Her Secret While He's Away

Dmitri stood at the foot of the bed with his navy suitcase open, sleeves rolled to the elbows, counting socks like they were line items. Twenty-four, and already the kind of man who laid a tie against a shirt to check the match before he packed it. Vivian watched him from the doorway of their bedroom, one hip against the frame, the long blonde braid resting over her shoulder and the soft points of her perky tits shifting under a thin white T-shirt. She was twenty-two. She had kissed him awake an hour ago and told him she hated that he had to leave.

“You packed the charger for the backup phone,” she said, crossing the room. She took the folded dress shirt from his hands and refolded it cleaner, smaller, the way he liked. Her fingers lingered on the cotton. “And the blue tie. The one that doesn’t wrinkle if you hang it on the bathroom door.”

“I did.” He smiled at her, tired and grateful, and the smile went straight through her chest in a way she hated and loved at once. “You don’t have to do all this. It’s one night.”

“I want to.” She set the shirt in the suitcase and smoothed it. “I’ll miss you. The apartment’s going to feel huge.”

That part was true enough to say out loud. The rest of what moved under it was not. While her hands arranged his undershirts, her mind was already somewhere else: Desmond’s mouth at her throat, Desmond’s weight, the particular low sound he made when she told him she was wet. Dmitri zipped a side pocket. Vivian thought about how Desmond never asked her to fold anything. He just put his hands on her and she stopped being anyone’s careful girlfriend.

“Toast?” Dmitri asked.

“I already made it.” She had. Butter, not too much jam, cut on the diagonal the way he ate it in the car. Doting came easily when her body was humming with a secret. She liked the performance. She liked that he believed it. “Eat before you drive. Traffic’s ugly if you leave after eight.”

He sat on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on. She knelt and tied the left one because his hands were full of his watch, and the gesture made him laugh under his breath.

“You’re going to spoil me,” he said.

“Good.” She looked up at him through her lashes, braid sliding forward, and felt a hot little pulse between her legs that had nothing to do with the man whose shoe she was tying. Desmond had texted last night, one line, when are you free, and she had deleted it before Dmitri came out of the shower. She had lain awake after that with her thighs pressed together, imagining the hour Dmitri’s plane left and the hour Desmond could be in this same bed.

Dmitri checked his list on his phone. Boarding pass. Laptop. The folder with the contracts. He was conscientious to the bone, the kind of boyfriend who texted when he landed and who never forgot her coffee order. Vivian stood and brushed lint off his shoulder. Her palms wanted to stay there. Her thoughts wanted to leave.

“Call me when you get through security,” she said. “And when you get to the hotel. I want to hear your voice.”

“I will.” He cupped her face. His thumb traced the corner of her mouth. “One night. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

She kissed him then, sweet and slow, the kiss of a girl who was going to be lonely. Her tongue touched his once, lightly, and she thought of another mouth, rougher, less careful. When she pulled back she was smiling.

“I’ll miss you anyway,” she said.

He believed her. That was the delicious part.

The drive to the airport took forty minutes in the pale morning. Dmitri kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the cup of coffee she had pressed into his palm at the door. He replayed the way she had stood on the curb in her bare feet, braid over one shoulder, waving until he turned the corner. She had looked small and bright and his. He felt the familiar tug of leaving her, the mild guilt of a work trip that could have been an email and a video call, and he told himself he would bring her something small from the hotel shop. A chocolate. A stupid magnet. Proof he had thought of her the whole time.

At the terminal he parked in short-term even though it cost more, because long-term meant a shuttle and he hated being late. He rolled the suitcase over the crosswalk, nodded at the skycap, and joined the security line with his belt already in his hand. Conscientious. Prepared. He texted her a heart before he put the phone in the bin.

Vivian’s phone lit up on the kitchen counter while she was still standing where he had left her, toes cold on the tile. She read the heart. She typed miss you already and sent it. Then she opened the other thread, the one under a name that was not a name, just a single letter, and her pulse kicked.

He’s gone. Come over.

She watched the dots appear. Desmond, twenty-six, who worked nights at a bar three neighborhoods over and who had never once asked her what Dmitri did for a living.

On my way. Don’t get dressed.

Too late, she wrote. I’m about to get undressed. Hurry.

