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I woke up slowly on Monday morning, the bedroom still dim with early light filtering through the blinds. The sheets were tangled around my legs, and the pillow beside me was cool — Kristen had already been up for a while. Before I could even sit up, the bedroom door opened quietly, and she stepped in carrying a small tray with my coffee mug, steam curling up from the black liquid inside. She was wearing that short burgundy silk robe again, the one that barely reached mid-thigh, tied loosely enough that it gaped open at the front when she moved.
Underneath, I caught glimpses of black lace — a barely-there bra and matching thong, the kind of lingerie that looked expensive and slutty, the kind Brad had started sending her in discreet packages over the past few weeks. The bra was sheer, nipples dark and hard against the fabric, the thong so thin it was more decoration than coverage. She looked beautiful, soft in the morning light, but there was a careful sweetness in her expression that hadn’t been there yesterday — like she was trying to make up for something.
“Hey,” she whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand and climbing back under the covers beside me. She curled against my side, one leg sliding over mine, her hand resting lightly on my chest. Her hair was still a little messy from sleep, face bare and open. “I missed waking up next to you like this. Yesterday was… a lot. I know I was harsh. I’m sorry.”
I blinked, still half-asleep, the weight of the weekend pressing down on me like a physical thing. She leaned in, pressed a slow kiss to my jaw, then another to my mouth — soft, coaxing, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
“I brought you coffee,” she continued, voice gentle, almost tentative. “I thought… maybe we could start the week right. Just us. Before you have to go to work.”
She shifted, straddling my hips carefully, the robe falling open to reveal more of the lingerie. The thong was already damp between her thighs; she rocked slowly against me, letting me feel how ready she was, how warm and wet she’d gotten just from being close.
“I want to make you feel good,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss me deeply, tongue soft and inviting. “I want you to know you’re still mine. Always.”
My hands found her waist automatically, sliding under the robe to grip her bare skin. She was warm, soft, familiar. For a moment it felt like before — before Brad, before the phone calls, before the videos and the silence. I hardened quickly under her, the ache from yesterday still lingering but now overlaid with desperate need.
Kristen smiled against my mouth, small and sweet. She reached between us, tugged my boxers down just enough, and guided me inside her in one slow, deliberate slide. She was soaked, hot, welcoming. She sank down until I was fully buried, then paused, letting us both feel it — the stretch, the fullness, the way she clenched around me like she never wanted to let go.
“Mmm… you feel so good,” she breathed. “I love this. I love you inside me.”
She began to move — slow, rolling hips, deep and languid, like she had all the time in the world. Her breasts swayed gently under the sheer lace bra, nipples hard against the fabric. She kept her eyes on mine at first, soft and loving, whispering little encouragements.
“You’re perfect… just like this… my husband… my Tim…” But every few strokes, almost unconsciously, her rhythm faltered. Her lips brushed my ear and she whispered something else — so quiet I almost missed it the first time.
“Brad…”
She caught herself immediately, froze for half a second, then kept moving like nothing had happened, hips rolling deeper. I tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on her warmth, her weight, the way she clenched around me. But she did it again a minute later, softer,
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