The Boy Next Door

Payton steers while Jordan wrestles that cabinet across the living room floor. His shirt stretches tight every time he heaves the damn thing, and she can’t stop staring at the veins popping on his forearms. He huffs, mentions how the house hasn’t changed a lick, and she just shrugs—says there’s only so much you can do with an old place and dead husband who never swung a hammer anyway. She’s spring-cleaning, though, and his muscles came at the right time. Cabinet’s finally parked. Jordan wipes sweat off his brow, spots a frame flat on the coffee table, and picks it up. “Holy shit, is that you?” She wanders over, hip brushing his, and yeah—it’s her, forty summers ago, right when she ditched everything for a backpack trip around the world. Face lights up talking about wild nights and stranger’s beds. Jordan watches her mouth move like he’s tasting every word. He glances from photo to real life, then blurts that she looks “different now.” Regret flickers across her face before he catches himself. “No, I meant hotter. Way fucking hotter.” She laughs, tries to wave it off, stuffs the picture in a drawer, but the kid keeps swinging compliments like he’s already inside her. Tells her she beats any college girl he knows, admits he jerked off to her back in high school. The heat in her cheeks climbs straight down between her legs. Fuck it. She locks the door, drops to her knees on the rug, yanks his zipper, and slides that thick, young cock between her lips before either of them can chicken out. The boy next door grew up nicely—and she’s about to prove it.