Three weeks since the kiss. Twenty-one days of messages that have burned a trail through my phone, through my sleep, through the careful architecture of my life. I've stopped pretending I'm not doing this.

The texts started cautious again after Norwich—polite check-ins, how are you, how was the drive back—but they frayed fast. Within a week we were sending goodnight messages. Within two I was typing things I'd never said to anyone, words that made my face hot and my thighs press together under the duvet while Sam slept beside me.

He writes what he wants to do to me. I write what I want to do to him. We trade images like currency—his mouth on my throat, my fingers in his beard, the sound he'd make if I pulled his hair. Nothing filtered. Nothing tempered. I've deleted the thread four times and restored it from backup twice. The last time, I stopped pretending I would ever let it go.

Today I told work I had a migraine and left at lunch. The lie slid out cleanly, rehearsed in the car. Sam won't be home until seven. I have four hours.

The bag from Ann Summers sits on my bed, unopened. I bought it three days ago, online, with a separate card I'll pay off in cash. The delivery came in plain packaging, but I still ripped it open in the bathroom at work, checked it, hid it in my handbag like a teenager.

I take a breath. The house is quiet—the hum of the fridge, a bird on the gutter, my own heartbeat. I slide the bodysuit out of its tissue paper. Black lace, delicate and intricate, cut low at the front with a deep V that will show the top of my chest piece. The straps are thin. The back is bare except for a single row of hooks at the waist. I hold it up and the lace catches the light, fragile and expensive.

Stockings next. Black, thigh-high, with a subtle sheen. The vibrator is last, still in its sealed box, and I don't open it yet. I set everything on the bed and strip off my work clothes—the cardigan, the sensible blouse, the dark trousers that make me look like someone who has her life together.

In the mirror, I look at myself. The floral tattoo across my chest, curling up toward my collarbone. The silver nose ring glinting. My hair is down, loose waves from a bun I pulled out in the car. I look flushed. I look ready.

I step into the bodysuit, careful not to snag the lace, and pull it up over my hips. The fabric settles against my skin like a second layer, cool and intimate. The stockings roll up my thighs, the elastic grip a small pressure. I adjust the straps, turn to see the back in the mirror—the lace cutting low, the curve of my spine visible.

I look like someone having an affair.

My phone buzzes on the bed. I pick it up, already knowing.

Bradley: You home yet?

I type back: Just got in. Give me ten minutes. Kids?

Bradley: School pick-up not for another hour. Emma's asleep. She did a double last night.

Bradley: I'm in the spare room. Door locked.

I send him a photo. Not my face—just the bodysuit, the lace against my skin, the edge of the chest tattoo. Taken from above, the mirror catching the curve of my hip.

He reacts in seconds. A string of fire emojis, then a message:

Bradley: Jesus, Laura. That's—fuck. That's not helping me last through an afternoon.

I laugh, a sharp exhale, and the nervousness loosens a notch. I walk to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, carry it back to the bedroom. I close the curtains halfway, enough to dim the room without losing the light. I prop my phone against a book on the bedside table, angle it so the camera catches the bed and my body.

Then I call him.

He answers on the first ring. His face fills the screen—bald head, brown beard untrimmed, those warm eyes with the sarcastic glint softened into something hungry. He's in the spare room at his house. I recognise the grey wall behind him, the edge of the wardrobe mirror. He's wearing a black t-shirt, the collar loose.

"Fucking hell," he says. The words come out low, almost reverent. "Look at you."

I shift on the bed, settling cross-legged, the lace riding up my thighs. "You like it?"

"Like it?" He shakes his head. "Laura. I've been thinking about this for three weeks. Every time I closed my eyes." He pauses. "You don't even know what I've done to myself thinking about you."

"Show me."

His hand moves down, out of frame, and I hear the rustle of fabric. When he brings his hand back up, he's holding himself—hard, thick, his fist wrapped around the base. He strokes once, slow, and watches me watch him.

