The cigar smoke hangs thick and sweet in the den, curling around the chandelier like it’s trying to cover for what’s already in the air.

Five of David’s friends sit around the poker table. Cards in their hands, ice clinking in heavy glasses. They’re laughing about some golf swing when I walk in barefoot, carrying a tray of fresh beers.

I’ve been starving for this moment for three straight months.

Three months of tiny shorts riding up when I reached for cereal.

Three months of “accidentally” brushing my tits against his arm in the hallway.

Three months of hearing him jerk off through the wall at 2 a.m. while I...