She set the phone down and listened to the apartment. The refrigerator. A car on the street. No boyfriend voice calling from the bedroom about a missing cufflink. The quiet felt obscene. She smiled at it.

Dmitri emptied his pockets into the plastic bin: keys, wallet, the backup phone she had reminded him about. The line moved. A woman ahead of him argued softly with her toddler about shoes. He looked away, polite, and thought of Vivian’s hands on his shirts, the neat folds, the way she had said the apartment would feel huge. He would call her from the gate. He would tell her the coffee was good and that he loved her and that he would be home tomorrow before dinner.

Vivian locked the deadbolt anyway, a habit, and went to the bathroom. She turned the shower hot and stepped under it, braid pinned up so it wouldn’t soak, water sliding over the high small curves of her tits and down her stomach. She washed the smell of Dmitri’s cologne off her neck where he had hugged her goodbye. She washed between her legs slowly, not quite touching herself, saving it. Soap, rinse, the clean of a girl who was about to be filthy. She thought about Dmitri in a security line, shoes off, patient, and the thought made her wetter than the water. Wrong. She wanted it wrong.

She dried off and stood in front of the closet in a towel. The lingerie was in the back of her drawer, black, the set she never wore for Dmitri because he liked her in his old T-shirts and nothing else, easy and domestic. This was lace that barely covered her nipples, a thong that disappeared. She put it on. The braid came down over one breast, blonde against black. She looked like someone else’s girlfriend. She looked like a problem.

Her phone buzzed. Downstairs.

She buzzed him up and did not put on a robe.

Dmitri made it through the scanner without a beep. He collected his belt, his laptop, the careful little life he traveled with. At the gate the board said on time. He bought a bottle of water and sat where he could see the jetway, and he texted her again. Through security. You were right about leaving early. Miss you.

Vivian read it with Desmond’s knuckles already on the door. She typed a heart back, locked the phone, and opened the door in lace.

Desmond filled the doorway the way he always did, tall, dark stubble, a jacket that smelled like cold air and bar citrus. His eyes went down her body and stayed there. Twenty-six, and he looked at her like she was the only appointment on his morning.

“Jesus, Vivian.”

“Get in here.”

He did. She shut the door and he had her against it before the lock clicked, mouth on hers, hungry, nothing like the sweet curb kiss she had given an hour ago. She opened for him. His hands found her waist, her ass, the bare skin above the thong. She made a sound into his mouth and thought, very clearly, Dmitri is sitting at a gate right now, and the thought lit her up like a match.

“Missed this,” Desmond said against her jaw.

“You saw me four days ago.”

“Still.” He kissed down her throat. “He gone?”

“Plane doesn’t even board for a while.” She tugged his jacket off. “We have time. I want all of it.”

He grinned, mean and warm. “Yeah. I can do slow.”

They didn’t make it past the couch at first. He sat and pulled her into his lap, lace scraping his jeans, her braid falling between them. She kissed him with her eyes open, watching his face, wanting the proof that this was not her boyfriend. His stubble burned her mouth. His hands were bigger. When he palmed her tits through the lace she arched, perky and sensitive, nipples already tight.

“These,” he said, almost reverent, thumb circling one peak until she shivered. “Fuck, look at you.”

“Touch me,” she said. “Don’t be polite.”

He wasn’t. He pushed the lace down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough that she gasped and grabbed his hair. Heat shot straight to her cunt. She ground against the ridge of his cock through denim and thought about Dmitri’s neat suitcase, his diagonal toast, his good-man mouth, and she got wetter. Betrayal had a taste. It tasted like Desmond’s tongue on her skin.

Meanwhile Dmitri watched a family argue over seats and checked the time. He called her. It rang twice and went to voicemail, which was fine; she showered long in the mornings when he wasn’t there to rush her. He left a message anyway, voice low so the row wouldn’t hear. “Hey. It’s me. Just wanted to hear you. I’ll try again before we board. Love you.”

Vivian heard the buzz of the voicemail and did not look. Desmond had her on her back on the couch, thong pulled aside, two fingers sliding through her slickness while his mouth worked her other breast. She was soaked. He felt it and laughed once, breathless.

“Already?”

“I’ve been thinking about you since he started packing.” The confession came out shaky. His fingers curled and she jolted. “God. Right there.”

