Chapter 5: The Setup
The grandfather clock in the hall had never ticked so loudly. Mark sat alone in the living room, the ghost of Sarah’s smirk still haunting him, the memory of her black lace against his skin a constant, humiliating buzz. She’d texted him a single picture an hour ago: her and Emily, cheek to cheek, flushed and laughing in a mirror, with the caption, Girls’ night. Don’t wait up. The subtext screamed at him: You’re not invited. You’re irrelevant.
He stared at the blank television screen, his hand drifting unconsciously to his thigh, where her foot had been. The house was a tomb.
“God, I needed this,” Emily sighed, settling onto the plush velvet stool at The Velvet Ring. The bar was all moody lighting and deep beats, a place for secrets. “Mark just… he’s in another world lately. Distant.”
“Maybe he just needs a hobby,” Sarah said, signalling the bartender. Her eyes were already scanning the entrance. Right on time.
He moved through the crowd with an easy grace. Nathan was tall, built with the lean power of a sprinter, dressed in dark jeans and a shirt that hinted at the shape of his shoulders. His smile, when Sarah waved him over, was a flash of white in the dim light.
“Sarah? Small world,” he said, his voice a smooth, warm baritone.
“Nathan! This is my sister, Emily. Emily, this is an old friend from my gym.” The lie slipped out perfectly. Nathan’s eyes, intelligent and appraising, shifted to Emily. They took her in—the faint lines of stress around her eyes, the way her fingers tightened on her glass—and his smile softened, turned focused.
“A pleasure,” he said, and his hand was warm, his grip firm but not overwhelming as he shook hers.
He bought the next round. He listened, his gaze never leaving Emily’s face as she talked about her work, her garden, the petty frustrations of her suburb. He made her feel fascinating.
“That takes a serious mind,” he’d say, or, “You put up with that? You’re more patient than I am.” His compliments weren’t empty; they were observations that made her blush.
Sarah watched, a curator observing her exhibition. She interjected just enough to steer, then feigned a urgent text. “Shit, it’s the babysitter. One sec, I have to take this.” She melted into the crowd, leaving them in a sudden, intimate bubble.
Nathan leaned closer. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something clean—cut through the bar’s haze. “Your sister’s something else. But you… you seem real. Buried under a lot of ‘shoulds’, maybe.”
Emily’s laugh was nervous. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone looking.” His knee brushed hers under the bar. She didn’t pull away. The contact was electric, a jolt straight to her core. She felt it between her legs, a sudden, aching throb. He was talking about music, about a jazz club downtown, and all she could think about was the weight of his hand, how it would feel on the small of her back, pushing her against a wall.
His fingers traced the condensation on his glass, then casually rested on the bar next to her own, a hair’s breadth from touching. “I’d love to show you that club sometime. You look like a woman who appreciates… improvisation.”
The implication hung in the air, thick and heady. Emily’s mouth was dry. She pictured it—the dark club, his body moving close to hers on a dance floor, the heat. She hadn’t been touched with deliberate, hungry intent in years. Mark’s perfunctory gropes in the dark were a pale ghost compared to the raw, conscious magnetism this man projected.
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered, but her eyes were on his mouth.
Sarah reappeared, a shark returning to the circling pair. “All sorted. You two look cozy.”
The spell broke, but the fissure remained. The rest of the night was a fever dream for Emily. Nathan’s touch was constant—a guiding hand on her lower back as they moved to a booth, his arm resting along the seat behind her, his thumb, once, stroking the bare skin of her shoulder. Every point of contact was a brand. She was laughing too loudly, drinking too quickly, her whole body humming with a forbidden voltage.
When they parted on the sidewalk, the cool air was a shock. Nathan took her hand again, holding it a moment too long. “It was truly wonderful meeting you, Emily. I hope Sarah brings you around again.” His look was a promise, a testament to things left unsaid and undone.
In the taxi home, Sarah was silent, smiling out the window.
Mark was asleep on the couch, a book open on his chest. The sight of him—passive, soft, safe—sank like a stone in her gut. “Mark,” she said, her voice sharper than intended.
He jolted awake. “Em? Have fun?”
“It was fine.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. Her skin still felt the phantom of Nathan’s gaze. “I’m going up.”
She brushed her teeth, washed her face, the routine a meaningless pantomime. In their dark bedroom, she slid into bed beside Mark’s softly snoring form. The space between them felt cavernous. She closed her eyes, but all she saw was Nathan’s smile, felt the memory of his knee against hers.
The ache between her thighs was a relentless, pounding need. It was vulgar, this hunger. It embarrassed her. It consumed her.
Slowly, silently, she turned onto her side, her back to Mark. Her hand slipped under the waistband of her cotton pajama shorts. She was already wet, a slick, shameful heat. She pictured Nathan’s hands, large and capable, sliding her dress up her thighs in the back of that cab. She imagined his voice, that low rumble, in her ear saying filthy things. You’re dripping for me already. Let me taste it.
Her fingers circled her clit, a frantic, secret rhythm. The fantasy crystallized, brutal in its clarity. He’d push her against the bar’s cold wall, his body pinning hers. He wouldn’t ask. He’d just take. You want this, don’t you? he’d growl, and she’d nod, desperate. He’d yank her panties aside and fuck her right there, hard and deep, his fingers digging into her hips, everyone watching. The sheer obscenity of the thought, the raw force of it, made her muscles clench. She bit her lip, stifling a moan, her breath coming in short, ragged gashes. Her hips rocked against her own hand, chasing the release that felt just out of reach, built on a foundation of another man’ imagined dominance.
It hit her suddenly, a violent, shuddering wave that arched her back. Pleasure, white-hot and stolen, tore through her, followed immediately by a gut-punch of guilt so severe it felt like nausea. She went utterly still, her fingers trembling, the moist sound in the quiet room suddenly horrifying.
Mark stirred beside her, mumbling in his sleep. Emily yanked her hand free, curling into a tight ball, her heart hammering against her ribs. The scent of her own arousal was a guilty perfume on the sheets. She stared into the darkness, the image of Nathan’s smile now feeling like a verdict. She had come, violently, silently, to the fantasy of a stranger while her husband slept beside her. The truth of it was a cold stone in her chest. This wasn’t a fleeting thought. This was a crack in the foundation of everything she knew, and it was Sarah who had handed her the chisel.