The Other Woman

Tim's mouth was on her neck before she even got her jacket off, Lucy's back hitting the wall of the hallway as she tugged at his belt. "She'll be home in thirty minutes," he muttered against her skin, and Lucy just laughed softly, already wrapping one leg around him. "Then we'll be quick." It was almost mechanical at this point - familiar and practiced, like they'd done this a hundred times before because they had. Tim hitched her up, and Lucy's fingers dug into his shoulders as she guided him exactly where she needed him, no hesitation, no fumbling. She'd stopped feeling guilty months ago; now it just felt like routine, like something built into both their schedules that neither of them questioned anymore. He was rougher than he used to be - less careful, more impatient - and she didn't mind. When he pushed into her she let out a breath that was more relief than surprise, her head falling back against the wall. Twenty-eight minutes, she thought, and then stopped thinking altogether.