Crush in the Cooler: Her Young Florist Fills Her

I’m Petra, forty-two, and I own Bloom & Vine, the busiest little flower shop three towns over from anywhere you’d call quiet. My husband Wesley has always had a filthy, generous streak when it comes to me. He loves watching the way younger men look at my full hips and the heavy sway of my tits in a tight tank top. For the better part of a year he’d been needling me about Reid, our twenty-two-year-old delivery driver who was slowly learning the florist side of the business. “That boy stares at your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him upright,” Wesley would murmur against my neck while he fucked me slow on Sunday mornings. “I want you to have him, baby. Want to hear every filthy detail after.”

I’d laughed it off at first, but the truth was I already noticed everything about Reid—the way his forearms flexed when he hauled buckets, the damp curl of dark hair at the nape of his neck after a run in the van, the shy flash of dimples when he caught me looking. I was wet for him more mornings than I cared to admit, and Wesley knew it. He encouraged it. He got hard just talking about it.

The heatwave hit like a fist in late July. The shop’s AC wheezed and died around noon, leaving the front room a swamp of humidity and wilting greenery. Roses were arriving by the crate—deep reds, blush pinks, the expensive long-stems that needed immediate cold storage or they’d open too fast and lose their sale price. Reid and I were the only ones left after lunch; everyone else had fled to cooler houses. We were both soaked through already. My thin white tank clung to my braless breasts, nipples dark and obvious against the fabric. His gray T-shirt was translucent between his shoulder blades, sticking to the lean muscle there.

“Cooler’s the only place that still works,” I said, shoving damp hair off my forehead. “Help me get these buckets sorted before they cook.”

He nodded, voice low. “Lead the way, boss.”

The walk-in was barely wide enough for two people and a rolling rack. The second the heavy door thudded shut behind us the temperature dropped twenty degrees, shocking after the oven outside. Gooseflesh rose instantly on my arms. My wet clothes turned icy against my skin; the chill made my nipples tighten into aching points. Reid’s shirt plastered even tighter to his chest. We started hauling the heavy metal buckets of roses from the temporary holding cart into the proper shelves, water sloshing, stems scraping. Every movement brought us into contact. My hip brushed his thigh. His forearm grazed the side of my breast when he reached past me for a higher shelf. The cold air carried the thick perfume of roses and the clean sweat smell of him.