“Dirty girl.”

“Yes.” She liked the word. She spread her knees wider. “Keep going. Slow. I want to feel every bit of how bad this is.”

He did. Long strokes, his thumb on her clit, his mouth leaving wet marks on the upper curve of her tits. She stroked him through his jeans until he swore and shoved the denim down, cock thick and flushed in her hand. She wrapped her fingers around him and pumped, slow, watching his stomach tighten. Foreplay, she had promised herself. Not a frantic fuck in the first five minutes. She wanted the long dirty build, the kind that made the cheating feel enormous.

“Bedroom,” she said.

They stumbled there, kissing, half undressed, his shirt gone, her thong hooked on one ankle until she kicked it off. The bed was still made the way Dmitri liked it, corners tight. She didn’t care. She pushed Desmond down on those sheets and climbed over him, braid swinging, and took his cock in her mouth.

He groaned, one hand careful in her hair so he wouldn’t wreck the braid, the other fisted in the comforter. She sucked him deep, wet, tongue under the head, tasting salt and skin, and the wrongness sang in her. This mouth had kissed Dmitri goodbye. This mouth was full of someone else. She hollowed her cheeks and listened to Desmond fall apart above her, and she thought about the airport, the bins, the good boyfriend leaving a voicemail she would listen to later with another man’s cum in her.

Desmond pulled her off before he got too close. “Not yet. I want to taste you first.”

He flipped her. She landed on her back, laughing, breathless, and then she wasn’t laughing because his mouth was on her cunt, slow and filthy, tongue flat and then pointed, licking her open. He sucked her clit and slid two fingers back inside and she grabbed the sheets Dmitri had slept on. Her tits rose and fell, nipples still wet from his mouth. She stared at the ceiling and let the pleasure build in long waves, not rushing it, saying his name so she would remember whose tongue it was.

“Desmond. Fuck. Don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” His voice was muffled, pleased. “You taste like you needed this.”

“I did.” She rolled her hips against his mouth. “I need all of it. I need you to fuck me in his bed.”

He groaned into her and the vibration made her whimper. He kept at it until her thighs shook, until she was dripping down onto the fitted sheet, until she tugged his hair and begged without quite coming, holding the edge because she wanted the orgasm on his cock, not before.

Dmitri’s group hadn’t been called. He stood by the window and watched baggage carts. He tried her again. Voicemail. He frowned, small, and told himself she was in the shower or on a call with her sister or napping because she had gotten up early to help him pack. He sent one more text. Boarding in about twenty. Love you. Can’t wait to be home.

On the bed, Desmond kissed his way up her body, lingering on each tit, sucking until she was squirming, cock dragging wet against her thigh. He reached toward the nightstand out of habit, toward the drawer where she kept condoms for the nights she didn’t want a mess, and she caught his wrist.

She thought about it. The square of foil. The clean, sensible thing. Dmitri was a condom-in-the-drawer man when they weren’t sure. Desmond had always followed her lead. She could feel how easy it would be to be good for one more second.

She didn’t want good.

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. “Don’t. I want it dirty. I want you raw. I want to feel you.”

He searched her face. “You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She pulled him down and kissed him, tasting herself. “It’s thrilling. I want you to come in me. I want it leaking out while I lie here. That’s the point.”

“Fuck, Vivian.” His cock jerked against her. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

She pushed him onto his back and swung a leg over. Cowgirl. She wanted to watch his face while she took him, wanted to be the one moving, the one choosing how deep the betrayal went. She reached between them, notched him at her entrance, and sank down in one slow slide that punched the air out of both of them.

No latex. Just heat and stretch and the obscene slick sound of her cunt taking him bare. She sat fully, stuffed, and held still so she could feel every inch.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re so—fuck—you’re so deep.”

“Ride me.” His hands clamped her hips. “Show me.”

She did. Slow at first, rolling, the head of his cock dragging against the spot his fingers had found, her perky tits bouncing with each grind, braid ticking her spine. Then faster. She braced her hands on his chest and fucked herself on him, wet enough that it shone on his stomach, wet enough that the room filled with the sound of it. She thought about Dmitri’s voicemail sitting unheard. She thought about the blue tie. She came the first time like that, sudden, clenching hard around Desmond’s bare cock, crying out so loud the neighbor might have heard, and she didn’t care.

