There's something dangerously addictive about the way a younger man touches you—like he's starving and you're the only meal he's ever wanted. Today, Adam 'accidentally' brushed his hand against my ass in the break room, and the way his fingertips lingered just a second too long sent a jolt straight to my cunt. It wasn’t just the touch; it was the way he leaned in after, his breath hot on my neck as he whispered, 'Sorry, couldn’t resist.' Fuck. That kind of reckless confidence makes me want to pull him into the supply closet, ride his thick cock until he’s gripping my hair and begging me to let him cum. Meanwhile, at home? Crickets. Just another night of my husband’s back turned, his indifference like a cold shower. But Adam? He looks at me like I’m a fucking fantasy—and baby, I’m ready to live up to every dirty one.