Locker Room Tease: His Wife's Golfing Best Friend

Warrick leaned against the cool tile wall of the men's locker room, still in his weekend khakis and open-collar shirt after a half-day of catching up on client ledgers at home. At forty-two he had the solid build of a man who hit the gym three times a week but sat behind a desk the rest, dark hair just starting to silver at the temples. Priya had texted that her closing at the firm had run long; she would meet him at the club for dinner once she finished. That left him cooling his heels in the nearly deserted country club on a Saturday afternoon, the faint scent of cut grass and chlorine drifting in from the course and pool.

He heard the soft click of spikes on concrete before he saw her. Yara stepped through the doorway like she owned the place, still flushed from eighteen holes, her tight white polo stretched across full, heavy breasts and tucked into a short plaid golf skirt that hugged the lush curve of her ass. Thirty-eight, married, a real-estate agent who closed million-dollar deals with the same shameless smile she used on the fairway. Priya’s best friend for fifteen years. Completely fucking off-limits.

“Well look who got stood up,” Yara said, voice low and amused. She shut the door behind her with a deliberate snick. The locker room was empty—late afternoon, most members already showered and gone. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. She set her bag down and faced him, dark eyes sparkling with that familiar flirty heat she never quite turned off around him. “Priya stuck at the office again? Poor Warrick. All alone with his wife’s naughty best friend.”

He should have walked out. Instead he watched the way the skirt rode high on her thick thighs when she shifted her weight. Yara had always been built for staring—wide hips, soft belly that only made her look more fuckable, legs that went on forever under those ridiculous short skirts she wore on the course. He’d caught himself looking more than once while the three of them played. She knew it.

“You’re in the men’s side,” he said, trying for dry and landing somewhere hoarse.

“Am I?” She stepped closer, the scent of sunscreen and her perfume filling the space between them. “Maybe I got lost. Or maybe I wanted to see that look you get when you think no one’s watching you check out my ass on the eighteenth green.” Her manicured nail traced the air near his chest. “How many times this season, Warrick? Five? Ten? I lose count.”

Heat crawled up his neck. “Yara—”

She turned, presented that perfect ass, and bent slowly at the waist as if to adjust the strap on her golf shoe. The skirt flipped up. White lace panties stretched over the round cheeks, the thin fabric already damp enough to show a shadowed crease. She held the pose longer than necessary, looking back over her shoulder with a wicked little smile.

“Oops. Clumsy me.” She straightened just enough to let the skirt fall, then closed the last two feet between them. One polished nail dragged down the center of his chest, catching on a button, then lower until it rested against the growing bulge in his pants. “It would be so fucking wrong if I dropped to my knees right here, wouldn’t it? Your wife’s best friend. Married. On my knees in the empty locker room sucking the cock she knows I’ve been thinking about for months.” Her breath ghosted his ear. “Tell me to leave, Warrick. Or don’t.”

His hand found her hip without permission. The forbidden knowledge sat thick between them—Priya’s laugh, Priya’s texts, the wedding photos still fresh. Mutual raw lust won. He didn’t tell her to leave.

Yara sank gracefully, knees hitting the rubber mat. She freed him with quick, eager fingers—thick, already hard, the head flushed dark. “Jesus, look at this,” she murmured, then took him into her mouth in one greedy slide. Wet heat enclosed him. She sucked with sloppy, hungry strokes, spit shining on her lips, eyes locked on his face the whole time. One hand cupped his balls; the other braced on his thigh. She pulled off just long enough to whisper, “I’ve wanted this since the rehearsal dinner,” before swallowing him deeper, throat working, spit running down her chin.

Warrick fisted her dark hair, hips rocking. The wet sounds filled the locker room. She moaned around him like she was starving for it. When she finally pulled back, lips swollen, he hauled her up, spun her, and bent her over the wooden bench. The skirt flipped up again. He yanked the soaked panties aside, not even bothering to pull them down, and notched the head of his cock against her dripping cunt.

“Do it,” she hissed. “Fuck your wife’s best friend. Make it hurt.”

He slammed in to the hilt. She was scalding hot and slick, walls fluttering. He fucked her hard from behind in deep, punishing thrusts that made her ass ripple and the bench creak. Yara bit down on her own forearm to stay quiet, muffling the filthy little cries that still escaped. Each stroke dragged him through her, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the lockers. He reached around and found her clit, rubbing rough circles while he pounded her.

