang at 7:37 PM precisely two minutes after I’d given up on microwaving my lasagna. The tray sat half-rotated in the microwave, cheese still cold in the middle, because of course it was.

"Hey," Martin said when I opened the door, holding up a brown paper bag that smelled like garlic and oregano. "Figured you hadn’t eaten yet." His grin was easy, the same one he’d worn since college, back when he used to smuggle contraband energy drinks into my dorm room during finals week.

I stepped aside to let him in, toeing a pair of abandoned flip-flops out of the way. The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of some true crime documentary I hadn’t been paying attention to. My laptop sat open on the coffee table, halfway through an email to Mark subject line: When are you coming home? that I’d been rewriting for twenty minutes.

"Bad day?" Martin asked, already unpacking the takeout containers onto the kitchen counter.

"Bad week," I admitted, watching him pop the lids off plastic containers with his thumbs. Steam curled up between us fettuccine alfredo, garlic bread still glistening with butter. He'd remembered my order from that little Italian place in town, the one Mark always said was "too heavy" for dinner.

Martin nudged the lasagna tray away with his elbow. "Thought so." He handed me a fork, our fingers brushing just long enough to make my stomach tighten.

We settled on the couch with our food balanced on our knees. The documentary droned on something about a jewelry heist in Miami but Martin kept stealing glances at me instead of the screen. At one point, he reached over to wipe a spot of alfredo sauce off my chin with his thumb. His fingertip lingered near the corner of my mouth for half a second too long.

"Remember when you used to bring me Red Bulls during midterms?" I said suddenly, stabbing a piece of pasta.

Martin chuckled, leaning back against the couch cushions. His arm stretched along the back, fingertips grazing the nape of my neck. "Yeah, and you'd chug them so fast your hands shook during exams." His thumb traced idle circles on my skin not quite an accident, not quite intentional. The documentary's narrator droned on about stolen diamonds, but the sound faded beneath the rustle of fabric as Martin shifted closer.

The fork slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the plate. "Oops," I murmured, but Martin was already picking it up, his knuckles brushing the inside of my thigh as he handed it back. Something flickered in his eyes a question, maybe before he looked away, clearing his throat.

"You're wearing my favorite shirt," he said suddenly, tugging at the hem of my worn-out college tee. The fabric stretched thin between his fingers, gaping just enough to reveal the curve of my bare breast beneath. Neither of us moved to fix it.

The heating kicked on, sending a draft across my skin. Martin's gaze dropped to my nipples, hardened against the thin cotton. A slow smile spread across his face, the same one he'd used to talk me into skipping class for beach trips, the one that always made my stomach flip.

Martin’s fingers lingered on the hem of my shirt, his thumb tracing lazy circles just above my hipbone. The air between us thickened, charged with something unspoken, something we’d both been dancing around for weeks. The documentary’s narrator droned on about a diamond smuggler’s escape route, but all I could hear was the hitch in Martin’s breath when I didn’t pull away.

"You’re cold," he murmured, but his hand slid higher, fingertips skimming the bare skin of my rib cage. The contact sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with his touch. His palm flattened against my stomach, warm and solid, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Then he kissed me.

It wasn’t some tentative, questioning thing Martin never did anything halfway. His mouth crashed into mine with the same reckless confidence he’d used to jump off a bridge that summer into the lake after graduation, later dragging me in with him. I gasped against his lips, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping in to taste me. The pasta container tipped sideways, forgotten, as I clutched at his shoulders.

His hands moved with a practiced certainty, sliding up beneath my shirt to palm my bare breasts. The sudden heat of his touch made me arch into him, a soft moan escaping my lips before I could catch it. Martin didn’t hesitate he never did just tugged the fabric over my head in one smooth motion, leaving me exposed in the flickering TV light. His grin was wolfish as he traced a thumb over my nipple, watching it tighten under his touch. "Always knew you’d be gorgeous like this," he murmured, and the rough hunger in his voice sent a pulse of heat between my thighs.

I reached for his belt buckle, fumbling only slightly before popping it open. The sound of his zipper sliding down was obscenely loud over the documentary’s narration now saying something about a vault and timers but I didn’t care. Not when Martin’s cock sprang free, thick and already glistening at the tip. My breath hitched. Martin’s fingers tangled in my hair as I leaned forward, swirling my tongue around the head before taking him deeper. His groan vibrated through me, fingers tightening just enough to make my scalp tingle.

