Emerging from the steam-filled confines of the shower, the water droplets still clinging to my skin like tiny, transient jewels, my mind drifted back to the unsettling incident—had it been a figment of my imagination? A cruel trick of the mind? Or perhaps a misreading of something far more mundane? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a persistent itch I couldn’t scratch. With a deliberate shake of my head, as if to physically dislodge the thoughts, I stepped into the expansive walk-in closet Bridgette and I had painstakingly designed together, a sanctuary of cedar-lined shelves and soft, ambient lighting. It was one of the few features of our home that still brought us both unadulterated joy, in a rather mundane existence.

I attempted to anchor myself in the present, to shift my focus from the lingering distraction to the looming interview. *Clothes*, I reminded myself. *That’s what I need to concentrate on.* But as I stood before the row of hangers, my wardrobe suddenly seemed woefully inadequate, a sea of muted tones and uninspired cuts. Twenty minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last, as I cycled through option after option, my fingers brushing against fabrics that suddenly felt foreign. The dress shirt was too severe, the blue slacks too stiff, the blazer too constricting. Yet, in the end, I settled on the ensemble, the fabric clinging to my damp skin as I dressed, the loafers pinching slightly at my heels. The act of dressing up felt like a performance, one I wasn’t sure I could pull off. Interviews had always been my personal nightmare, a gauntlet of judgment and scrutiny that left my palms slick with sweat and my stomach in knots.

The nausea coiled tighter in my gut, a serpent readying to strike. I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed, the crisp, cool sheets whispering against my skin as I moved with deliberate slowness, careful not to disturb Bridgette. The room stretched out before me, a monochrome wasteland of gray walls, gray floors, gray furniture—an aesthetic choice that had seemed chic at the time but now felt oppressive, like living inside a fog. *What were we thinking?* A splash of color, a single vibrant hue, would have been a lifeline in this sea of neutrality. I made a mental note to broach the subject with Bridgette later.

The distraction worked, if only temporarily. My breathing steadied, in and out, in and out, the rhythm of it grounding me. But then, like the first rays of dawn breaking through the night, her emerald eyes fluttered open. Bridgette—petite, blonde, and perpetually cheerful—was my polar opposite in every conceivable way. She stretched, her lithe body arching like a cat, the heart-print pajamas she wore clinging to her curves in a way that was undeniably cute, if not overtly sensual. The set had been a gift from her parents, a nod to her wholesome, girl-next-door charm, but as she rolled out of bed and padded toward me, the fabric seemed to take on a different quality, the innocence of it only heightening the tension between us.

She stood between my legs, her bare feet brushing against the cool hardwood floor, and tilted my chin up with a gentle finger, forcing my gaze away from the swell of her chest. “Oh my God,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep, the rasp of it sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. “It’s interview day!” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes, a rare moment where she held the height advantage, and she seemed to relish it. “You’re going to crush it! Metrik is amazing—I’ve heard nothing but great things.” Then, her gaze flicked down to my outfit, and her nose scrunched in that way it did when she was trying not to laugh. “Wait, what *are* you wearing? You can’t go like that.” Before I could protest, she was tugging at my blazer, her fingers deft and insistent.

“A black shirt? Really?” She disappeared into the depths of the closet, her voice floating back to me as she rummaged through the racks. She returned moments later with one of my two suits, still encased in its plastic sheath, the tags fluttering like tiny white flags of surrender. “Have you even worn this?” She didn’t wait for an answer, her hands already moving to the striped tie she’d plucked from the drawer. “White shirt, this tie—clean and professional. Let me fix it for you.” Her fingers worked at my collar, adjusting the fabric with a precision that spoke of years of practice, her touch both familiar and electric. “First impressions matter, even if you’ll just be under a desk fixing computers.” She paused, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Oh! Isla mentioned your new boss might be a woman. Ever had a female boss?”

I shook my head, the motion feeling heavier than it should have. Bridgette’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling with something akin to mischief. “She’ll *definitely* appreciate the view.” With a quick snip of the scissors, she cut the tags from the suit, the sound sharp and final. I couldn’t help but wonder if a female boss might actually work in my favor—women had always found me attractive, despite my chronic shyness, my inability to meet their gaze for more than a fleeting moment.

Then, without warning, she unzipped my pants.

I loved this woman—sweet, kind, and endlessly patient—but our sex life had become a well-worn script, predictable and safe. She never initiated, and I always felt like she saw it as a duty, a box to be ticked on some invisible checklist of marital obligations. Five years of marriage, and I couldn’t recall a single instance where she had undressed me with anything resembling desire. But today? Today, she was all in.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of my pants, tugging them down with a slow, deliberate motion that sent a jolt of heat straight to my core. She hesitated for the briefest moment at the elastic of my boxer briefs, her breath warm against my skin, before pulling those down as well. My cock sprang free, already half-hard, the cool air of the room doing little to temper the heat pooling in my groin. She licked her lips, her tongue darting out in a gesture that was equal parts nervous and hungry, before lowering her mouth to me.

It had been over a year since she’d done this—since she’d taken me into her mouth with anything resembling enthusiasm. The wet heat of her lips enveloped me, tentative at first, her tongue swirling around the head in slow, teasing circles. I groaned, the sound escaping me before I could stop it, and her eyes flicked up to meet mine, a silent question hanging between us. She wasn’t great at deep-throating—her gag reflex was too sensitive, her technique too cautious—but her enthusiasm, the way she seemed to savor every inch of me, more than made up for it.

I pictured Isla—bold, uninhibited, the kind of woman who would take what she wanted without hesitation. The thought sent a spike of pleasure through me, sharp and unexpected, and I found myself gripping Bridgette’s hair, my fingers tangling in the golden strands as I guided her. “I’m gonna cum,” I warned, my voice rough, barely recognizable. She hummed around my cock, the vibration sending a shockwave of sensation through me, and that was all it took. I came hard, my hips jerking involuntarily as I thrust into her mouth, the pleasure cresting like a wave before crashing down.

She choked slightly, her eyes watering, but the sound only made it hotter, the rawness of it sending another aftershock of pleasure through me. As I caught my breath, her tongue flicked out, catching the last drop of cum before she pulled away, her lips swollen and glistening. The sight of her—disheveled, eager, and utterly present—was almost enough to make me forget the interview, the job, the weight of the day ahead. Almost.