The first time I saw Ethan Holloway shirtless, he was wrestling with a splintered fence panel in his backyard, the late afternoon sun glinting off the sweat that traced the hard lines of his spine. His wedding ring caught the light, a quiet accusation. His jaw was set, tight with focus, as if the world could burn down around him and he’d still be there, fixing what was broken. I watched from my lounge chair, my sunglasses low on my nose, a book propped open but unread. My leg was bent just so, the edge of my bikini tugging across my hip, a deliberate tease I didn’t bother to hide.
He didn’t look at me. Not then. But I felt the weight of his awareness, heavy as the August heat.
Ethan wasn’t like the other men in our cul-de-sac, with their loud laughs and easy charm. He was a storm held in check, all quiet intensity and unspoken want. You could see it in the way he moved—deliberate, controlled, like every step was a decision. His polite hellos were clipped, his eyes always darting away too quickly when I passed by in shorts cut high or a sundress that clung too close. I could taste the restraint in him, the way his knuckles whitened when his wife, Claire, called from their porch with that sharp, proprietary tone. Their marriage was a cold thing, a contract signed in resentment, and everyone in the neighborhood knew it. Claire’s business trips left Ethan alone too often, a man adrift in his own life.
I wasn’t trying to ruin him. Not at first. I just wanted to see how long it would take for him to crack. We’d been neighbors for six months, ever since I moved into the little craftsman next door after my divorce. I was 32, free for the first time in years, and restless. Ethan was older—mid-40s, maybe—with salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes that held secrets. He’d been a firefighter once, before a back injury sidelined him into a desk job at the county office. The scars on his hands told stories his words never did. I’d catch him sometimes, late at night, sitting on his porch with a whiskey, staring at the stars like they owed him answers.
That day by the fence, he caught me off guard. He strode across his yard, boots heavy on the grass, and stopped at the invisible line where our properties met. His arms were crossed, brows knitted, the air between us crackling. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel under tires. I sat up slowly, letting the curve of my chest catch the sunlight through the thin fabric of my cover-up. “Doing what?” His eyes dropped—just for a heartbeat—before snapping back to mine. “You know exactly what.” I tilted my head, lips curling. “You’re the one watching, Ethan.”
“I wasn’t.” His voice was firm, but his hands flexed at his sides, betraying him. “Not the first time,” I said, smiling wider. “But you came over today.” His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking under the stubble. He looked so frustrated, so tired, so achingly needy. “Don’t,” he said. “This… whatever you’re playing at—don’t.”
I stood, closing the distance to the low fence, close enough that he could smell the coconut lotion on my skin. “You’re not going to stop me,” I said, voice soft but sure. “Because you want it. You want to know what it feels like to lose control. Just once.” His hand gripped the fence post, knuckles white. His breathing hitched, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. “You’re married,” I said, stepping closer, my bare toes brushing the grass at the property line. “But you hate her. And I’m right here. Dripping. Waiting.” His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the hazel. That was the moment I knew he’d break.
It happened that night. His porch light flicked off at 11:47, a signal I hadn’t expected but recognized. I waited five minutes, heart pounding, then slipped through the gap in the fence barefoot, wearing nothing but a loose T-shirt that barely skimmed my thighs. The night air was cool against my skin, but my blood ran hot.
His back door was unlocked, a silent invitation. I stepped inside, the kitchen dim, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp through the window. Ethan stood by the counter, shirtless again, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his broad shoulders hunched like a man carrying too much weight. He didn’t flinch when he saw me, but his eyes burned.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “I know.” I walked to him, each step deliberate, the hardwood cool under my feet. “You still have time to tell me to leave.” He didn’t. I took the glass from his hand, the brush of our fingers electric. I sipped the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat, then leaned in and kissed him. Hard. Hungry. His lips were firm, unyielding for half a second before he snapped. He slammed me against the fridge, the cold metal biting into my back as his mouth devoured mine. His hands were everywhere—sliding under my shirt, gripping my thighs, my ass, lifting me onto the counter with a strength that made me gasp.
“I’ve thought about this every fucking day,” he growled, his breath hot against my neck. “Show me,” I whispered, voice trembling with want. He yanked the T-shirt over my head, leaving me bare—no bra, no panties, just skin flushed and ready. His hands roamed, hungry but reverent, tracing the curve of my waist, the swell of my breasts, the dip of my hips like he was trying to memorize me before I vanished. His calloused fingers grazed my nipples, teasing them to peaks, and I arched into him, a soft moan escaping my lips.
He dropped to his knees, parting my thighs with a gentleness that contrasted the fire in his eyes. His mouth found me, hot and relentless, tongue circling my clit with a precision that made my vision blur. I cried out, fingers tangling in his hair, legs trembling as he licked and sucked, growling against me like he was starving. Each flick of his tongue sent sparks through me, building a pressure that coiled tighter and tighter. The neighbor’s dog started barking, a distant annoyance, but Ethan didn’t falter. He gripped my hips, pulling me closer, his stubble scraping my inner thighs as he drove me higher.
I came hard, sobbing his name, thighs clenching around his head as waves of pleasure crashed through me. My body shook, breathless, but he didn’t stop, lapping at me until I was whimpering, oversensitive and desperate for more.
He stood, eyes wild, and dropped his sweats. His cock was thick, hard, perfect, and my mouth watered at the sight. He stepped between my legs, aligning himself, and when he slid inside me—deep, stretching, claiming—I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He bit my shoulder, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “You’re going to ruin me,” he whispered, voice raw. “Good,” I said, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He fucked me on the counter, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, letting me feel every inch of him. His hands gripped my hips, guiding me, his eyes locked on mine, dark with need. Then the pace quickened, harder, faster, each movement a release of everything he’d buried—his failing marriage, his quiet life, his unspoken desires. The dishes in the rack rattled, the dog barked louder, but we didn’t care. My moans were loud, unrestrained, mingling with his grunts as he drove into me, the sound of skin on skin filling the kitchen.
He pulled out abruptly, spinning me around and bending me over the kitchen table. The wood was cool against my cheek as he grabbed my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. His hand cracked against my ass, the sting blooming into heat, and I moaned, pushing back against him. “Fuck, Ethan,” I breathed, and he growled, sliding back inside me, deeper this time, his pace relentless.
He wrapped a hand around my throat, not tight but firm, grounding me as he fucked me harder, each thrust a curse against his past. My body tightened, another climax building, and I reached back, clawing at his thigh, urging him on. “Don’t stop,” I begged, voice hoarse. He didn’t. He came with a roar, spilling inside me, his body shuddering as he collapsed over my back. I followed, my own release ripping through me, leaving me trembling beneath him. We stayed there, gasping, sweat-slicked, the dog still barking in the distance.
Then we laughed, a shared release of tension, of guilt, of everything. Claire was gone for the weekend. But that didn’t matter. We weren’t quiet, and we weren’t done.