"Fuck, you’re good at that," he gritted out, hips bucking slightly as I hollowed my cheeks. The salty tang of his pre cum filled my mouth, and for a wild moment, I wondered how many other women had tasted him like this. The thought should’ve bothered me. Instead, it made me suck harder, dragging another ragged sound from his throat.

Martin pulled me up abruptly, kissing me messy and deep as he shoved my jeans down over my hips. The denim caught around my thighs, but he didn’t bother undoing them further just slid two fingers into my panties, groaning when he found me slick and ready. "Jesus, you’re dripping," he growled against my mouth, curling his fingers just right. My knees nearly buckled; it had been weeks since Mark my husband touched me like this, months since he’d bothered to check if I came. Martin, though Martin watched every flicker of pleasure on my face like it was his personal mission.

Martin's fingers worked me with a precision that made my thighs tremble, his thumb circling my clit in slow, deliberate strokes while his other hand gripped my hip hard enough to leave marks. The documentary had cut to commercial some absurdly cheerful jingle for car insurance but the noise barely registered over the ragged sound of my breathing. "Bedroom," I managed to gasp, arching into his touch. He didn't make me ask twice.

In one fluid motion, Martin stood, lifting me with him like I weighed nothing. My legs locked around his waist as he carried me down the hallway in the flat, his mouth hot on my neck. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and then I was sprawled across the sheets, jeans and panties peeled off in one rough tug. Martin paused just long enough to strip his own shirt over his head.

The mattress dipped as Martin climbed over me, his hands sliding up my bare thighs with a possessiveness that sent another shudder through me. His gaze traveled down my body lingering on the flush spreading across my chest, the rapid rise and fall of my stomach before settling between my legs. He exhaled sharply through his nose, like a hunter finally cornering prey he'd chased for years.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, dragging a single fingertip through my folds. The touch was featherlight, almost teasing, but it made my hips jerk off the bed. Martin smirked, holding up his glistening finger. "All this for me?"

Before I could answer, he bent his head between my thighs, his tongue flattening against me in one long, obscene stroke. My fingers twisted in the sheets as he moaned against me, the vibrations making my back arch. He worked me with a relentless focus lapping at my clit, sucking just hard enough to make my thighs tremble, slipping two fingers inside to curl against that spot that had me seeing stars.

I came with a choked cry, my heels digging into his shoulders as the pleasure crashed over me. Martin didn't let up, drawing out the waves until I was gasping, pushing weakly at his head. Only then did he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he crawled up my body. His cock dragged against my inner thigh, leaving a sticky trail.

His weight settled over me, the heat of his skin pressing mine into the mattress. Martin’s breath was ragged against my ear as he nudged my thighs wider with his knee. I could feel him hard and insistent against my entrance, the slick head teasing where I ached for him.

“Tell me,” he growled, nipping at my jaw. His fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. “Say it.”

I knew what he wanted. Knew, too, how wrong it was. But the way his teeth scraped my pulse point scattered every rational thought. “Fuck me,” I whispered, and the words unraveled into a moan as he pushed inside in one relentless thrust.

The stretch burned he was thicker than Mark, slightly longer but Martin didn’t pause, didn’t give me time to adjust. His hips snapped forward, burying him to the hilt. My nails scored down his back as he pulled out almost completely, only to drive back in with a groan that vibrated through my ribs.

The slap of skin against skin filled the room, rhythmic and wet, punctuated by Martin's ragged grunts and my own whimpering moans. He fucked me with a single-minded intensity, one hand braced beside my head while the other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust sent shockwaves through me, his pelvis grinding against my clit on the downward stroke until pleasure coiled tight in my belly again.

"Fuck, you're tight," Martin gritted out, sweat dripping from his brow onto my chest. His rhythm faltered for just a second long enough for him to hitch my leg higher over his shoulder before plunging back in at a new angle that made me cry out. "Tighter than I fucking imagined."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I arched into him, nails digging into his biceps as he pistoned in and out, the swollen head of his cock dragging against that spot inside that made my vision blur. The bedframe slammed against the wall in time with his thrusts, the sound swallowed by the wet slap of our bodies meeting.

Martin's hand slid from my hip to my throat not squeezing, just holding his thumb pressing against my fluttering pulse. "Look at me," he demanded, and when my eyes fluttered open, his gaze burned into me with an intensity that stole my breath. "I've wanted this for years." His hips snapped forward, burying himself deeper than Mark ever could. "Wanted to breed you just like this."