"That's for you," he says. "That's all for you."

I feel the heat between my legs, a liquid pull. I uncross my legs, stretch one out, let the camera catch the stockings, the lace at my hip. His eyes track the movement, his hand stilling.

"I want you to fuck me," I say.

The words land between us, heavy and bright. His jaw tightens.

"Tell me more," he says.

I lean back on my elbows, my hair falling over the pillow. "I want you to bend me over the kitchen table at your house. The one with the scratch from when Ben tried to build a Lego spaceship on it. I want your hand in my hair, pulling. I want you to fuck me so hard I can't stand straight after."

He groans, his hand moving again. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And I want you to tell me what a dirty little whore I am. Because that's what I am, Bradley. I'm your sister-in-law. I'm married. And I'm lying on my bed in stockings waiting for you to fuck me through a phone."

The word hangs in the air. Whore. It feels like a door opening inside me, a room I've never entered. I don't flinch. Neither does he.

"You want to be my little whore?" His voice drops, rougher. "You want me to use that pretty cunt until you can't think straight?"

I nod, my throat tight. "Yes."

"Say it."

"I'm your whore. I'm your dirty little slut. I've been thinking about your cock for weeks. I want it in my mouth. I want to taste you."

His breathing changes, faster, harsher. His hand is a blur on his cock, and I watch him, transfixed. His head tips back, his throat exposed. I want to bite it.

"Touch yourself," he says, eyes still closed. "Let me see you."

I reach for the vibrator, still in its box. I tear the seal, slide it out. It's sleek, curved, silicone. I press the button and it hums to life, a low thrum that I feel in my teeth.

I slide the lace aside, touch myself. I'm already wet, the slickness coating my fingers. I bring my hand to the camera, show him.

"See that? That's what you do to me."

He makes a sound, low and desperate. "Fuck, Laura. Fuck."

I press the vibrator against my clit and the sensation spikes, sharp and electric. My hips lift off the bed. I hold the angle, let him watch my face as the pleasure rolls through me.

"I want to see you come undone," he says, his voice strained. "I want to watch you fall apart. Come for me, Laura. Come on my cock."

The words push me higher. I'm not thinking about Sam, about Emma, about the life I've built. I'm only here, in this room, with this man who sees me. Who wants me. Who's telling me I'm beautiful while he jerks himself raw.

"Harder," I say. "Talk to me. Tell me what you're going to do to me."

He shifts closer to the camera. His face is flushed, his beard damp at the edges. "I'm going to bend you over and fuck you until you forget your own name. I'm going to spank that perfect arse until it's red. I'm going to put my mouth on your cunt and suck you until you scream. And then I'm going to fuck you again, slow this time. Deep. I want to feel you clench around me."

I'm close. The vibrator is a constant pressure, building, building. My thighs are shaking. The lace is wet beneath me.

"Come," he says. "Come for me, Laura. Let go."

I do. The orgasm tears through me, sudden and violent. My back arches, my mouth open in a sound that isn't a word. I press the vibrator hard against myself and ride the wave until it breaks, until I'm trembling, gasping, streaming wet.

He watches me the whole time, his hand working faster, and then he groans—a deep, ragged sound—and I watch him come, his release striping his stomach, his eyes locked on mine.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is our breathing, harsh and uneven through the speakers. I'm still holding the vibrator, still throbbing, my body wrecked and humming.

"Jesus," he says finally. "Jesus Christ, Laura."

I laugh, breathless. "Yeah."

He smiles, soft and exhausted. "I don't know how I'm supposed to make it through Ben's school play tonight after that."

"Sit in the back. Think about cricket."

"I don't like cricket."

"Think about spreadsheets."

He laughs, and it's a good sound—real, warm. "You're ridiculous."

"You started it."

The silence settles again, but it's different now. Lighter. I look at his face on the screen, the softening of his eyes, the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious and obscene at the same time.