“Harder—god, yes, just like that. Priya has no idea how good this dick is.”

He pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the bench, shoved her legs wide and pinned them open with his hands. Her skirt was bunched at her waist, polo rucked up so her tits spilled free—full, soft, nipples tight. He drove back into her dripping pussy in missionary, burying himself deep while she clawed his back through the shirt. Her heels dug into his ass. She met every thrust, cunt greedy, talking dirty the whole time.

“So much better than my husband’s. He’s quick, polite. You’re fucking me like you hate how much you want it. Fill me up, Warrick. Use your wife’s friend like a dirty secret.” Her eyes were glassy with lust and the thrill of the betrayal. “I’m going to walk out of here with your cum leaking down my thigh and smile at her later. Think about that while you pound this married cunt.”

He kissed her hard, tasting himself on her tongue, and fucked her through a shaking orgasm that left her thighs trembling around his waist. She was still fluttering when he pulled free, hauled her back to her knees, and fed his cock between her lips again. Yara took him eagerly, stroking and sucking, staring up with that satisfied, filthy smile as he groaned and unloaded. She swallowed every thick pulse, throat working, then licked him clean like she didn’t want to waste a drop.

Afterward she stood on steady legs, calmly fixed her smeared lipstick in the mirror above the sinks, and smoothed her skirt down. A faint glossy sheen still marked the inside of one thigh. She caught his eye in the glass and winked.

“This can be our dirty little secret every time Priya is late,” she said lightly, voice back to that breezy real-estate-agent lilt. “Same time next Saturday? I’ll wear the pink skirt. The one that barely covers anything.” She picked up her bag, blew him a mocking kiss, and sauntered out of the locker room with his cum still warm in her belly and the faint imprint of his fingers already fading on her hips—leaving Warrick hard again, the air thick with sweat and sex and the open promise of more betrayal waiting just around the corner.

Warrick stayed braced against the lockers long after the door clicked shut behind Yara. His cock hung heavy and spit-slick, still twitching from the force of how hard he had just flooded her throat. The locker room reeked of her cunt and his cum. He wiped himself with a rough paper towel, stuffed his dick back into his khakis, and tried to slow his breathing before Priya walked in smelling like vanilla and office air and asked why he looked wrecked.

She arrived twenty minutes later, all smiles and apologies for the late closing. They ate at the club restaurant under soft lights. Priya talked about her deal, her fingers brushing his across the table the way she always did. Every time she laughed he remembered Yara’s muffled cries against her own arm, the wet slap of his hips against her ass, the filthy promise that this would happen again the next time Priya ran late. He fucked his wife that night in their dark bedroom with Yara’s voice still looping in his head—fill me up, use your wife’s friend like a dirty secret—and came so hard his vision whited out while Priya moaned beneath him, clueless.

The week stretched. Yara’s texts arrived at odd hours. A photo of her bare thighs crossed under a desk skirt with the caption “thinking about that bench.” A voice note, low and husky, describing how she had touched herself in the shower replaying the way he had pinned her legs open. Warrick replied with one-word answers at first, then longer ones, then a photo of his cock strained against gray sweatpants. She answered with a dripping close-up of her fingers spreading her pussy and the words “this is yours now, married man.”

Saturday came gray and humid. Priya texted at noon that the client had demanded last-minute revisions; she would be stuck until at least seven. Warrick drove to the club alone, parked, and walked straight into the men’s locker room. It was empty again—late afternoon hush, distant thwack of balls on the practice range. He didn’t wait long.

Yara pushed the door open wearing the pink skirt she had promised. It was barely more than a wide belt of fabric that stopped high on her thick thighs. No panties this time. He saw the bare, trimmed lips of her cunt flash when she turned to lock the deadbolt. Her white tank was thin enough that her nipples pressed dark circles through the cotton. Thirty-eight and shameless, married fifteen years, best friend to the woman whose ring sat on Warrick’s left hand. She dropped her bag and crossed to him without a word of greeting.