Martin's words seared through me equal parts thrill and guilt as he fucked me with a rhythm that left no room for hesitation. His hips pistoned relentlessly, each thrust punctuated by the creak of the bedsprings and the slick sound of our bodies meeting. The hand at my throat tightened just enough to make my pulse leap against his palm, his thumb pressing into the hollow where Mark had kissed me goodbye three days earlier.

"Jesus," he growled, dragging his free hand down my torso to pinch a nipple between his fingers. The sharp sting coiled into pleasure, my back arching off the mattress as he twisted just right. "Knew you'd take me like this spread open, fucking dripping for it." His cock twitched inside me as if to prove his point, drawing another broken moan from my lips.

The angle shifted Martin hooking an arm under my knee to yank it higher and suddenly he was hitting something deeper, something that made my toes curl and my nails bite into his shoulders. A ragged "Fuck!" tore from my throat as he hammered into that spot, his smirk widening at the way my legs trembled around his waist. "There it is," he panted, sweat-slick chest brushing mine with every snap of his hips. "Knew I'd find it."

I came with a choked cry, my walls clamping around him in pulsing waves. Martin didn't slow, just gripped my hips harder, using the convulsions of my body to milk his own pleasure. His rhythm turned jagged, frantic, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. "Gonna fill you up," he gritted out, the words slurred with want. "Mark ever fuck you like this? Huh?"

His name Mark hung between us like a guillotine blade, but Martin didn’t wait for an answer. His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing inside me as he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. Heat flooded my core, his release spilling deeper than I’d ever felt, and I clenched around him instinctively, milking every last drop. Martin shuddered, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as his breathing slowed. For a long moment, we stayed like that his weight pressing me into the mattress, his heartbeat thudding against my ribs.

Then he pulled out, slow and deliberate, and I felt it the wet slide of him leaving me, the sudden emptiness followed by the unmistakable trickle of his cum between my thighs. Martin’s fingers traced the mess he’d made, smearing it across my skin with something like reverence. "Look at that," he murmured, holding up his glistening fingertips. "Filled you up good." His grin was all teeth, the same one he’d flashed when we’d stolen his roommate’s beer college all those years ago.

I should’ve felt guilty. Should’ve pushed him away, scrambled for my clothes, anything. Instead, I reached for him, my fingers wrapping around his still-hard cock. Martin’s breath hitched as I stroked him, his hips jerking into my grip. "Fuck," he muttered, watching my hand move with darkening eyes.

Martin's cock twitched in my hand, still slick with our mixed arousal. His fingers tangled in my hair again, guiding my mouth toward him with a pressure that wasn't quite a command not yet. The taste of salt and sex flooded my tongue as I took him deep, my lips stretching around his girth. Above me, Martin exhaled sharply through his nose, his hips rocking forward in tiny, involuntary thrusts.

"Christ," he muttered, his free hand kneading my breast roughly. "Knew you'd be greedy for it. But not like this"

The mattress shifted as he suddenly pulled away, flipping me onto my stomach with a firm hand between my shoulder blades. His palm smoothed down the curve of my spine, over the swell of my ass then came down in a sharp smack that made me yelp. The sting lingered, blooming into heat as Martin traced the reddening skin with his fingertips.

"Always wanted to mark you up," he admitted, spreading me open with his thumbs. His breath ghosted over my exposed flesh, sending a shiver through me despite the sweat cooling on my skin. "Every time you sat cross-legged in those fucking shorts at family barbecues" His tongue lashed out, a quick stripe that had me arching into the sheets. "I imagined bending you over the picnic table."

Martin’s tongue worked me open with slow, deliberate strokes, each one sending sparks up my spine. My fingers twisted in the sheets, the fabric damp with sweat as he moaned against me, the vibrations making my thighs quiver. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Still taste me in you,” before diving back in, his nose bumping against my oversensitive clit. The dual sensation of his tongue lapping at my entrance while his stubble scraped my inner thighs drew a ragged moan from my throat.

His hands gripped my hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above my ass as he lifted me higher. The sudden shift in angle had his tongue delving deeper, curling just right to make my back arch. “Martin” I gasped, but his name dissolved into a whimper as he added a finger, then two, crooking them inside me with ruthless precision. The stretch burned still loose from his cock but tightening around his fingers and I rocked back against his face, chasing the building pressure.