"Bradley."

"Yeah?"

I want to tell him I'm falling for him. I want to tell him I think about him in the gaps between everything, that he's become the colour in my grey days. But I don't. I swallow it, let it sit.

"I wish you were here," I say instead. "I wish this was real."

His face shifts, something raw surfacing. "I know. Me too."

He checks his watch. "I've got twenty minutes before I need to leave for school. Stay on with me?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

I lie back on the bed, the lace still tangled around my hips, the vibrator cooling beside me. I'm soaked. I'm shaking. I'm more alive than I've felt in years. And beneath the buzz, the guilt is already stirring, coiling in my chest like smoke.

I push it down. Not now. Not yet.

I watch him on the screen, lying in his spare room, and I think about the next time. The real time. When there's no glass between us.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his voice softer now, the edge worn off.

I trace the edge of the lace on my hip, watching my finger move. "How different this is. From everything."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Different like I don't recognise myself." I pause. "Different like I might be becoming someone I like more."

He doesn't answer straight away. His hand rests on his stomach, fingers splayed, the come drying on his skin. I watch the rise and fall of his chest.

"I know what you mean," he says finally. "I've been walking around for weeks feeling like I'm seventeen again. Like everything's possible. Like I haven't already made all my choices."

"You have made your choices."

"I know." He looks at the ceiling. "But I keep thinking—what if I could unmake one of them? Just one. What would that look like?"

The question hangs between us, heavy and unanswerable. I don't ask which choice he means. I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"I should clean up," I say, though I don't move. "Before the evidence dries and I have to explain to Sam why I'm walking around in stiff lace."

He laughs, that warm sound again. "Go. I need to shower too. Ben gets pissy if I'm late to the school gate."

"Bradley."

"Yeah?"

I open my mouth. Close it. The words I swallowed earlier press against my throat, but I still can't let them out. Instead I say, "Thank you. For this. For not making me feel dirty about it."

"Laura." His voice drops, serious. "You're the least dirty thing in my life. You're the only thing that feels clean."

I press my lips together, feeling the sting behind my eyes. I blink it away.

"I'll text you later," I manage. "After the play. Tell me how it goes."

"I will." He hesitates, then adds, "Laura. This was—"

"I know."

"Yeah." He smiles, tired and fond. "Bye, Laura."

"Bye, Bradley."

The screen goes dark. I stare at my reflection in the black glass for a long moment, then set the phone down.

I peel myself off the bed, the lace clinging to damp skin. In the bathroom, I step out of the bodysuit carefully, hang it over the shower rail to dry. The stockings follow. I stand in front of the mirror, naked, and look at the woman who just did what I did.

There's a flush on my chest, spreading up to the floral tattoo. My eyes are bright. My lips are swollen from biting them. I look, I realise, like someone who has been thoroughly, completely fucked.

I turn on the shower and step under the hot spray. The water runs down my body, carrying the evidence away. But the feeling stays—that electric hum under my skin, that sense of having been seen down to the bone.

I wash slowly, deliberately. My hand drifts between my legs and I'm still sensitive, still aching. I let the water hit me and close my eyes, and I'm not thinking about Sam, or Emma, or the life waiting for me downstairs. I'm thinking about Bradley's voice in my ear, telling me I'm his.

When I step out, I wrap myself in a towel and sit on the edge of the bath. My phone buzzes from the bedroom. I don't rush to check it. I already know it's him.

I let myself sit in the quiet for another minute, feeling the weight of what I've done settle into my bones. The guilt is there, patient, waiting for the high to fade. But the high is still here, pulsing through me like a second heartbeat.

I walk back to the bedroom and pick up my phone.

Bradley: Miss you already.

I smile, alone in the quiet house, and type back.

Me: I know. Me too.

I send it, then I pull on my dressing gown and go downstairs to make tea, to wait for my husband to come home, to pretend that my whole world hasn't tilted off its axis in a single afternoon.