The new neighbor 7

In the aftermath, a strange and quiet new reality set in. Life returned to a deceptive normal. We’d see each other at the bus stop, wave from our driveways, and exchange texts every few days. They were painfully, carefully mundane.

“Hope the kids’ soccer game went well!”

“It was a mud pit! We lost 3-2. How was your weekend?”

Each text was a lie, a carefully constructed facade hiding the explosive truth of what we’d done in her bed, in her shower. The unspoken hung between every word, a ghost in our digital conversations.

The craving, however, didn’t fade. It festered. It found an outlet, a misguided and desperate one, in my own bedroom. I began initiating sex with Kelly with a voracious, almost frantic energy. It was every night, sometimes again in the morning. At first, she was thrilled, meeting my newfound passion with her own. But after a couple of weeks, the novelty began to wear off, replaced by a loving confusion and sheer physical exhaustion.

One night, after I’d tried to initiate for the second time that day, she gently pushed me back.

“Honey,” she said, her voice soft and full of genuine concern. “I love you, and I love… all of this. But what’s going on? You’re like a teenager again.” She gave a small, tired laugh. “I’m enjoying it, I really am, but I’m getting sore. And honestly, a little tired. Is everything okay with you?”

Her words, meant with pure love, hit me like a slap in the face. She was right. This wasn’t about her. I was using my wife’s body to chase a ghost, to replicate a feeling that only Kristen had given me. The guilt and frustration churned in my gut. I apologized, told Kelly she was right, and went over to my desk, feigning doing paperwork. But I was wide awake, buzzing with a raw, unquenched need that was now impossible to ignore. I couldn’t have what I truly wanted, and the pressure was becoming unbearable.

I sat there for an hour, stewing with haze of the light from my screen in the dim light of my office, before I finally gave in. I grabbed my phone, the screen lighting up my face. I pulled up my conversation with Kristen. Scrolling past the pleasantries about weather and kids’ sports, I typed a new message, my thumb hovering over the send button for only a second. There was no room for subtlety, no time for games.

I need you now.

The three dots indicating she was typing appeared almost instantly.

Where?

My mind raced. It had to be fast, and it had to be close. My shift at the hospital started in an hour.
Cedars. Parking garage, level 4. 20 minutes.

On my way.

Twenty minutes later, I was parked in a dim, deserted corner of the hospital’s sprawling concrete parking garage. The hum of the fluorescent lights was the only sound. I saw her minivan pull in and park a few rows away. She got out, wearing yoga pants and a simple sweatshirt, and slid into the passenger seat of my SUV, closing the door behind her.

She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me, her hazel eyes drinking me in, understanding the raw desperation on my face. She put her phone down on the center console and climbed into the backseat, and waited. I followed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The moment I was back there with her, she was on me. There was no passionate kissing, no gentle undressing. This was purely functional. This was about a need. Her hands went straight to my scrubs, untying my bottoms with a desperate efficiency.

She took me into her mouth right there on the cold leather seats. It wasn’t a slow, sensual act like at the coffee shop alley. This was a frantic, almost violent release. It was the work of someone who knew exactly what was needed. She took all of me, her throat swallowing me down as her hand worked my base, her focus absolute. It wasn’t lovemaking; it was a pressure valve being released. The world outside, the hum of the lights, the distant echo of a car alarm, all of it faded into a dull roar. There was only the feeling of her, the incredible, talented heat of her mouth, pulling the release from me that I so desperately craved. It was over in minutes, a crashing, shuddering climax that left me breathless and spent.

She pulled back, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, her gaze still locked on mine.

“Better?” she asked, her voice a little hoarse.

I could only nod, my mind a blank, buzzing slate. The craving was gone, replaced by a hollow, temporary peace. She gave me a small, knowing smile, climbed back over the console, and slipped out of my car as silently as she had arrived. I watched her walk back to her minivan, the epitome of a suburban mom, and knew this was no longer just a reckless affair. It was an addiction. And I had just gotten my fix.