“That’s it,” he growled against my skin, his free hand sliding up to pinch my nipple. The sharp sting coiled into pleasure, his fingers working in tandem thrusting inside me while his tongue circled my clit. The rhythm was merciless, his pace unrelenting, and when I came, it hit like a sucker punch, my vision whiting out as my body clamped around his hand. Martin didn’t let up, drawing out the waves until I was shuddering, my elbows buckling as I collapsed face-first into the pillows.

He pulled away with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up my body. His erection dragged against the back of my thigh, leaving a sticky trail. “Turn over,” he ordered, nipping at my shoulder blade. When I hesitated still boneless from my orgasm he flipped me himself, his strength effortless. The cold air hit my front, my nipples pebbling instantly, but Martin’s body followed, covering me before I could shiver.

Martin’s weight pinned me to the mattress, his palms flattening mine against the sheets as he kissed me deep enough to taste myself on his tongue. His cock throbbed against my thigh still hard, still hungry for more and when he pulled back to look at me, his pupils were blown wide with want. “You’re not done,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. It wasn’t a question.

My breath hitched as his hand slid between us, fingers tracing the mess he’d left between my thighs. His touch was deliberate, spreading me open until his fingertips brushed my asshole dry, untouched. The sudden pressure made me tense, my hips jerking instinctively away. Martin chuckled darkly, his grip tightening on my wrist. “Relax,” he breathed against my lips, but his fingers didn’t stop circling, didn’t stop teasing. “Just gonna make you feel good.”

The first push burned sharp and sudden and I gasped, nails digging into his forearm. Martin froze, his forehead pressed to mine as his breath came in ragged bursts. “Breathe,” he reminded me, his free hand sliding up to cup my breast, thumb brushing my nipple in slow, soothing strokes. The dual sensation of pain and pleasure made my head spin, my body torn between arching into his touch and pulling away from the intrusion. Then he moved.

Martin's finger worked deeper with torturous slowness, his knuckle pressing against the tight ring of muscle until I whimpered into his shoulder. The stretch was unbearably sharp, searing but just as I tried to push him away, his thumb found my clit in quick, practiced circles. Pleasure crackled through the pain like lightning, leaving me gasping and arching against him, unsure whether to retreat or chase the sensation.

"See?" Martin murmured against my ear, his breath hot and uneven. His finger withdrew slightly, only to push back in with a twist that made my toes curl. "Takes it so fucking well." His praise sent an illicit thrill through me, my body responding despite the burn. Mark had never dared, never even asked but Martin's confidence was contagious, his touch unapologetic as he scissored his finger inside me.

The pain ebbed gradually, replaced by a strange, mounting pressure that coiled low in my belly. Martin's thumb never stopped moving, his rhythm relentless as he watched my face for every twitch and gasp. When he added a second finger, I cried out, my nails scoring down his back but he swallowed the sound with a kiss, his tongue mimicking the thrust of his fingers until I was rocking back against his hand, my hips moving of their own accord.

"Knew you'd love it," he growled, nipping at my lower lip. His fingers curled inside me, brushing some hidden spot that made my vision blur. The dual stimulation of his thumb on my clit, his fingers stretching my arse open sent pleasure spiraling higher, tighter, until my thighs trembled with the need to come. Martin smirked, recognizing the signs, but instead of speeding up, he slowed his movements to a maddening tease. "Not yet," he chided, withdrawing his fingers entirely just as I teetered on the edge.

Martin's fingers left me empty and aching, my hips jerking forward in **** protest. He chuckled low and rough as he lifted his glistening fingers to my lips. "Taste," he ordered, pressing them against my tongue. The salt-bitter flavor flooded my mouth, my own slick mixed with his sweat, and something darker twisted in my gut. I sucked his fingers clean, hollowing my cheeks the way I had around his cock earlier, and watched his jaw tighten.

"Fuck," he muttered, dragging his damp fingers down my throat to my collarbone. His other hand gripped my hip, turning me onto my stomach again with a firm push. The sheets stuck to my sweaty skin as he kneeled between my thighs, his palms smoothing over the curve of my ass with something like reverence. "Always wanted to ruin you, Its great to know ive fucked a married pussy" he admitted, his thumb pressing against my fluttering entrance. "Every time you bent over the sink, doing dishes in those tight fucking jeans, making sure Mark never seen me look"

His words cut off as he leaned down, his tongue replacing his thumb in one slow, wet stroke. The shock of it made me gasp, my fingers twisting in the sheets as he lapped at me with deliberate, filthy strokes. He groaned against me, the vibrations making my thighs quiver, then pulled back just enough to murmur, "Still so fucking wet for me.", in a move I was up now in the doggie position.

