Chapter 1: The Unseen Temptation & The Guilty Ring
The fluorescent light in Hope’s office buzzed like a trapped insect. Kevin stood in the hallway, the hum syncing with the low thrum of discontent in his own veins. Through the half-open door, he watched his wife. Her back was straight, a perfect ninety-degree angle to the chair. The screen of her laptop washed her face in a cold, blue glow. One hand scrolled, the other rested near a wineglass, the pinot noir untouched, a prop in the theater of her dedication.
A binder snapped shut. Thwack. The sound was so final, so Hope. It was the sound of a problem solved, a box checked, a life contained. He felt the weight of his own wedding band, a tight circle of cold gold.
From the living room, a different sound. The rustle of fabric, a soft, contented sigh. He turned his head, drawn by the gravity of it.
Ashlee was a wreck of comfortable limbs on their cream-colored sectional. She was stretched out on her stomach, flipping through one of her own photography portfolios. Her t-shirt, worn thin and soft, had ridden up her back, exposing the small of her spine and the tail of a tattoo. It was a sea turtle, cheaply done, its green shell faded to teal. She’d gotten it at eighteen on a spring break trip to Daytona, a story she told with self-deprecating laughter. To Kevin, it was a flaw in her otherwise bohemian canvas, a mark of a past insecurity he found inexplicably endearing.
Her jeans were low on her hips. He could see the dimples above her ass, the gentle curve where her spine dipped. He watched the muscles in her back shift as she turned a page. His mouth went dry.
“Another ten pages of depositions and I might actually spontaneously combust,” Hope called out, not looking up from her screen.
Kevin jumped, his heart hammering. “I’ll get the fire extinguisher,” he said, his voice surprisingly normal.
Ashlee laughed, the sound warm and unstudied. She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked over the back of the couch towards the office. The movement lifted her shirt another inch. Kevin’s eyes locked onto the strip of skin, the line of her black bra strap.
“Don’t tempt me,” Hope muttered, typing furiously. “This opposing counsel is a literal troll. His last motion was written in what I think was crayon.”
Ashlee caught Kevin’s gaze from across the room. He didn’t look away. For a suspended second, the air in the open-plan living space thickened. He saw her eyes drop to his lips, then snap back up. A faint pink bloomed on her dusky gold cheeks. She bit her lower lip, a nervous habit that highlighted the tiny, charming gap between her two front teeth.
He’d never noticed that gap so acutely before. He wanted to run his tongue over it.
“Kev, can you grab me the Pellegrino from the fridge? My brain is melting,” Hope said.
The spell broke. “Yeah. Sure.”
He walked into the kitchen, the cool air of the refrigerator doing nothing to douse the heat in his gut. He fumbled for the green bottle. His thoughts were a riot. She’s your wife’s best friend. She’s slept on this couch a dozen times. You’re a father. You have a fucking lawnmower payment.
But another voice, lower, primal, answered back. Look at her. Look how she looks at you.
He returned to the living room, bottle in hand. Hope’s office door was now fully closed, a silent barricade of case law and responsibility. Ashlee had sat up, cross-legged now. She took the bottle from him, her fingers brushing his.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice softer now.
“Long day?” he asked, hovering.
“Always. The gallery wants ‘urban grit,’ but they want it clean, you know? Sanitized despair. It’s soul-crushing.” She took a long swig, her throat working. He watched a drop of water escape her lip and trace a path down her neck. He imagined chasing it.
“Your work is amazing,” he said, and he meant it. It was raw, emotional. Unlike the sterile logos he manipulated all day.
“Hope says it’s a nice hobby.” Ashlee said it without malice, but the words hung there, a shared understanding of where they each stood in Hope’s universe: essential, but categorized.
Kevin sat down on the armchair opposite her, not trusting himself to share the couch. “Hope doesn’t understand art. She understands precedent.”
Ashlee smiled, that gap-toothed, genuine smile that cracked her face open. “You get it, though.”
