Snow crunches under my boots in the backyard. February chill bites. Two and a half months since Stephen left. Romain sleeps inside, oblivious. Neighborhood dark, houses silent. I slip through the underbrush, heart pounding. His backyard gate creaks—soft, but loud in the night. Parquet? No, frozen twigs snap like bones.
His window glows faintly, round pane filtering dim light. Shadows dance. I hesitate. Fuck it. Tap glass. Curtain twitches. Door opens. Stephen there, tall frame filling the frame. Eyes gray-green, hungry. ‘Willie?’ Whisper. Pulls me in. Hallway narrow, shared wall thin. Neighbors’ TV murmurs next door.
The Contact
His hand on my waist. Hot breath. ‘Couldn’t stay away.’ Lips crash. Tongues tangle. Stairs creak under us. Up to attic. Grenier cluttered, bric-a-brac shadows. Window overlooks yards. Risky. One light on across fence—old Mrs. Duval? Fuck.
Clothes shed fast. My skirt hikes. His boxer—red, bulging. Like the dream. Grab it. Pull down. Cock springs, hard, veined. Smell musky. Kneel. Parquet bites knees. Suck deep. Gulp. He groans—too loud? Hand over his mouth. ‘Shh.’ Eyes plead.
Back up. Against wall. Legs wrap. Fingers probe pussy—wet, aching. ‘Fuck me now.’ He nods. Tips in. Slow. Walls paper-thin. Bed? No, old mattress on floor. Squeaks.
The Indiscretion
He thrusts. Deep. Guttural. Pussy clenches. ‘Harder.’ But quiet. Bite lip. Blood taste. Light filters under attic door—footsteps below? No. Just wind.
Flip. Me on belly. Ass up. He grips hips. Slams. Wet slaps echo. Muffle face in pillow. ‘Yes, fuck.’ His balls smack. Sweat drips. Orgasm builds. Neighbors sleep. One moan escapes—cover mouth. He grunts, fills me. Hot cum floods.
Collapse. Panting. Silence heavy. His arms wrap. Kiss neck. ‘Secret.’ Dress quick. Stairs groan. Hallway dark. Peek out. Backyard empty.
Slip through brush. Heart hammers. Cross path—Romain’s light off. Gate clicks. Inside. Lock. Lean wall. Pussy throbs, leaking. Smile. No one saw. Secret safe. For now.