The bed dipped as he shifted, his weight settling over me. I felt him then the thick head of his cock pressing against my ass, still slick from my mouth and his spit. My breath hitched, the fear spiking sharp and sudden, but Martin's hand slid up my spine to grip the nape of my neck, his mouth hot against my ear. "Breathe," he reminded me, his other hand guiding himself slowly, inexorably forward.

The first breach was fire and pressure, a searing stretch that **** a ragged gasp from my lungs. Martin froze, his grip on my neck tightening just enough to anchor me as my muscles clenched in reflexive protest. His breath came in short, hot bursts against my shoulder blades controlled, measured while I fought to unclench around him.

"Easy," he murmured, his thumb tracing circles on my hipbone. The soothing motion belied the iron tension in his thighs where they bracketed mine, the way his cock twitched inside me like a live wire. "Just like that." His voice was rough velvet, the same tone he'd used coaxing me onto rollercoasters years ago equal parts challenge and reassurance.

When he moved, it was with torturous precision: a fractional withdrawal followed by an even slower push forward. The drag was exquisite agony, every inch ratcheting the tension higher until my nails shredded the pillowcase beneath me. Martin chuckled darkly at the sound of ripping fabric, his hips settling flush against my ass with a final, devastating thrust.

"Jesus," he gritted out, his forehead dropping between my shoulder blades. His chest heaved against my back, sweat-slick skin sliding as he fought to stay still. "Tighter than your fucking pussy." The crude observation shouldn't have sent heat lancing through me shouldn't have made me press back against him—but his groan of approval drowned out any lingering guilt.

Martin’s hips drew back with deliberate slowness, the drag of his cock leaving me achingly aware of every inch as he retreated. Then he pushed forward again just as slowly, just as ruthlessly until my breath came in shallow gasps against the pillow. His hands anchored my hips, fingers digging into flesh as he set a pace that was somehow both punishing and controlled. Each thrust burned, the stretch bordering on unbearable, but the way his breath hitched against my spine kept me arching into it.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice raw with restraint. One hand slid up my back, fingers threading into my hair to tug just enough to make me whimper. “You feel that?” His hips snapped forward to emphasize the point, punching a ragged moan from my throat.

The angle shifted Martin leaning back to grip my hips tighter and suddenly he was hitting something deeper, something that made my vision blur at the edges. A broken noise escaped me, half-pain and all pleasure, and Martin’s grip turned possessive. “There it is,” he muttered, his rhythm turning jagged. “Knew you’d love it like this. Dirty sex, Bet Mark wont give you this”

His thumb found my clit, rubbing rough circles that sent sparks shooting up my spine. The dual sensation of his cock splitting me open while his fingers worked me mercilessly drove me toward the edge with terrifying speed. My thighs trembled, my back bowing as pleasure coiled tight in my gut.

The orgasm hit like a wrecking ball shattering through me with such brutal **** that my scream dissolved into wordless, gasping sobs. Martin didn't slow, his thrusts turning erratic as my body clenched around him in helpless waves. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave bruises, his groan ragged against my spine as he chased his own release.

"Gonna cum" His voice cracked, hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt. A hot rush flooded inside me deeper than before and I shuddered at the obscene wet sound of him pulling out. Cum dripped down my thighs as Martin collapsed beside me, his chest heaving.

Silence settled over us, broken only by our uneven breathing. The air smelled like sex and sweat, the sheets tangled beneath us. Martin's fingers traced idle patterns on my lower back, his touch unexpectedly tender after the roughness of before.

"You okay?" His voice was hoarse, thumb brushing over the reddened skin where he'd gripped me too hard.

The lazy rotation of his fingers doing nothing to dispel the musk of sex clinging to the air. Martin’s fingers traced the ridge of my hipbone slowly, absent his thumb brushing the fresh bruises he’d left there. The touch was almost apologetic, if such a word could ever apply to him.

I turned my head on the pillow to study his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a long-ago bike accident. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his eyes were alert, watching me with that same unnerving focus he’d had since we were teenagers. "You're staring," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quivering.

"Just wondering how many times you imagined this," I admitted, my voice raspy from earlier. The words hung between us, charged with a dozen unspoken implications.

Martin’s fingers stilled on my hipbone. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the creak of the bed as he shifted onto his side to face me fully. His gaze flickered over my face lingering on my swollen lips, the sweat-damp hair stuck to my forehead before settling on my eyes with an intensity that made my pulse stutter.

