After handing him his lunch and giving him a quick peck on the cheek, I left him in the living room with his laptop open and that blank stare he always had when work swallowed him whole. I told myself I needed to focus on my own day, but the truth was, even after stepping into the hallway, I could still feel it—the heat burning in my belly. That lingering, shameful little flame I tried to convince myself didn't exist. The same one I felt earlier when I bent over to wipe the floor in front of the old man and knew, without question, that he was watching me.
I should've straightened up right away. Should've turned, glared, done something. But I didn't. I stayed there longer than I needed to, ass stuck out, tits hanging forward inside my shirt, the whole damn pose like some slutty display. And I knew it. I fucking knew it.
I kept telling myself it wasn't intentional. That it was innocent. But it wasn't. Somewhere deep down, I liked knowing his eyes were on me. That thrill… that tight flutter between my thighs. It made no sense, and I hated that I felt it. No, I refused to accept it. I wasn't some bored wife looking for attention. Tomorrow, I'd go again to clean, and I'd be careful. Focused. I wouldn't let myself act like that again. I'd be normal.
The next morning came. When I told him I was heading back to the old man's place, he gave me that awkward little smile and told me to take care. I could see it in his eyes though. That worry. That hesitation. I didn't want to add to it. So I smiled like I always do and stepped out.
But I felt it again. The little thump in my chest. That soft tingling spark just above my mound, like nerves or something more. I tried to shake it off. Just cleaning. Just chores. I told myself again and again.
The old man greeted me with a smile when I arrived. Too polite. Too calm. Like nothing happened yesterday. Good. That's how it should be. I walked inside, trying to stay focused, trying not to breathe too deeply because that fucking stench still clung to everything. That old, musty, almost rotten smell that made my nose wrinkle and my stomach twist.
I kept myself busy. Mopping. Dishes. Keeping my ass low, my shirt tucked, refusing to give him a repeat show. He sat quietly on the couch most of the time, staring at some photo frame like it meant the world to him. I didn't ask. Wasn't my place. But I didn't trust him. I knew he was the kind to sneak glances, to "accidentally" brush too close. He hadn't yet. But I knew better.
Then he got up and disappeared into his bedroom. That felt… off. He usually just sat around and gave unnecessary comments. But now? Quiet and gone?
I wiped my hands dry and figured I'd tell him I was done and leave. But part of me… part of me said no. It told me to stay the fuck out of that bedroom. That nothing good would come from walking in there. But my feet moved anyway.
He was sitting on the bed. Head down. Shoulders slumped. I squinted, trying to see his face. Was he crying? Or just pretending?
I cleared my throat. "I think I'm done, I'll head out now."
He looked up at me with this pitiful, almost broken expression. Like a kicked dog. I don't know why, but something inside me softened. He reminded me of my grandpa. That same lonely, sad look. So I stepped closer and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.
He was holding a picture. I glanced at it—probably his grandson or someone he lost. We made small talk. Stiff and awkward. But the kind you do when someone's hurting. He told me he felt alone. That no one visited anymore. That being old meant being invisible. And maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was how familiar it felt, but I forgot for a second about the stench and the weird energy and everything else.
Then he asked—quiet, hesitant—if he could get a hug.
I hesitated. I should've said no. But something in me cracked. "Sure," I said, soft. Like an idiot.
He leaned in. I wrapped my arms around his back, and he did the same. Only… not the same. His mouth landed on my neck. Hot, wet breath brushing my skin. I shivered, telling myself it was just the height difference. That his arms were just… misplaced. But one was climbing up my back and the other was clearly moving too low, dragging across the top of my ass like he was trying not to grope, but couldn't help it.
I froze. I didn't stop him. Why didn't I pull away?
His fingers pressed into my flesh. Not hard enough to call it out, but just enough that I could feel the intent. Feel the heat from his palm spreading across my ass like a dirty secret. His mouth lingered near my collarbone, the breath getting hotter, closer.
It disgusted me. Or maybe I disgusted myself. Because even as I told myself this was wrong, something disgusting in me was stirring. That same flicker of heat. That pulse between my legs that I couldn't explain or kill.
Then his lips actually touched my neck. Full contact. Just once. But I felt it. Felt every wrinkle, every damn nerve fire off at once like an electric jolt of shame and arousal. I shot up, finally, heart racing, breath caught in my throat.
What the hell was I doing? Why did I let it get that far?
I mumbled something about leaving. Couldn't meet his eyes. Could barely stand the feel of my own skin.
He asked one last thing, voice low. Told me there was a list on the table for some medicines. I didn't even respond. I just nodded, grabbed the slip, and walked out of that house like it was on fire.
Except the flames weren't outside. They were in me.
And that was the most terrifying part.