He didn’t let her collapse. He sat up, kissed her through the aftershocks, and rolled them. Missionary. Her braid fanned on the pillow. He hooked her knees up and drove into her, deep, steady, then harder when she nodded and said yes, yes, like that, don’t you dare pull out.

“You want it in you,” he said, voice wrecked.

“All of it. Creampie me. Fill me up. I want to feel it.”

He pounded her, the bedframe knocking the wall, her tits jolting, his mouth on her neck, her shoulder, her mouth when she dragged him down. She was loud and greedy and completely there, meeting every thrust, cunt fluttering around him as a second orgasm built meaner than the first. When it hit she locked her ankles behind his back and held him inside, shaking, moaning his name into his shoulder so she wouldn’t say the wrong one.

Desmond cursed, hips stuttering, and buried himself to the root. She felt the first hot pulse and then another, thick, flooding her, his whole body tight as he came deep in her willing cunt. She clenched around him on purpose, milking it, wanting every drop. The filth of it made her laugh once, breathless, halfway to a sob of pleasure.

He stayed inside until he softened, forehead against hers, both of them panting. When he eased out, she felt the immediate warm spill. Cum leaked out of her freshly fucked pussy onto Dmitri’s sheets, a slow obscene ooze she could feel cooling on her skin. She lay there with her legs open, chest heaving, braid stuck to her throat with sweat, and smiled at the ceiling like she had gotten away with something enormous.

Her phone was on the nightstand. She reached for it without sitting up. Desmond watched her, lazy, one hand on her thigh, thumb stroking through the mess at the crease of her leg.

Dmitri’s last text glowed at the top of the screen. Boarding soon. Love you.

She typed with her thumb, still smiling, still feeling the trickle of another man’s cum sliding out of her.

Love you.

She sent it. The little word looked clean on the screen. Between her legs she was anything but. She set the phone face down and turned her head toward Desmond, ready to pull him back down, ready for his mouth again, ready to be filled a second time before the boarding announcement Dmitri was walking toward.

“Come here,” she said, and tugged his shoulder.

He came. His mouth found hers. His fingers slid through the cum leaking out of her and pushed some of it back in, and she gasped, hips lifting, the thrill still bright—

And then something snagged.

The phone buzzed once against the nightstand, Dmitri’s name lighting the dark glass where she had left it. Not a text she could answer with two words. A call. She saw it from the corner of her eye while Desmond kissed her neck, and the sound of it—ordinary, patient, the ringtone she had picked because he liked it—cut through the heat like a draft under a door.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t move her hand to silence it either. Desmond’s fingers were still inside her, gentle now, asking. Her body wanted to say yes. Her chest had gone tight in a way pleasure didn’t explain.

On the screen the call ended. A voicemail began to load. She knew what it would be. His voice, low, in a plastic airport seat or standing by a window, telling her he loved her, telling her he would try again, telling her he was almost in the air and he missed her already. She had just typed the same words with another man’s cum oozing out of her pussy onto his sheets.

Desmond lifted his head. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she said, and the word came out thin.

She pulled him down anyway, because that was the plan, because the plane was boarding and the morning wasn’t over and she had wanted this so badly she had folded shirts with wet thighs. His weight settled over her. He kissed her mouth. She kissed back. But the kiss didn’t land where the others had. She could feel the wet mess between them, the proof, and instead of thrilling it sat on her skin like something she would have to wash before Dmitri came home and might not be able to wash all the way out.

Something was wrong. Not the sex—he was still hard against her thigh, still willing, still hers for the next hour. Wrong in the quiet after the ringtone, in the love you sitting sent and irreversible, in the sudden stupid picture of Dmitri holding his boarding pass with both hands the way he held everything that mattered. She opened her eyes over Desmond’s shoulder and stared at the neat corner of the suitcase he had left behind for the hotel closet, empty now, waiting, and doubt moved through her colder than the air on her sweat.

She didn’t tell Desmond to stop. She didn’t tell him the truth either. She just lay there with her legs open and her boyfriend’s name glowing on a dark screen, and for the first time all morning the filthy thrill didn’t feel like enough.