The Edge of Us

I’m Mateo, and I’m sitting in the corner of our dimly lit loft apartment, the kind of place Lena and I poured our savings into—exposed brick, high ceilings, and a view of the city skyline that glitters like a promise. Tonight, though, the view doesn’t matter. My eyes are locked on Lena, my wife of seven years, as she moves across the room, her hips swaying in a black lace dress that clings to her curves like a second skin. She’s pouring wine for Julian, the guy we met two weeks ago, and her laugh—sharp, sultry—cuts through the low hum of the jazz playing on our sound system. My heart’s pounding so hard I swear it’s louder than the music. This was my idea, my fantasy, but now that it’s real, I’m not sure what I feel—fear, arousal, or some fucked-up cocktail of both.

It started as a whisper, a dirty secret I’d buried deep. Lena and I were always open about sex, pushing boundaries in our bedroom with toys, roleplay, whatever kept the spark alive. But last year, after a night of tequila and truth, I let it slip. I told her I wanted to see her with another man. Not just any man—someone who’d fuck her like I never could, someone who’d make her lose herself in a way that’d burn me alive to watch. She froze, her green eyes wide, her lips parted like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or slap me. “Mateo, you’re serious?” she asked, her voice low, testing me. I nodded, my throat tight, my cock already stirring at the thought. She didn’t say much after that, just kissed me hard and changed the subject. But I saw it in her—a flicker of curiosity, maybe even hunger.

Weeks turned into months, and the idea simmered. We’d fuck and I’d whisper about it, painting pictures of her with a stranger, her body writhing under someone else’s hands. She’d moan louder, her nails digging into my back, and I knew she was imagining it too. Finally, she agreed to try. We set up a profile on a discreet site, vetted guys carefully. Julian was the one who stuck. Thirty-four, a personal trainer with a lean, sculpted body and a smirk that screamed trouble. His messages were direct but respectful, and when we met him for drinks, Lena’s cheeks flushed every time he looked at her. He had this way of holding her gaze, like he already knew what she sounded like when she came. I hated how much I liked it.

Tonight’s the night we decided to take the plunge. Julian’s in our home, sitting on our leather couch, his dark hair tousled, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of a tattoo on his chest. Lena’s across from him, her legs crossed, the hem of her dress riding up to reveal a sliver of thigh. I’m in an armchair by the window, a glass of bourbon in my hand, trying to look calm while my pulse races. We’ve got rules: no kissing on the mouth, no penetration unless we all agree, and I get to stop it anytime. But as Lena leans forward, her cleavage spilling against the lace, I’m not sure those rules mean shit anymore.

“Mateo, you good?” she asks, glancing at me, her voice soft but laced with something daring. Her eyes are bright, almost feral, and I nod, my mouth dry. Julian catches the exchange, his lips curling into that fucking smirk. “He’s good,” he says, his voice low, like he’s already claiming her. Lena laughs, tossing her hair, and pours him another glass of wine. Her fingers brush his as she hands it over, and I feel a jolt—jealousy, yeah, but also a heat pooling in my groin. I shift in my seat, trying to hide how hard I’m getting just watching them.

They talk, casual at first—work, music, the city—but there’s an undercurrent, a tension that builds with every glance. Lena’s barefoot now, her heels kicked off, her toes curling against the rug. Julian’s leaning back, one arm draped over the couch, his eyes raking over her like she’s a meal he’s about to devour. “You’ve got a hell of a wife, Mateo,” he says, looking at me for the first time in a while. His tone’s respectful, but there’s a challenge in it, like he’s testing how far I’ll let this go. “I know,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. Lena smiles at me, but it’s quick, almost dismissive, before she turns back to Julian.

She stands, stretching, her dress riding higher. “Wanna dance?” she asks him, her voice playful but thick with intent. The jazz has shifted to something slower, sultrier, and Julian doesn’t hesitate. He’s up, his hand finding her waist as they move to the open space near the windows. I watch, my grip tightening on the glass, as Lena presses herself against him, her hips swaying to the rhythm. His hands slide lower, resting just above her ass, and she doesn’t pull away. Her head tilts back, her throat exposed, and I can see the pulse beating there, fast and alive. My cock twitches, straining against my jeans, and I hate how much I want this.

They’re close now, her body molded to his, her hands on his shoulders. She glances at me, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. “Mateo,” she says, almost a whisper, “you sure?” It’s the last checkpoint, the final chance to pull the plug. My heart’s screaming to stop, but my body’s screaming louder. “Keep going,” I say, my voice hoarse, barely recognizable. Julian’s eyes flick to mine, and there’s a flash of respect, maybe even gratitude, before he turns back to her.

