My Friend’s Wife Had Me Cornered

Rachel handed me a drink and sat on the footstool in front of me, her movements too easy, too graceful. I felt like a hostage. Two hours before her husband—my friend, my mentor—came home, and she had me in her sights.

Her small talk was white noise. Her top button was undone, her blouse already struggling to contain her. She smiled at me.

Fuck.

Her face was perfect—dark hair framing large brown eyes, skin coffee-coloured and smooth, lips red and dangerous.

I wasn’t going to make it.

She talked about how life was tricky. How hubby was grumpy these days. Her fingers drifted absently to her blouse—another button loosened. Then another.

I met her gaze.

Rachel’s unravelling blouse was scandalous—but not as much as her eyes. Almond-shaped, inky black wells of depravity.

Fucking hell. Where was he?

Her grey trousers clung to her, hinting at the swell of hips and licentious thighs waiting beneath. Another button. Then her hands—on my thighs now.

I pressed my glasses to my face and gulped. Eighteen years old, trapped for the kill by a woman who never learned the word no.

I tried to reason with her. “He’s a good man. I’m sure he wants the best for you.”

But she was twenty-eight. She didn’t negotiate with a hostage.

I glanced at the clock. An hour and forty-five minutes to go.

I was done for.

Then—the piercing shrill of a phone. Reprieve.

Rachel rose and sashayed to her mobile. I watched her smile widen as she answered. My stomach clenched.

She turned back to me, blouse undone, completely open. Her breasts, bare, perfect.

Kneeling in front of me, she cocked her head, lips curved in impish delight. She reached for my zipper.

Her last words before she enveloped me in a heady, hungry smile—

“He’s going to be later than expected.”

I didn’t make it.