Under her dress, she felt herself grow wet, aching. She pressed her thighs together and wondered if he was thinking of her; she hoped so. God, she wanted it to be true, wanted to believe she could make someone’s hands shake with just a look, or a memory, or the sound of her name. The need clawed at her, sharp and insistent.
She watched as Jack’s hips arched, his breath coming hot and fast. Her fingers slipped under her dress and found her slick and open pussy, aching for what she saw through the window. She matched his rhythm, the deliberate, hungry motion of his hand, felt herself building with him, as if their bodies were communicating across the yard, through the dark. She pressed deeper, her breath coming hard, and prayed the night would keep her hidden.
Jack groaned, louder now, stroking harder and faster. She watched the way his arm flexed, the way he muttered something sharp and private. He groaned her name, voice raw with it, and his whole body jerked. She saw him cum, squirting hot over his hand, shuddering, breath caught in his throat. His head dropped forward after, shoulders caving, and he let go of the sheet to cover his face, as if ashamed by what he’d just let himself do. Rachel stood trembling in the cold, hugging her own arms. Part of her wanted to run inside, push him back onto the bed, taste him, ride him until he couldn’t breathe. But another part, the careful, grown woman, waited and watched, memorizing how undone he’d been by the wanting.
He sat like that a while, hands on his knees, before finally standing. She watched the play of hard muscle under pale skin as he cleaned himself up and pulled on a shirt. The lights went out. Rachel pressed her forehead to the window glass, barely feeling the cold. Her thighs were sticky with arousal. Her whole body ached with it.
She didn’t sleep. She didn’t even try. She lay awake in the dark, picturing Jack’s face as he came, remembering the sound of his pleasure. When the sun finally crested the trees, she rolled out of bed, hands already trembling with anticipation.
She wore her favorite shirt, the pearl-snap with the sleeves rolled above her elbows, and a red lipstick bright enough to feel like a dare. She took her coffee black and strong and left the back door open to let in the last of winter’s chill, hoping it might cool her off in case Jake was coming for breakfast.
Jack did show up for breakfast a few minutes later. He knocked first, hesitated, knocked again, and stepped in with a sheepish kind of caution, hat in his hands. She motioned him to sit. He did, and watched her with the hungry focus as she poured him coffee.
“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t say for what.
They ate in silence, the old wood table between them. He buttered his toast with care, avoiding her eyes. She caught him glancing, and let her hand rest on his, just for a second, while she topped off his mug. Not playful anymore. Intent.
“I saw the lights on at your place last night,” she said. She wanted to see what he’d do.
He swallowed, looking down at his hands. “Couldn’t sleep.”