“Missed this mouth?” she asked, already dropping to her knees on the rubber mat. She freed him, hummed at the sight of how hard he already was, and swallowed him down in one smooth glide. No teasing preamble. Wet heat, tongue working the underside, one hand rolling his balls while the other gripped the base so she could take him deeper each stroke. Spit ran down her chin and dotted the front of her tank. She pulled off just far enough to speak around the head.

“Priya called me on the drive over. Asked if I wanted to do dinner with you two later. I told her sure. I’m going to sit across from her with your cum still in my belly and ask her how the closing went.” She licked a long stripe up the vein. “Now fuck my face like you own it.”

He did. Both hands in her dark hair, hips snapping, watching her eyes water as he used her throat. She took every thrust with wet gagging sounds that somehow stayed quiet enough not to carry past the lockers. When he felt the warning tingle he yanked free, hauled her up, and spun her toward the long wooden bench again. This time she climbed onto it on all fours without being told, pink skirt flipped over her lower back, knees spread wide so the swollen folds of her pussy opened right in front of him.

“Look how ready I am,” she said over her shoulder. “Been dripping since I left the house. My husband fucked me last night and I barely felt it. Kept thinking about this cock splitting me open.”

Warrick gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and slammed home in one brutal stroke. She was soaked, walls already fluttering around him like she had been edging for hours. He set a punishing rhythm straight away—deep, full withdrawals and heavy snaps forward that made her ass shake and her breath punch out in short, bitten-off moans. The bench creaked. Metal lockers rattled softly with every thrust. He reached under, found her clit, and rubbed tight circles while he pounded her.

“Harder,” she hissed. “I want to feel you tomorrow when I’m showing houses. Want to sit in my car with your fingerprints still on my hips.”

He pulled out, flipped her onto her back, shoved the pink skirt all the way to her waist and climbed between her spread thighs. Her tank came up next; he sucked one heavy breast into his mouth while he drove back into her cunt. She locked her ankles behind his ass and met every stroke, talking the whole time in that raw, breathless voice that made his balls draw up.

“This is so fucking wrong. You’re balls-deep in your wife’s best friend while she’s stuck at the office making money for the house you share. Does she suck you like I do? Does she let you spit in her mouth and call her a dirty secret?” Yara’s nails raked down his back through the shirt. “Come inside me this time. I want to feel it leaking while I smile at her tonight. I want to sit there knowing your cum is painting my married cunt and she has no idea.”

The words stripped whatever control he had left. He fucked her through two shaking orgasms, her pussy clenching and milking him while she bit his shoulder to stay quiet. On the third set of flutters he buried himself to the root and unloaded hard, pulse after thick pulse flooding her. He kept rocking through it, grinding the last spurts as deep as he could get. When he finally pulled free a thick rope of cum followed, sliding down the crack of her ass onto the bench.

Yara stayed sprawled, legs still open, watching him with glassy, satisfied eyes while she scooped some of the mess with two fingers and pushed it back inside herself. “Good boy,” she murmured. “Leave it there. I’m not wiping up.”

She stood, smoothed the tiny pink skirt down, and checked her reflection. A glossy trail already marked the inside of one thigh. She fixed her lipstick, blew him a kiss in the mirror, then stepped in close and kissed him properly—slow, filthy, tasting of spit and sex—before whispering against his mouth.

“Next time I want you at my place. Tuesday. My husband’s out of town. Priya will think we’re just having lunch. You’re going to fuck me in the bed I share with him, and then you’re going to leave your shirt so I can sleep in it. Deal?”

Warrick’s cock twitched again, already thickening. He nodded once, throat dry.

Yara unlocked the door, peeked into the empty hall, and slipped out with his cum still warm between her legs and the promise of a deeper betrayal already scheduled. The locker room air hung thick with what they had just done. Outside, somewhere across town, Priya was still revising contracts, completely unaware that her best friend was walking to her car with a freshly fucked cunt and a date already set for the next escalation.

Warrick spent Sunday and Monday in a low-grade fever of anticipation. Priya moved through their house in soft cotton shorts and one of his old shirts, laughing at something on her phone, completely unaware that her husband’s cock thickened every time Yara’s name lit up the screen. The texts never stopped. A photo of Yara’s bare ass bent over her kitchen counter with the caption “practicing for your hands.” A voice note recorded in her empty house: “I’m rubbing my clit on the pillow your wife bought me for Christmas. It already smells like you from last week. Tuesday can’t come fast enough.” He stroked himself raw in the shower thinking about it, then fucked Priya that night with his eyes closed, fucking the memory of Yara’s married cunt instead.

