Scarlet: 1000 Forbidden Touches

Alex Help! I am having an affair with my best friend’s wife! I’ve known Sara almost as long as I’ve known Jake. Back in college she was the girl who showed up to our dorm parties uninvited, always in some too-short dress that made every guy in the room forget his own name. She’d crash on our couch after too many shots, laughing at my stupid jokes while Jake scrolled through his phone, barely paying attention. Even then she had this way of sitting a little too close—her thigh pressed against mine during movie nights, her head on my shoulder when she got sleepy. Jake never seemed to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. Over the years the three of us became this unbreakable unit. Barbecues in the backyard, group vacations to the lake, late-night whiskey tastings on their patio. Sara was always the spark—quick with a comeback, quick with a smile, quick to refill my glass when Jake wandered off to answer a work call. I told myself the way my eyes followed her was harmless. Just appreciation. Just friendship. Then Jake’s consulting gig started eating his life. Two weeks in Chicago, three in Dallas, a month in London. The house felt too big without him, he said. Sara said the same thing, but her voice had this edge to it—like she was trying to laugh it off and failing. That’s when the evenings started. “Just hanging out,” she’d text. “Bring wine?” I’d show up with a bottle, and we’d sit on their big sectional, feet up on the coffee table, talking about nothing and everything. Wine turned to whiskey. Jokes turned to silences that lasted too long. She’d complain—light, playful, but real—about how Jake was never home anymore. How she felt invisible. How she missed being touched like she was something someone actually wanted. I’d listen. Nod. Pour another round. All while my c**k stirred every time her bare leg brushed mine. Every time she stretched and her tank top rode up, showing a strip of smooth stomach. Every time she leaned in close and I caught the scent of her shampoo—something vanilla and warm that made my mouth water. One night it got worse. She reached for her glass too fast. Red wine splashed across her white tank top, soaking through instantly. No bra underneath. Her n*****s pebbled hard against the wet cotton, dark pink and obvious. She looked down, laughed that throaty laugh of hers, and peeled the shirt off right there in the living room like it was nothing. “Oops,” she said, tossing it toward the laundry room. Then she walked to Jake’s closet in just her little black shorts, came back wearing one of his old college T-shirts. It hung loose on her but barely covered her ass—every step flashed the lower curve of her cheeks, the shadow between her thighs. She sat back down closer than before. Her knee pressed against mine the whole rest of the night. I left with blue balls and guilt burning in my chest. A few nights later she cried. We were on the couch again, half a bottle of bourbon gone. She talked about feeling unwanted, about how Jake’s texts had gotten shorter, how their s*x life had dried up long before his trips got longer. Tears slipped down her cheeks. I pulled her in without thinking. She curled against me, face in my neck, hand resting high on my thigh—fingers inches from where I was already half-hard just from holding her. I held her too long. Way too long. Her breathing slowed. Her fingers flexed once, brushing the ridge in my jeans. Neither of us moved. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and unsteady. When she finally pulled back her eyes were glassy, lips parted. She looked at my mouth like she was thinking the same thing I was. I left before I did something stupid. Then came the text. Jake’s flight got pushed back another ten days. Sink’s leaking again. Can you come look at it? Please? I knew it was bullshit. The sink had been fine last week. But I went anyway. She answered the door in tiny gray sleep shorts and a thin white cami that clung to every curve. No bra again. n*****s tight from the AC. Hair loose and messy like she’d just rolled out of bed. She smiled—small, nervous, hopeful—and led me to the kitchen. We didn’t even pretend to look at the sink. Twenty minutes later we were on the couch, some dumb action movie playing in the background. She shifted. “Scoot over,” she murmured, then climbed right into my lap, straddling me like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just getting comfortable.” Her heat pressed against my c**k through my jeans. She rocked once—slow, deliberate. I groaned. My hands found her hips automatically, fingers digging in. “Alex,” she whispered against my mouth. “It’s been so long since someone touched me like they meant it.” I snapped. I kissed her—hard, desperate, guilty as hell. Tongue deep, teeth clashing. She moaned into my mouth, ground down harder, rubbing herself along the length of me. My hands slid under her cami, cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing those hard n*****s until she whimpered. Clothes came off in seconds. Her cami yanked over her head. My shirt gone. Her shorts shoved down. I pushed two fingers inside her—hot, slick, so f*****g wet—and she gasped my name like a prayer. She rode my hand, hips rolling, whispering filthy things against my ear. “I’ve thought about your c**k for years,” she breathed. “How thick it is. How it would feel stretching me. How you’d f**k me better than he ever did.” I curled my fingers, hit that spot that made her shake. She soaked my palm, thighs trembling. I was seconds from flipping her onto her back and burying myself inside her when reality slammed into me. Jake’s face. Our friendship. The ring on her finger. I pulled my hand away. “We can’t,” I rasped. “Not like this.” Her eyes flashed—hurt, then anger, then something darker. “Then when?” I didn’t answer. Just stood, adjusted my aching c**k, grabbed my keys, and left. I made it to my car in their driveway. Hands shaking. Pulse roaring in my ears. I didn’t even get the engine started. Just shoved my jeans down, wrapped my fist around myself, and stroked hard and fast. I pictured her—legs spread on that couch, p***y glistening, moaning my name while I f****d her deep and slow. Pictured her coming around my c**k, nails in my back, begging me not to stop. I came hard, spilling over my hand, groaning her name into the dark interior of the car. Spent, shaking, guilt crashing over me like a wave. I wiped my hand on an old napkin from the glove box. Started the engine. Drove home. Promised myself—swore to myself—that it wouldn’t happen again. But even as I said it, I knew I was lying.