My wife traded me
I stepped into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind me with that same soft finality it always had. The living room was dim, lit only by the floor lamp’s warm glow and the blue flicker of the muted TV. The air hit me immediately—her vanilla lotion, mixed with something heavier, muskier, saltier. Sweat. Sex. The faint metallic edge of arousal that made my stomach clench before my brain even caught up. They were right there. Brad was sprawled across our couch like he’d been born on it—legs spread wide, black athletic shorts shoved down just enough to free his cock. Thick. Heavy. Veined. Glistening with her spit. Kristen was on her knees between his thighs, sundress bunched around her hips, black lace thong pulled to the side and soaked through. Her dark hair spilled …