The candlelight flickered across the dark oak of our dining table like a secret we weren't supposed to share. Eight years of marriage, and Heather still knew exactly how to make my pulse stutter. She'd cooked my favorite—seared filet, asparagus glistening with butter, a bottle of the '14 Cabernet we'd saved for nights like this. But the real feast was her.
She wore the black silk slip I'd bought her in Paris, the one that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. No bra. Just the soft sway of her breasts as she leaned across the table to pour my wine, nipples already tight against the fabric. Her auburn hair spilled over one shoulder, and when she smiled that slow, knowing smile, I forgot every stress waiting for me at the firm tomorrow.
"To us," she said, raising her glass. The crystal clinked. "To eight years of you still looking at me like you want to ruin me on this table."
I laughed, low and rough. "Careful what you wish for, baby."
We didn't make it to dessert.
The moment the plates were pushed aside, I had her by the hips, lifting her onto the cool wood. She gasped, thighs parting instantly, silk riding up. My hands slid under the hem, finding her already wet, already waiting. No panties. Of course.
"Kevin…" Her voice was breathy, teasing, but her fingers were in my hair, tugging me closer. I dropped to my knees right there on the hardwood, pushed her legs wider, and tasted her like a man starving. She tasted like sin and home at the same time—sweet, slick, mine. I licked slow, then fast, two fingers curling inside her until her back arched off the table and she cried out my name loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
When she came the first time, her thighs clamped around my ears and she flooded my tongue. I didn't stop. I sucked her clit until she was shaking, begging, nails scraping the wood.
Only then did I stand, shove my pants down, and bury myself inside her in one thrust.
The table creaked beneath us. Wine glasses rattled. Heather's legs locked around my waist as I fucked her hard—deep, possessive strokes that made her breasts bounce under the silk. I shoved the thin straps down so I could watch them, watch her nipples darken, watch her mouth fall open on every moan.
"God, you feel so fucking good," I growled against her throat. "Still so tight for me after all this time."
She clenched deliberately around me, wicked and perfect. "Then give it to me, husband. Ruin me."
I did. I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other gripping her ass hard enough to leave marks, and drove into her until the table legs scraped the floor. She came again, pulsing around my cock, and I followed right after—burying myself to the hilt and spilling inside her with a groan that felt like it came from my soul.
We stayed locked together, panting, foreheads pressed. Candlelight danced across her flushed skin. I kissed her slow and deep, tasting myself on her tongue.
After a minute, I lifted her off the table, carried her to the couch, and pulled the throw blanket over us. Her head rested on my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over my heart.
The room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the candles and our slowing breaths.
Then Heather spoke, voice small and far away.
"Sometimes I still dream about her."
I stroked her hair, half-dazed. "Who?"
She hesitated. Just a heartbeat. But I felt it in her spine.
"My twin," she whispered. "The one who vanished when we were fifteen."
The words landed between us like a match dropped on dry grass.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Because in that moment, something inside me shifted—something I didn't understand yet, something dangerous.
And I asked the question that would ruin everything.
"Tell me about her."