Cole’s POV
My key turns in the lock at 4 PM, earlier than usual because the gym's AC unit decided to die spectacularly.
I sent everyone home rather than deal with the complaints, figuring I'd surprise Grace, maybe cook dinner together before Ryan gets home from his office.
We haven't been alone since the shopping trip three days ago, and I've been thinking about her in that red dress constantly, like a teenager with his first crush.
Then I hear it. A moan from upstairs—distinctly Grace, high and breathy, that particular pitch I've memorized, followed by a lower groan that's definitely Ryan.
The sound hits me like a physical blow, stopping me dead in the entryway with my keys still in my hand.
Another moan, louder this time, and the rhythmic sound of the headboard hitting the wall in a pattern I recognize because I've created it myself. With her. In that same bed.
What the fuck?
My chest tightens with something ugly and possessive that has no business existing. He's her husband. This was always part of the arrangement—Rule Number Whatever in his neat little contract.
Ryan and Grace are married, they share a bed, they have every right to fuck in their own house at any time. But knowing that logically and hearing her moan for someone else are two completely different things.
"Ryan! God, yes!.."
Her voice carries through the house, and I can picture it perfectly—her back arched, his hands on her hips, reclaiming what's his. The thought makes me sick with jealousy that burns like acid in my throat.
Which is insane. I don't get jealous. I don't do possession. I don't do feelings that make me want to punch through walls.
"Harder! Ah, please, harder!"
I'm out the door before I realize I'm moving, my truck keys already in my hand. My truck peels out of the driveway, tires squealing against concrete like they're as pissed as I am.
I drive without thinking, muscle memory taking me downtown to Murphy's, the dive bar where nobody asks questions and everybody's running from something.
Where I can be the old Cole who didn't care about anyone, who fucked without feelings, who never let anyone get close enough to hurt.
Three whiskeys deep, the edges finally start to blur. The music pounds through cheap speakers, all bass and no melody, and bodies press together on the cramped dance floor.
A blonde with fake tits and real enthusiasm catches my eye from across the bar, giving me the look I know so well—interest mixed with availability, no complications included.
She sidles over, pressing against me before even asking my name. "Buy me a drink?"
"What are you drinking?"
"Whatever gets me drunk fastest," she purrs, already running her hand down my chest with practiced confidence.
Two drinks later, we're on the dance floor, her ass grinding against me to some terrible remix while her hands guide mine to her hips. She's exactly my type from before—eager, uncomplicated, forgettable.
The kind of woman who wants one thing, gets it, and disappears before morning without expecting anything more. Clean. Simple. Safe.
"Your place?" she breathes in my ear, her hand sliding down to cup me through my jeans with zero subtlety.
"My car," I counter, because my place is currently occupied by a married couple rediscovering their passion, and that thought makes me drain the rest of my whiskey in one burning swallow.
She doesn't argue, just grabs my hand and leads me toward the exit with single-minded determination.
In the parking lot, she pushes me against my truck, kissing me aggressively while her tongue does things that should be illegal in public.
She tastes like vodka and cherry lip gloss, nothing like Grace's coffee and vanilla chapstick.
We fumble into the backseat, and she's immediately straddling me, her dress riding up as she works my zipper with impressive efficiency.
"God, you're hot," she moans against my neck. "I'm going to ride you so hard you forget your own name."
I close my eyes, trying to lose myself in familiar territory—anonymous heat, the simple transaction of bodies without the complication of feelings. This is what I know, what I'm good at, what I should want.
Her hand wraps around me, stroking with skilled determination, and I try to respond, try to want this.
My phone rings from my pocket, the sound jarring in the confined space. I ignore it.
"Someone misses you," she teases, still stroking.
It rings again. I pull it out to silence it, and Grace's name lights up the screen with her contact photo—one I took last week when she wasn't looking, laughing at something on TV, hair loose and happy.
"Don't answer," the blonde whines, increasing her pace. "I'm about to do something amazing with my mouth."
But I'm already pushing her off, my thumb accepting the call without conscious thought. "Grace?"
"Hey! Are you gonna be home anytime soon?" Her voice is warm, casual, completely unaware that she just shattered my attempt at forgetting her.
Home. She calls their house with Ryan 'home' for me. Not 'the house' or 'our place' but home, like I belong there, like my absence matters.
"Hi. I don't know. Not sure. A lot of work." My voice comes out strained, fighting to sound normal while the blonde stares at me in disbelief.
"What do you want for dinner?" Grace continues, oblivious to my internal crisis. "I'm making that pasta you like, the one with the garlic and red peppers, or we could order Thai from that place you found last week?"
She called about dinner. Not about the arrangement, not about sex, not about Ryan. She called to ask what I want for dinner like we're... like we're something more than fuck buddies in a contract.
My chest fills with something warm and terrifying that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with feelings I swore I'd never have.
"Pasta sounds perfect," I manage, already reaching for my shirt.
"Great! Oh, and drive safe, okay? That intersection by the gym is all torn up with construction."
She knows my route. She pays attention to the construction on my commute. She worries about me driving safely.
This woman, who hours ago was screaming her husband's name, is concerned about traffic hazards I might encounter.
"I will. Thanks."
"See you soon!"
The blonde stares at me as I tuck myself away, her expression shifting from confusion to anger. "Seriously? You're stopping everything for some housewife asking about pasta?"
"She's not…" I start, then stop because what would I say?
She's not a housewife, she's the married woman I'm in love with? She's not just anyone, she's the person who makes me want to come home?
"I have to go."
"You're stopping mid-hookup for dinner plans?" She laughs, but it's bitter. "Jesus, you've got it bad. Whoever she is, she's got you completely whipped."
"It's not like that," I lie, pulling on my jacket.
"Sure it's not." She adjusts her dress with angry movements. "Word of advice? If she's got you this twisted up, you're already fucked. Guys like you don't change for women like that. You just break."
I leave her in the parking lot, driving back toward home—and yes, fuck, it is home now—with the taste of someone else's lip gloss making me sick. The blonde was right.
I'm completely fucked. My best friend's wife has gotten under my skin so deeply that a simple question about dinner makes me abandon everything I used to be.
I'm stopping everything for a woman asking about pasta. And that's definitely a problem.