Tuesday arrived bright and cruel. Priya kissed him goodbye at the door, smelling of coffee and the same vanilla lotion she had worn for fifteen years. “Have fun at lunch with Yara. Tell her I said hi and that I’m still jealous of those goddamn legs.” She smiled, innocent, and drove off to the firm. Warrick waited twenty minutes, then drove across town with his heart slamming against his ribs.

Yara’s house sat quiet on a tree-lined street, two-story brick, the kind of place where neighbors waved and never suspected the wife inside was about to get railed raw in her marriage bed. She opened the door in a thin robe that barely closed over her heavy tits, dark hair loose, no makeup. Thirty-eight and glowing with filthy purpose. She pulled him inside, locked the deadbolt, and shoved him back against the foyer wall.

“Priya just texted me,” she said against his mouth, already working his belt open. “Asked me to take a picture of whatever salad we order so she can pretend she ate healthy today. I’m going to send her a photo of your cock instead and tell her it’s the special.” She laughed, low and wicked, then dropped to her knees right there on the hardwood and swallowed him down. Wet heat, no warm-up, just the greedy slide of her throat taking him to the root while she looked up with those dark eyes that knew exactly how wrong this was.

He fisted her hair and fucked her face until spit ran down her chin and dotted the silk of her robe. She gagged wetly, eyes watering, then pulled off long enough to rasp, “Upstairs. Now. I want you inside me before I lose my mind.”

They barely made it to the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made, white duvet, two pillows, a framed wedding photo of Yara and her husband on the nightstand. She shoved the photo face-down without ceremony, dropped the robe, and crawled onto the mattress on all fours. Wide hips, soft belly, the full sway of her tits as she looked back over her shoulder. “Fuck me right here where he sleeps. Make the bed smell like us.”

Warrick stripped fast, climbed up behind her, and slammed home in one brutal stroke. She was soaked, walls already fluttering, that scalding married cunt taking every inch like it had been waiting all week. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave prints and pounded her, deep and punishing, the wet slap of skin echoing off the walls. The headboard started knocking softly against the plaster. Yara buried her face in her husband’s pillow and moaned into it, filthy and loud now that no one could hear.

“Harder—fuck, yes—use me. Priya thinks we’re talking about listings over iced tea. Instead you’re balls-deep in her best friend, wrecking the bed I share with my husband.” She pushed back to meet every thrust, ass rippling. “Spit on my hole. Do it. Make it dirtier.”

He spat between her cheeks and rubbed it in with his thumb while he kept fucking her cunt. Then he pushed the tip of his thumb into her ass. She clenched hard around both and came with a broken cry, thighs shaking, pussy milking him in helpless pulses. He didn’t stop. He flipped her onto her back, shoved her knees to her chest, and drove back in so deep the air punched out of her lungs. Her tits bounced with every stroke. He sucked one nipple hard, teeth grazing, while she clawed red lines down his back.

“Look at that photo,” she gasped, nodding toward the face-down frame. “He has no idea his wife is getting ruined by her best friend’s husband right now. Fill me. Leave it dripping so I can feel you when I make his dinner tomorrow night.” Her voice cracked on the next thrust. “Tell me how much you love fucking what doesn’t belong to you.”

“I love it,” he growled against her throat, hips slamming. “Love how wet this forbidden cunt gets for me. Love that you’re going to smile at my wife tonight with my cum still leaking out of you.” He reached down and rubbed her clit in tight, rough circles. She shattered again, screaming into his shoulder, walls clamping so hard he almost followed her over.

He pulled out before he finished, flipped her onto her stomach, and straddled her thighs. She reached back and spread her cheeks for him. He pushed into her ass slow at first, watching the tight ring stretch around the head, then deeper until he bottomed out. Yara’s moan turned guttural. “Oh fuck—yes—stretch me open. I’ve never let him do this. Only you. Only this dirty secret.”

