My name is Jake. Twenty-eight years old, married for three years, living in a quiet cul-de-sac where nothing exciting ever happens. My wife, Emily, works long hours at the hospital, so most evenings I’m alone in the garage tinkering with my old Mustang or sitting on the porch with a cold beer. Life is steady. Safe. Boring as hell.
Then the house next door sold.
I was outside washing my truck on a hot Saturday afternoon when the moving truck pulled up. A black SUV followed. The driver’s door opened and out stepped Samantha.
She was forty-two, divorced, and built like every dirty fantasy I never admitted to having. Tall enough to look me in the eye when she wore heels, with thick curves that made my mouth go dry. Heavy, full breasts that strained against the thin white sundress she had on
