Rooftop Midnight Claiming His Best Friend’s Wife

I’m Mark, thirty-two, married eight years to a woman who stopped looking at me like I was dangerous somewhere around year three. I tell myself that’s fine. I tell myself a lot of things. None of them stop the way my cock twitches every time Derek’s wife Chloe laughs with her head thrown back, that thick blonde hair spilling down the bare curve of her back. She’s twenty-eight, all hips and heavy tits that strain every summer top she owns, and for three fucking years I’ve been jerking off in the guest bathroom of their apartment imagining what those tits would feel like smashed against my chest while I buried myself in her.

Tonight the air on the rooftop is thick and wet, the kind of late-July heat that makes clothes stick and secrets loosen. Their building throws these parties every few months—string lights, cheap beer, someone always blasting music too loud. Derek’s been pouring whiskey like it’s water since nine. By midnight he’s a red-faced mess, slurring about some deal at work, leaning heavy on Chloe until she finally laughs that husky little laugh and steers him toward the stairwell door.

“Go sleep it off, baby,” she tells him, soft enough that only I catch the edge of irritation under the sweetness. “Mark’ll keep me company so I don’t freeze up here alone.”

He claps my shoulder hard enough to stagger, breath reeking of bourbon. “My man. Don’t let anyone steal my girl.” Then he’s gone, the door thudding shut behind him. The music from below is muffled now. Just us, the stars, and the low concrete railing that looks out over half the city.

I should leave. Every decent bone in my body knows it. Instead I lean on the railing beside her, watching the way the string lights catch the sheen of sweat in the valley between her breasts. She’s wearing this thin white sundress that clings when the breeze dies, the neckline low enough that if she leans forward I can see the dark shadow of her nipples. My wedding ring feels like a brand.