The Neighbor's Wife Seduces Me

The house next door always smelled like citrus cleaner and whatever Harriet had decided to cook, and tonight it was garlic and thyme, rich enough to make the kitchen feel smaller than it was. Felix, twenty-eight, had followed the smell in with a bottle he no longer needed to hold, because Harriet already had one open. His wife Colette, twenty-nine, had been pulled straight into the living room by Xavier, thirty-four, who wanted her opinion on a pair of garden lights he had strung along the back fence. Their voices carried, easy and overlapping, the sound of two people who liked a conversation and had no reason to hurry it.

Harriet was thirty-two. She knew it, and she moved like a woman who had decided, before the doorbell rang, exactly how far she meant to go.

She poured for him at the island, standing close enough that her bare arm slid along his. The gray dress clung when she shifted. She did not pretend the contact was clumsy.

"Months," she said, quiet, her lips near the shell of his ear. Colette laughed at something Xavier said about the neighbor on the other side and his obsession with hedges. Harriet did not look toward them. "I've been fantasizing about you for months. Your mouth. Your hands. What you'd sound like if I got you hard in my kitchen while your wife sat ten feet away talking about nothing that matters. I think about it when I can't sleep. I think about it when you're on your own porch and I can see you through the fence."

Felix's pulse kicked. The thrill was immediate and filthy—the open doorway, his wife's voice, Harriet's perfume warm on his skin. Forbidden, and she was offering it in plain speech, not a glance he could misread.

Her fingers closed lightly around his wrist. "Say no and I'll behave for the rest of the night. I mean that. But if you don't say it, I'm not going to stop touching you."

He looked at her mouth, then her eyes. Sober. Sure. Wanting him, and waiting.

"Don't stop," he said.

She breathed out, pleased, and brushed the full length of her body against his as she set the bottle aside. His cock thickened in his pants. The tension between them went thick enough to taste, mutual and reckless, humming under the ordinary clink of glass while their spouses kept talking in the next room as if the evening were still only wine.

They were not alone for long, and then they were.

Colette and Xavier were deep in it, voices bright in the living room, neither of them glancing toward the kitchen. Harriet did not waste the minute. Under the lip of the counter, her hand found Felix's thigh. She slid it higher, palm flat, unhurried, until her fingers pressed the hard line of his cock through his pants. He sucked in a breath. She watched his face while she did it, thumb stroking once, twice, learning the shape of him.

"Still want me to keep going?" she asked.

"Yes."

She squeezed, gentle and filthy, and his hips jerked before he could stop them. Harriet's eyes went darker. She liked the risk. So did he. The knowledge sat hot between them, wanted on both sides, not a trick.

Then Colette called toward the kitchen that Xavier wanted to show her the lights properly, not through the window. Harriet answered in a hostess voice that gave nothing away, telling them to go, the wine would keep. Footsteps crossed the living room. The back door opened. Cool night air moved through the house, and with it their voices, still talking, still close, just outside on the patio where the string lights threw a soft gold over the grass. Their words were distinct enough to prove how near they were.

She took his hand and pulled him two steps toward the hall, out of the direct line of the back door, and then she kissed him.

It was not a test. Her mouth opened under his, hungry, and he kissed her back with the same hunger, months of looking and not touching breaking all at once. Her tongue slid against his. She made a small sound into him and fisted his shirt, hauling him closer until her breasts crushed to his chest and his cock pressed the soft give of her stomach. He gripped her waist. She arched into it, shameless, kissing him deeper, wet and open, like she had been waiting at the edge of this exact second. She kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then took his lower lip between her teeth and tugged, just hard enough to make him groan under his breath. Her hand stayed on his cock, rubbing him through the fabric in slow, insistent strokes while their spouses' voices drifted in from the patio, ordinary and close.

When she drew back, her lips were swollen and her breath was unsteady, but her words were clear.

"I want you right now," she said. "Not later. Not some other night when it's safer. Right now, while they're out there talking about lights. I want your cock. I want you to fuck me in my kitchen and I want us both to know we're choosing it."

Felix's hands tightened on her. The last of his restraint went with the heat of her mouth still on his.

"I can't resist you any longer," he said. "I don't want to."

Her smile was pure relief and pure filth. "Then don't."

Harriet dropped to her knees in the hallway, the tile cool under her, and yanked his belt open. His pants and boxers went down his thighs. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, already wet at the tip. She looked up once, eyes bright, and he nodded, one hand braced on the wall.

"I want it messy," she said, and took him in.

Her lips stretched around the head and she sank, wet and eager, until he nudged her throat. She pulled off with a slick sound and dove again, spit shining on her chin almost at once. She worked him with hand and mouth together, stroking what she could not swallow, licking the underside in long filthy stripes, then sucking him deep until her eyes watered. The sounds were obscene in the quiet hall—wet, greedy, the catch of her breath before she went back down. Saliva strung from her lip to his cock. She let it. She wanted it sloppy, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling, moaning around him like the ache turned her on.

