Denim has never made my dick hard.
Until tonight.
This woman walked into my home like seduction wrapped in soft blue fabric, and suddenly I’m ruined. This dress. A barely-there, button-down jean dress that clings to her like it was sewn onto her skin. Every curve, every sway of her hips, it's all there, unapologetically on display.
Why does she have to be so damn beautiful?
It’s torture. The kind you feel in your teeth, in your fists, in your zipper.
It’s wrecking me. Having her here, sitting across from me like we haven’t already crossed so many lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Like we haven’t both tasted something real—something passionate enough to ruin us for anything less. And now we’re expected to pretend? To smile, make small talk, act like we’re nothing more than polite dinner guests over eggplant parmesan and peach cobbler?
But what was I supposed to do? Tell Marlow, Eslin couldn’t come over because I’m afraid of what might happen if we’re left alone? That her laugh gets under my skin? That her voice rewiresmy entire brain? That I can’t stop replaying that night in Vegas—wishing I’d stopped holding back, pushed her up against the wall, and fucked her senseless right there, right then, until the moment she whispered,I do?
Of course not. I couldn’t say that.
It’s all so maddening. The way she laughs too loud at my daughter’s jokes. The way her lips linger on the rim of her wine glass. The way her eyes keep flicking to me like she’s trying not to look.
The laugh we just shared still lingers in the air. It feels like foreplay. Everything with her does.
“Let me get the table cleaned up while we wait for Low,” Eslin says suddenly. And I know the exact second she decides to throw herself into cleaning.
When silence starts to press too heavy between us, when we both realize Marlow’s absence leaves no buffer to our need.
She starts stacking dishes like it’s a timed competition, avoiding my eyes like they’re dangerous. Which, fair. They are.
“I’ll help,” I offer.
She shakes her head, fast. “No, I’ve got it. Marlow made this great meal. You made dessert. It’s the least I can do.”
She’s already halfway to the kitchen before I can say anything else. But I follow her. I can’t help it. Watching her move, nervous and flustered, doing everything she can not to acknowledge the static between us, feels like a challenge. I lean against the doorframe as she puts the dishes in the sink, rinses, stacks, rinses again. She’s all tight shoulders and forced focus.
Then it happens.
She turns too fast, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. I see the moment her balance slips, but I don’t reach her in time.
The crash of glass shatters through the kitchen.
Women really do keep falling around me.
“Uggh!” she mutters, crouching down.
“I’ve got it,” I say, already grabbing the broom and dustpan from the corner. “Just stay back.”
But she’s on her knees with a towel before I can stop her, blotting up the red wine bleeding across the marble. Her movements are rushed, like if she just scrubs hard enough, she can erase the last five minutes. Erase me.
The wine comes up easy. The tension does not.
She walks over to toss the towels in the trash, and that’s when I see it.
“Eslin.”
She pauses. Turns.
“You’re bleeding.”
She looks down at her hand, then back up at me, her eyes wide.
I rush to her and pull her to the sink, turning the cold water on full blast.