Pool Boy Claims the Housewife

The late-morning sun beat down on the suburban backyard like a lover who refused to be gentle. Lauren Hargrove stood at the sliding glass door in nothing but a thin white bikini and a sheer cover-up that did little to hide the swell of her breasts or the flare of her hips. At thirty-two, the blonde housewife still turned heads, her body kept tight by yoga and nervous energy. Her husband, David, had left for a week-long business trip to London two days earlier. The house felt too quiet. Too empty.

She had called the pool service on a whim. The regular guy was out, they said. They were sending Marcus instead.

He arrived at ten-thirty exactly, pulling up in a battered white truck that looked out of place among the manicured lawns. Lauren watched from the kitchen window as he unloaded his gear. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Skin the color of dark espresso. When he peeled off his shirt to reveal a sculpted chest and rippling abs, her mouth went dry. A thin gold chain glinted against his throat. His red basketball shorts hung low on narrow hips, and the heavy, unmistakable outline of his cock swung against the fabric with every step he took toward the pool.

Lauren’s nipples tightened against her bikini top.