Outside, Colette laughed at something Xavier said about a crooked bulb, close enough to raise the hair on Felix's arms. Harriet heard it and sucked harder, as if their spouses' nearness made her hungrier. She cupped his balls, rolling them, and looked up with her mouth stretched around him, spit shining, his neighbor's wife on her knees while his wife chatted on the patio. The sight nearly undid him.

"If you keep that up I'm going to come," he rasped.

She pulled off with a wet pop, a strand of spit breaking on her chin. "Not in my mouth. I want you inside me."

She hauled him back to the kitchen. The island waited under the low light. Harriet turned, bent at the waist, and planted her palms on the stone. The gray dress rode up. She wore no panties. The bare curve of her ass and the gleam of how wet she was made his cock jerk.

"Hard," she said. "Deep. And quiet. They're right there."

He stepped in, spread her, and guided himself to her entrance. She was soaked. He pushed in, feeling her open, hot and tight, and she bit down on a sound, pushing back. He seated himself in one long stroke, buried to the hilt, both of them shaking.

"Yes," she whispered. "Now fuck me."

He drew back and drove in, a hard slap of his hips against her ass that she swallowed by biting her lip. Again. The pace turned pounding, each stroke sinking all the way, the wet sound of her cunt filthy and rhythmic. Harriet braced on the island, breasts swaying, knuckles white, lip bitten pale, taking every deep thrust and pushing back for the next. Felix gripped her hips and fucked her hard and thorough, the kind of fuck that shook the breath out of both of them. Her ass rippled. Her slick coated him. The kitchen smelled like wine and sex and the garlic still warm on the stove, and every thrust shoved a soft grunt back down his throat. He was clear-headed, painfully aware of the open door and of how badly he wanted to stay inside her anyway. He leaned over her and spoke against her ear.

"You feel incredible. So wet."

"Months," she gasped. "Harder."

He gave it to her—deep, pounding strokes that made the wine bottle tremble and made her bite her own wrist when a moan tried to escape. Outside, Xavier's calm voice pointed out which lights he might move in the spring. Colette answered. Ordinary. Nearby. The risk burned through Felix and made him fuck her deeper, one hand sliding under to rub her clit while he pounded her. She clenched, fluttering, nodding frantically, silent and desperate.

"Chair," she managed. "I want to ride you."

He pulled out. Harriet shoved a kitchen chair back, the legs scraping once, and they both froze. On the patio the conversation did not break. She pointed. "Sit."

He sat, cock standing slick against his stomach. She turned her back, gathered her dress, and straddled him in reverse, the curve of her ass filling his view, her cunt hovering. She lined him up and sank, taking him to the root in one slow drop, a broken breath leaving her. Then she planted her feet and rode.

Up, until only the head remained, the clutch of her almost too much, and down, grinding, taking every inch, her ass meeting his lap. Then faster. Bouncing. Hands braced on his knees, thighs working, the wet sounds louder now that she set the pace. Felix held her hips and watched himself disappear into her, the stretch, the shine, the roll of her hips at the bottom of each bounce as she ground her clit against him. He thrust up to meet her. She bit her lip and rode harder, silent except for her breath and the slick impact of her body.

"Taking it so well," he whispered.

"Don't stop. I'm close. I want to come on your cock while they're right outside."

He wrapped an arm around her waist and fucked up into her while she ground down, tight desperate circles, then bounced again when the need spiked. The chair creaked. Her cunt gripped him in pulses. Heat coiled at the base of his spine, sudden and unstoppable. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder.

"I'm going to—"

"Yes. Come with me."

She slammed down and ground, and came. He felt the sharp clench, the shudder through her thighs, the way she shook and kept moving so she would not cry out. Her cunt milked him, soaking him, and the sight of her coming in his lap—dress bunched, lip bitten white, their spouses' voices murmuring just beyond the door—tore his orgasm out of him at the same moment. He thrust up and held, buried deep, pulsing, spilling inside her in thick waves while she rode the last of it out, both of them shaking, locked together, coming hard and together and barely making a sound. She kept grinding through the aftershocks, small broken circles, until they were both spent and gasping in the quiet kitchen, the night outside still full of ordinary talk.

They stayed a moment longer, listening. On the patio Xavier was still talking. Colette was still answering. No one had come in.

They moved fast. He dragged his pants up and buckled his belt. She smoothed her dress, wiped her mouth, and fixed her hair in the oven door's dark glass, then dropped the dish towel in the laundry nook. Both of them were flushed.

She caught his jaw and kissed him one last time, passionate and brief.

"Thursday," she whispered. "Colette has that late meeting. Xavier's softball game runs until nine. Back door at seven. I'll be wet before you knock."

She poured fresh glasses and walked into the living room as if nothing had happened. Felix followed, flushed and satisfied. A minute later Colette and Xavier came in from the patio, still talking, and the four of them settled with their wine. Across the table Harriet's eyes found his, heated and secret, while everyone chatted normally. Under his wife's easy hand on his knee, Felix was already scheming Thursday—how hard he would fuck Harriet the moment that door closed, and how he would not be able to wait.