Sarah: After Mark

A week after that rain-soaked night, Mark still couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He and Dave had been knocking back beers in Mark’s cluttered garage, classic rock rumbling low from an old radio, the air thick with motor oil and summer heat. When the third bottle was half-gone, Mark leaned back on the rolling stool and just let it spill.

“Man, you should’ve seen her,” he said, voice hushed like he was confessing a crime. “Starts off all teary-eyed and ‘we really shouldn’t,’ but thirty seconds of my tongue on that pretty little clit and she’s grinding on my face like she’s trying to suffocate me. Soaked my beard, Dave. Fucking drenched. And when I slid in? Jesus, tightest pussy I’ve had in years. She came twice before I even got my rhythm.”

Dave sat frozen, beer halfway to his mouth, cock already swelling painfully against his zipper. He’d known Sarah since she and Tom were newlyweds—had watched her blossom from shy bride to confident mother, always polite, always just out of reach. The image Mark painted—Sarah bent over her own couch, wedding ring glinting while she begged for more—made his pulse hammer in his ears.

“You’re shitting me,” he finally rasped.

Mark just smirked and pulled out his phone, thumbing to a single blurry photo he’d snapped when she was still dazed and sprawled on the cushions: Sarah’s flushed face half-hidden in her own hair, lips swollen, nipples hard, thighs streaked with her own wetness. He flashed it for two seconds and locked the screen again.

“Proof. And trust me, she’s starving. Just needs someone to feed her properly.”

Dave didn’t sleep much that night.

Two nights later, he manufactured his excuse. Mark had casually mentioned the kitchen faucet dripping; Dave volunteered before Sarah could call a plumber. He showed up at eight-thirty, toolbox in hand, wearing a clean flannel that stretched across his shoulders and jeans that did nothing to hide how worked up he already was. The kids were at the new Marvel movie—three hours of peace. Sarah answered the door in soft grey yoga pants and an oversized cream sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder. Her hair was piled in a messy bun, a few strands framing her tired, beautiful face.

“Dave, you didn’t have to come so late,” she started, but her smile was grateful.

“Happy to help, hon. Rather do it myself than have you paying some stranger triple after hours.”

She led him to the kitchen, hips swaying unconsciously. Dave’s mouth went dry watching the flex of her ass under thin fabric. While he crouched under the sink, clanking tools for show, she hovered nearby, refilling his water glass, leaning over every time he asked for a different wrench. Each time she bent forward, the sweater gaped, giving him a clear view of soft, heavy breasts swaying free underneath—no bra. Her nipples were already peaked from the cool air or nerves; he couldn’t tell which.

He took longer than necessary, dragging it out until the silence grew thick. When he finally stood, wiping his hands on a rag, the kitchen felt ten degrees warmer.

“Fixed,” he said, voice rougher than he meant. He stepped closer, close enough to smell vanilla and the faint trace of her shampoo. “Sarah… Mark told me he stopped by the other night. Said you two… talked. That you might’ve needed a friend.”

Her face flamed scarlet. She opened her mouth—denial, apology, something—but nothing came out. Dave lifted a hand and gently tucked that escaped strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not here to make you feel bad, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m here because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the funeral. Because I know how quiet this house gets at night. And because Mark says you’re lonely in ways I might be able to fix.”

Sarah’s breath trembled. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing, Dave. It feels wrong.”

“Does this feel wrong?” He cupped her face, thumb brushing her lower lip, and kissed her—slow, deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

The moment her tongue touched his, Dave groaned into her mouth and backed her against the counter. His hands slid under the loose sweater, pushing it up until it bunched beneath her arms. Her breasts filled his palms perfectly—warm, heavy, nipples like pebbles against his calloused thumbs. He rolled them gently at first, then harder when she whimpered and arched into him.

“Been dreaming about these tits for twenty goddamn years,” he rasped against her neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. Sarah’s head fell back, exposing her throat, and he took the invitation, sucking a small mark just below her jaw.

He dropped to his knees right on the kitchen tile, yanking her yoga pants and panties down in one impatient motion. The pants caught on her ankles; she kicked them off with a shaky laugh that turned into a gasp when cool air hit her bare skin. Dave’s hands gripped her thighs, spreading them wide. She was completely shaved now—smooth, flushed pink, lips already slick and swollen.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice reverent. “Fucking perfect.”

He didn’t tease. He dove in like a man possessed—broad, flat licks from her entrance to her clit, over and over until she was shaking. When he sealed his mouth around her clit and sucked gently, she cried out, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders. He slid two thick fingers inside her, curling immediately, and her knees nearly buckled.

“Dave—oh god—”

He hummed against her, the vibration making her sob. He worked her steadily, tongue flicking, fingers stroking that spot inside until her thighs clamped around his head and she came hard, pulsing around his fingers, a rush of wetness coating his chin.

Before the aftershocks faded, he stood, spinning her to face the counter. Sarah folded forward willingly, cheek pressed to cool granite, ass tilted up in offering. Dave freed his cock—longer than Mark’s, not quite as thick, but aching and leaking at the tip. He dragged the head through her folds, coating himself.

“Tell me, Sarah,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice. “Tell me you want it.”

She pushed back desperately, trying to take him in. “Please, Dave… I need it. Need you.”

He sank into her in one slow, relentless thrust, groaning at the tight, wet heat. She was still fluttering from her orgasm, gripping him like she never wanted to let go. He gave her a breath, two, then started moving—deep, measured strokes that dragged over every sensitive inch inside her.

Sarah moaned with every thrust, hands scrabbling for purchase on the counter. Her breasts swayed beneath the bunched sweater, nipples brushing the cold surface and making her gasp louder. Dave reached around, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing tight circles.

“Come for me again, sweetheart,” he growled. “Want to feel this pussy milk me.”

She shattered almost instantly—back bowing, a broken cry tearing from her throat as her walls clenched hard around him. The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her pulsing, pushed him over the edge. He pulled out at the last second, fisting himself twice before painting thick ropes of cum across her ass and lower back, watching it drip down the curve of her spine.

They stayed like that, panting, the kitchen clock ticking loud in the silence. Dave grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer, wetting it under the tap—the very faucet he’d pretended to fix—and gently cleaned her skin. Sarah trembled under his touch, goosebumps rising.

When she finally straightened and turned, eyes glassy and lips swollen, he pulled her into his arms. She buried her face in his flannel, breathing him in.

“You okay?” he whispered, kissing her temple.

She nodded against his chest. “I shouldn’t want this,” she said, voice small and raw. “But I do. God help me, I do.”

Dave tilted her chin up, thumb tracing her bottom lip. “Then we’ll keep giving you what you need, Sarah. Me, Mark—whenever you’re ready. You’re not alone anymore.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into him, and for the first time in months the ache in her chest felt a little lighter—even if the heat between her thighs promised it would flare again very, very soon.