He fucked her ass with long, heavy strokes, one hand fisted in her hair, the other reaching under to play with her dripping pussy. The dual sensation had her babbling nonsense, half threats and half pleas. “Leave your shirt. I want to sleep in it tonight. Want to wake up smelling like the man who’s destroying my marriage one fuck at a time.” He felt his balls draw up tight. He pulled free, flipped her again, and shoved back into her cunt just in time to unload. Thick pulses flooded her, so much that it immediately started leaking around his cock in creamy rivulets. He kept rocking through it, grinding every drop as deep as he could get, watching her face while she took it all with glassy, triumphant eyes.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. Yara’s legs stayed wrapped around him. She reached up and traced his lower lip with a cum-slick finger. “Next Saturday the club’s hosting that charity scramble. Priya already signed us both up as a foursome with the Millers. You’re going to fuck me in the women’s locker room while she’s on the ninth green. I’ll text you when the coast is clear. And if we get caught…” She smiled, slow and vicious. “We just get better at lying.”

He finally pulled free. A thick rope of cum followed, sliding down the crack of her ass onto the white sheets that still smelled faintly of her husband’s cologne. Yara scooped some of the mess with two fingers, pushed it back inside her pussy, then sucked the rest clean while holding his gaze. She stood on unsteady legs, found his discarded shirt on the floor, and slipped it on. It hung open over her tits, the hem barely covering the glossy sheen between her thighs. She posed in front of the mirror, snapped a photo with her phone, and sent it straight to him.

“Priya’s going to ask how lunch was,” she said softly, already composing the reply text to his wife. “I’m going to tell her you were perfect company. Then I’m going to sit across from her at dinner tonight wearing your shirt under my jacket, your cum still painting my insides, and I’m going to ask her how work was like nothing happened.” She stepped in close, kissed him deep and filthy, tasting of everything they had just done. “Don’t wash. I want you to walk back into your house smelling like my cunt.”

Warrick dressed in silence, cock already twitching again at the thought of the charity scramble, of fucking her while Priya played through, of how many more lines they could cross before the whole thing blew open. Yara walked him to the door still wearing his shirt, barefoot, thoroughly used. She kissed him one last time on the threshold, loud enough for any neighbor to hear if they cared to listen, then whispered against his ear, “Same time next week isn’t enough anymore. I want you whenever I want you. Clear your schedule, married man. We’re just getting started.”

He drove home with her scent all over him, the taste of her still on his tongue, and the next betrayal already scheduled down to the hole.

Warrick’s pulse hammered the entire drive to the club on scramble Saturday. Priya sat beside him in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio in her white golf shirt and navy skort, already talking about pairing with the Millers and how Yara always carried their side on the long par-fives. Every time she said Yara’s name his cock twitched against his thigh. He could still smell the other woman’s cunt on his skin from Tuesday even after two showers; he had obeyed the order not to scrub too hard.

The parking lot was half-full. Carts lined up under the pro-shop awning. Yara was already there, leaning against her bag in a tiny black skort that barely covered the undersides of her ass cheeks and a sleeveless white top stretched tight across her heavy tits. Thirty-eight, married, Priya’s best friend of fifteen years, and the woman whose married cunt still held the memory of his cum from three days ago. She waved like nothing was wrong, kissed Priya on the cheek, then let her eyes drop deliberately to the front of Warrick’s pants for half a second too long.

They teed off as a foursome. For the first eight holes Warrick played on autopilot, watching Yara bend to line up putts, the skort riding high enough that he glimpsed bare trimmed lips more than once. She wore no panties. Priya laughed at something Miller said and Yara’s phone buzzed in her pocket. On the ninth tee Yara drifted close while the others measured yardage.

“Women’s locker room,” she murmured, voice low enough only he could hear. “Ten minutes after they start the green. Door locks from inside. I’m already wet thinking about you fucking me while she putts.”

He nodded once. The forbidden heat sat thick in his gut. Priya kissed his cheek before she walked ahead with the Millers, vanilla lotion and sunscreen, completely blind. Yara peeled off toward the clubhouse first, claiming she needed the restroom. Warrick waited three full minutes, then followed.

The women’s side was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing, the air still faintly damp from earlier showers. Yara stood with her back to the sinks, skort already hiked around her waist, one hand between her thighs spreading herself open for him. Thick thighs, soft belly, full tits spilling over the top of her pushed-up sports bra. She locked the deadbolt the second he stepped inside.

