Filthy logo

The Middle of the Night

by Isla Chiu 4 months ago in fiction

I should get back into my car and return to my house. But I need someone — I need you.

The Middle of the Night
Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash

My fingers tremble as I stand at your door. It’s two in the morning, so you’re most likely asleep. I should get back into my car and return to my house. But I need someone — I need you.

I ring your doorbell. When your door remains closed, I ring the doorbell again. Then again and again and again. I’m probably annoying the hell out of you, but I need to see you right the fuck now.

You open the door. Glaring at me, you ask, “What the fuck, Hannah? Are you trying to break my doorbell?”

My pulse races as I see the defined lines on your bare abdomen. You sleep without a shirt on — good to know. Every time I look at you, I’m caught off-guard by how good-looking you are. Sharp cheekbones, strong jawline, ocean-blue eyes. I feel like a terrible person for thinking, My husband is ugly compared to you, but it’s true.

To my embarrassment, tears sting my eyes. I care about my husband, but our marriage no longer feels right. And to be honest, it has felt wrong for a long time.

At the sight of my tears, you wrap your arms around me without hesitation. I breathe in your scent — mint soap and sandalwood. “What’s wrong?” you ask, wiping the saltwater off my cheek.

Instead of answering, I kiss you. You also taste better than my husband, who tastes like the bitter instant coffee he’s always drinking. To me, you taste like summer, like watermelon and lemonade.

At first, you kiss me back, pushing your tongue into my mouth and cupping the back of my head. I place my hands on your naked chest, loving the warmth of your smooth skin.

But too soon, you pull away. “Goddamn it, Hannah. You’re married.”

More tears stream down my cheeks. “Please, I need you.” I know I’m not being fair to you, but I can’t help it.

Your blue eyes turn cold, and I think you’re about to say no to me, even though you’ve never refused me. My friends joke that I have you wrapped around my little finger. To be honest, it’s true. And though you would stab yourself before admitting it, you know it’s true too. But perhaps adultery is a line you won’t cross, not even for me.

You curse under your breath, then scoop me up into your arms.

“What are you doing?” I ask, excitement coursing through my blood.

“I’m doing what you want,” you say in a soft voice with both affection and weariness.

As soon as we’re in your bed, your lips crash down onto mine. I groan into your mouth as you rub your erection against my sex.

“Take off your skirt and panties,” you say in a rough voice.

With shaking hands, I obey you. I blush, insecure about the unshaven dark brown curls on my pussy. However, my insecurity soon fades when you let out a low growl of pleasure. I let out my own growl of pleasure when you rub my clit.

“I love you, Hannah.”

My heart twists. You deserve someone so much better than me. I should push you away, tell you to run the hell away from me, return to my husband before I make an irrevocable mistake. But because I’m selfish, I say, “I love you too.”

When my juices coat your finger, you lift your hand from my sex. I whimper from the loss of your touch until you take my hips and slide your cock into me. I cry out, ecstasy running through my veins. My husband has never made me feel this good. You grunt as I sink my nails into your shoulders. My nails have never left marks on my husband, but tonight, I’m marking you, though I have no right to.

“Are you close to coming?” you ask, thrusting deeper into me. “I don’t think I can last much longer.”

Your consideration touches me — and arouses me. My husband rarely thinks about my pleasure and usually just assumes that I’d come with him. “Yes,” I tell you. And I am. I can feel myself dancing on the precipice of a delicious orgasm, something that I haven’t had for so long.

You catch your breath, spilling your hot cum inside me. I follow you into bliss, covering your cock with my wet heat.

You hold me in your arms, stroking my cheek. “Stay with me,” you say.

“Okay,” I whisper. Then I close my eyes, wishing that I could stay in your arms forever.


Isla Chiu

Author of romance and smut. Also an amateur foodie.

Receive stories by Isla Chiu in your feed
Isla Chiu
Read next: The great Masquerade ball.

Find us on social media

Miscellaneous links

  • Explore
  • Contact
  • Privacy Policy
  • Terms of Use
  • Support

© 2021 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.