"Every goddamn day," he said finally, his voice low and rough. His thumb brushed my lower lip, tracing the faint sting where he’d bitten me earlier. "Every time you’d lean over the table to pass the potatoes in that little black dress Mark bought you." His fingers slid down my throat, over the marks he’d left there. "The way you’d laugh at his stupid jokes while I sat there imagining bending you over the couch fucking you from behind."

The admission should’ve shocked me. Instead, heat pooled between my thighs again, my body responding to the dark promise in his words despite the lingering ache. Martin saw it of course he did his smirk widening as his hand drifted lower to cup me, his fingers sliding through the mess he’d left behind.

"You’re still wet," he murmured, his voice thick with something like awe. His middle finger pressed inside me easily, my body still loose from being fucked open. "Christ, you’re fucking perfect."

The hum of the refrigerator finally registered as my pulse slowed, the frantic rhythm of our bodies replaced by the lazy drag of Martin's fingers inside me. He watched my face with that same unnerving focus, his thumb circling my clit in slow, teasing strokes that made my thighs twitch despite the oversensitivity.

"Still got it in you?" he murmured, curling his fingers just enough to make me gasp. His smirk was all challenging, the same one he'd worn when daring me to jump off the quarry cliffs back in college.

I caught his wrist, my fingers barely spanning the width of it. "You're insatiable."

Martin's laugh was a dark, warm thing against my neck as he rolled atop me, his weight familiar now. "You offered," he reminded me, nipping at my jaw. His cock already half-hard again pressed against my thigh, leaving a sticky trail. "No take-backs."

The overhead light flickered just once casting Martin's face in sharp relief as he hovered above me. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, catching on the stubble along his jaw before dropping onto my collarbone. I watched it trace the hollow of my throat, the sensation absurdly intimate after everything we'd done.

"Hungry?" he asked suddenly, the non sequitur so typically Martin that I choked out a laugh. His fingers were still inside me, still moving with that infuriating half-speed that kept me teetering on the edge. "You're joking." My voice came out hoarse, wrecked.

Martin withdrew his fingers with a wet sound, holding them up between us. "I meant actual food." His grin was all teeth as he licked his fingers clean, watching me watch him. "You're shaking."

The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 2:17 AM when Martin finally rolled off me, some 4 hrs had passed his skin leaving mine with a sticky pull. He stretched with the lazy arrogance of a well-fed predator, the muscles in his back flexing under the sheen of sweat. My legs felt liquid, barely responsive, and when I tried to sit up, a twinge in my lower back made me gasp.

Martin smirked at the sound. "Need help?" He didn't wait for an answer, hooking an arm around my waist and hauling me upright like I weighed nothing. The sudden movement sent a fresh trickle of his cum down my thigh, and his gaze tracked it with undisguised satisfaction.

I expected him to head for the bathroom Mark always did but Martin just grabbed his discarded t-shirt from the floor and wiped me down with rough efficiency. His touch was oddly clinical now. When he finished, he tossed the ruined shirt toward the hamper missing and caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Kitchen," he announced, like it was an order. "You're gonna eat something."

The hardwood floor was cold under my bare feet as I followed Martin downstairs, each step making me acutely aware of the lingering soreness between my thighs. He moved with that same loose-limbed confidence he'd had since college like his body was simply an extension of his will while I clutched the banister, my legs trembling like a newborn deer's.

Martin didn't turn on the overhead lights. Instead, the dim glow from the microwave clock and the streetlamp outside sliced through the kitchen in jagged stripes, painting his shoulders in alternating bands of gold and shadow. He rummaged through the fridge with single-minded focus, the muscles in his back shifting as he leaned deeper inside.

"Here." He tossed string cheese onto the counter without looking at me. It landed with a plastic rattle, rolling toward my hips where I'd perched on the edge of the island. My stomach growled traitorously at the sight of it.

"That's your idea of a meal?" I peeled the wrapper with unsteady fingers, the cheese tearing unevenly.

Martin snorted, popping the cap off a beer with his teeth before sliding it across the counter toward me. "You're welcome." He leaned against the fridge, watching me take a sip with those unnervingly focused eyes. The cold liquid hit my throat like a balm, washing away the lingering taste of salt and sweat.

I expected him to say something crude about how I'd burned off enough calories but he just reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering a second too long. The unexpected tenderness made my chest tighten.

This was the start of our 5 year affair every time Mark worked away, Martin came by to keep me company, he's a very tentative lover, experimental and also discreet