“She’s on the green right now,” Yara breathed, already dropping to her knees on the rubber mat. “I can hear carts. Hurry.” She freed his cock, already hard and leaking, and swallowed him in one greedy slide. Wet heat, throat working, spit shining on her lips. She sucked like she was starving, eyes locked on his while she took him deep enough to gag quietly. One hand rolled his balls; the other reached under her own skort to finger her dripping cunt.

Warrick fisted her dark hair and fucked her face in short, urgent strokes, listening for footsteps that never came. When he felt the warning tingle he hauled her up, spun her, and bent her over the nearest bench. No preamble. He shoved the head of his cock against her soaked folds and slammed home to the hilt. She was scalding, walls already fluttering, that married pussy taking every inch like it belonged to him.

“Harder,” she hissed over her shoulder, bracing both hands on the wood. “She’s out there lining up a six-footer and you’re balls-deep in her best friend. Fuck me like you want to get caught.”

He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and pounded her, deep brutal strokes that made her ass ripple and the bench creak. The wet slap of skin filled the locker room. Yara bit down on her own forearm to stay quiet, still muffling the filthy little cries that escaped every time he bottomed out. He reached under and rubbed her clit in tight circles while he wrecked her cunt, watching his cock disappear into her over and over.

“Tell me,” he growled.

“I’m going to walk back out there with your cum leaking down my thigh and finish the round next to her,” Yara gasped. “She’s going to ask why I’m walking funny and I’ll smile and say it’s the heat. Fill me. Mark me. I want to feel you drip while I putt for birdie on eighteen.”

He pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the bench, shoved her knees wide and pinned them open. Her tits bounced free of the bra. He drove back into her dripping pussy in one long thrust and fucked her hard in missionary, the headboard of the bench slamming softly against the lockers. She locked her ankles behind his ass and met every stroke, talking the whole time in that raw breathless voice that stripped him bare.

“This is so fucking wrong. Your wife is fifty yards away and you’re using her best friend’s cunt like a cum dump. Does she know how good you fuck when you’re cheating? Come inside me. Leave it deep so I can feel it every time I sit in the cart next to her.”

The words wrecked him. He rubbed her clit faster and she shattered with a broken moan into his shoulder, walls clamping and milking him in helpless pulses. He followed on the next thrust, burying himself to the root and unloading hard, thick hot pulses flooding her until it leaked around his cock in creamy rivulets. He kept rocking through it, grinding every drop as deep as he could get while she clenched and took it all with glassy, triumphant eyes.

They stayed locked for half a minute, breathing hard, listening. Distant laughter drifted in from the course. Yara reached down, scooped the mess leaking out of her, and pushed it back inside with two fingers before sucking them clean. She stood on unsteady legs, smoothed the tiny black skort down over the glossy sheen on her inner thighs, and fixed her hair in the mirror.

“She’s going to smell sex on me if she gets too close,” she said softly, almost dreamy. “I hope she does.”

They slipped out separately. Warrick rejoined the group on the tenth tee like nothing had happened. Priya smiled at him, completely unaware that her best friend’s cunt was still full of his cum. Yara played the back nine with a faint wet spot darkening the crotch of her skort and a private little smile every time she bent over. At dinner afterward she sat across from Priya, ordered wine, and rested her bare foot against Warrick’s calf under the table while she asked about the closing that had run late the week before. He felt her toes slide higher until they pressed the half-hard ridge of his cock through his pants. Priya never noticed.

That night he fucked his wife in their dark bedroom with Yara’s voice still looping in his skull and came so hard he saw stars. Priya moaned beneath him, clueless, vanilla and love and fifteen years of marriage while he replayed the wet slap of his hips against her best friend’s ass.

Monday morning the texts started again before he even left for the office. A photo of Yara’s bare tits pressed to her bathroom mirror, nipples tight, caption: “still full of you. thinking about the next one.” Then a voice note recorded in her empty kitchen: “My husband gets home Thursday. I want you here Wednesday night after Priya’s book club. You’re going to fuck me on the living-room couch where we all drank wine last Christmas, and then you’re going to leave a load on my tits so I can walk around the house marked until he walks in the door. Clear your schedule, married man. I’m already wet planning it.”

Warrick stared at the screen in his parked car outside the firm, cock throbbing against his zipper, the next betrayal already mapped down to the minute. He typed back three words and hit send.

“Tell me when.”