He did. He got her. The chaotic kindness of her, the way her laughter could dismantle the heavy furniture of his life. He got the sadness that sometimes flickered behind her eyes when she thought no one was looking. He wanted to kiss it away. He wanted to lick into her mouth and feel that little gap with the tip of his tongue.
“I feel like I’m constantly pretending,” she murmured, looking down at her hands. “Like I’m play-acting at being a real adult. Hope has it all figured out. You have it all figured out. A house, a kid, a… a life.”
“It’s all an act,” he heard himself say, the confession ripped from some hidden chamber. “The life. Sometimes it feels like a beautiful, boring museum. I’m just a guard, making sure no one touches the exhibits.”
Her eyes lifted, wide and dark. She saw him. Not the husband, the father, the reliable Kevin. She saw the restless man underneath. The one who was starving.
She uncrossed her legs, letting her knee fall open. It was an unconscious movement, he was sure, but it hit him like a physical blow. He could see the soft inner seam of her denim shorts, the shadowed warmth of her inner thigh.
In the office, Hope’s phone rang, a sharp, corporate trill. They heard her answer, her voice switching to its polished, professional mode. “Yes, I received the amended filing. The hearsay objection alone is laughable…”
The sound of her voice, so capable, so utterly elsewhere, was the final key turning in a lock.
Kevin stood up. He didn’t decide to; his body decided for him. He walked the three steps to the couch and sat down beside Ashlee. The cushion dipped, pulling her slightly towards him. He could smell her—warm skin, lavender soap, the faint, clean scent of her shampoo.
She didn’t move away.
“Kevin,” she whispered. It wasn’t a protest. It was a name on her lips, a discovered truth.
He reached out, his hand finding the bare skin of her back, right over the faded sea turtle. Her skin was so hot. She inhaled sharply, a tiny, ragged sound. He traced the outline of the crude shell with his thumb.
“This is a terrible idea,” she breathed, but she was leaning into his touch, her back arching like a cat’s.
“I know,” he said, and he brought his other hand up to her face. He cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. He could feel her pulse hammering against his palm. “Tell me to stop.”
She didn’t. She turned her face, pressed her open mouth to the heel of his hand. The wet heat of her tongue on his skin was his undoing.
The wet heat of her tongue on his skin was his undoing. A groan tore from his throat, low and animal. He slid his thumb from her cheek to her lips, pressing against the damp seam. She opened for him, her eyes locked on his, and took his thumb into her mouth.
Her tongue swirled around the digit, warm and slick, and the suction was deliberate, obscene. It was a promise. His cock stiffened, a painful ache against his zipper. He could picture that mouth, that clever tongue, somewhere else entirely. The image was so vivid he almost came right there.
This is really happening. She’s sucking my finger like it’s my dick. Christ, her lips. I want to fuck that perfect, shitty little gap in her teeth. I want to come all over her face. Hope is fifteen feet away. We are so fucked. I don’t care. I don’t care.
Ashlee watched his face transform. The kind eyes turned dark, hungry. She felt a thrilling power surge through her. She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, letting a soft, wet sound escape. The taste of his skin, clean and salty, was intoxicating. His wedding band glinted in the lamplight, a cold joke.
He’s shaking. Look at him. He wants me so bad it’s making him stupid. Good. Let him ache. That stupid turtle, he’s looking at it. He likes it. He likes my fucked-up, cheap tattoo. He sees me. Hope sees a project to manage. He sees… this. Take it. Take all of it. I’m so tired of being the sad friend.
Her free hand came up, her fingers brushing the fly of his jeans. He jolted as if electrocuted.
A sound.
Not from them.
The crisp, efficient tap of heels on hardwood. Hope’s footsteps in the hallway.
Kevin’s body went rigid. He yanked his hand from Ashlee’s mouth with a wet, audible pop. The sound seemed monstrously loud in the sudden silence. He lurched back on the couch, putting a foot of empty cushion between them, his heart trying to batter its way out of his chest.
No no no no. She can’t see. The light is low. Can she see? My lips are swollen.