Lena’s hands slide down his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles through his shirt. She’s bold now, unleashed, and I realize this isn’t just for me anymore—it’s for her. She wants this, maybe more than I do. Julian’s hands move to her hips, pulling her closer, and I see the bulge in his pants, obvious and unapologetic. Lena notices too, and her breath catches, a soft sound that hits me like a punch. She grinds against him, slow, deliberate, and I’m fucking mesmerized. My hand’s on my thigh, itching to touch myself, but I hold back, wanting to stay in this moment, to feel every second of it.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Julian murmurs, his lips close to her ear. She shivers, her eyes half-closed, and I can’t tell if she’s performing or lost in it. Maybe both. His hands slide up her sides, grazing the edges of her breasts, and she arches into him, her dress slipping higher. I catch a glimpse of her black lace panties, and my breath hitches. This is real. This is happening. My wife’s about to let another man touch her in ways I thought were mine alone.

They move to the couch, Lena straddling his lap now, her dress bunched around her waist. Julian’s hands are on her thighs, spreading them wider, and she’s grinding against him, her movements slow but hungry. “Fuck, Lena,” he groans, and hearing her name in his mouth sends a spike of jealousy through me, but it’s drowned out by the heat. I’m rock hard, my hand finally giving in, rubbing myself through my jeans. Lena sees me, her eyes locking on mine, and there’s a power in her gaze, a control I didn’t know she had. “You like this, Mateo?” she asks, her voice low, teasing. I can only nod, my throat too tight for words.

Julian’s hands slide under her dress, pushing it up until it’s around her waist. Her panties are soaked, the dark patch visible, and I feel a surge of pride and shame. She’s this wet for him, because of him, and I’m just watching. His fingers hook into the waistband, and he looks at me, waiting for permission. My heart’s a fucking warzone, but I nod, and he pulls them down, slow, deliberate. Lena gasps, her head falling back, and I see her pussy, glistening, exposed. Julian’s fingers graze her, teasing, and she moans, loud and unashamed.

“Tell me what you want,” Julian says, his voice rough, and Lena doesn’t hesitate. “Touch me,” she says, her words a command. His fingers slide inside her, slow at first, then faster, and she’s riding his hand, her moans filling the room. I’m stroking myself now, my jeans unzipped, my cock in my hand, and I don’t care how pathetic it looks. This is what I wanted—to see her like this, wild, untamed, fucked by someone else’s touch.

She’s close, I can tell, her breath coming in sharp gasps, her hips bucking. “Julian, don’t stop,” she begs, and hearing her say his name like that nearly breaks me. But I’m too far gone, my hand moving faster, matching their rhythm. She comes hard, her body shaking, her cry raw and primal. Julian keeps going, drawing it out, and I’m right there with her, my own release hitting me like a freight train, spilling over my hand as I watch my wife unravel for another man.

They slow, Lena collapsing against him, her chest heaving. Julian’s hand is still between her legs, slick with her, and he looks at me, his expression unreadable. “You okay, man?” he asks, and there’s no mockery in it, just a check-in. I nod, wiping my hand on my jeans, my face burning. Lena slides off his lap, her dress falling back into place, and crawls over to me, her eyes soft now, almost tender. “Mateo,” she whispers, kissing me, her lips warm and tasting faintly of wine. It’s not in the rules, but I don’t care. I kiss her back, hard, claiming her even as I feel the weight of what just happened.

Julian stands, adjusting himself, his erection still obvious. “I should go,” he says, respectful but firm. Lena nods, and I’m grateful he’s not pushing for more. We agreed on limits, and he’s honoring them. He grabs his jacket, gives Lena a lingering look, and shakes my hand—firm, no bullshit. “You’ve got something special,” he says, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Lena’s in my lap now, her arms around my neck, her breath warm against my cheek. “Was that what you wanted?” she asks, her voice quiet but searching. I don’t know how to answer. It was everything—hot, dirty, fucking intense—but it’s also cracked something open in me, in us. “Yeah,” I say finally, “but it’s more than that.” She nods, like she gets it, and we sit there, tangled together, the city humming outside.

We don’t talk about it much after that, but things are different. Lena’s bolder now, more assertive in bed, and I’m still chasing that high, that edge we found. Julian texts a week later, asking if we want to meet again. Lena looks at me, her eyes asking the question. I don’t know what I’ll say, but I know we’re not done exploring this. Not yet.