Dinner Date

Ryan Ryans moves around her kitchen in a silk blouse, plating the last of tonight’s dinner. Across the room, Danica Dillon shifts on her stool, eyes bright. She slipped away from the kids and the house for this—old friend, easy talk, maybe a little escape. They trade stories. Massage school feels like another lifetime. Ryan laughs, wiping her hands. “Haven’t touched skin in months,” she admits. The risotto still needs time, so she nods toward the long oak table. “Lie down. Let me show you what I remember.” Danica hesitates, then peels off her blouse, her bra, the sheer thigh-highs. She stretches out, bare under the warm kitchen light. Ryan’s palms glide over her shoulders, down the soft curve of her waist, over the swell of her breasts. Every pass lower brings her closer to the neat, shaved line between Danica’s thighs. Danica props herself on an elbow. “That’s probably enough.” Ryan just smiles, thumb brushing the inside of her knee. Another slow stroke, and fingers slip between warm folds. Danica’s breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. Ryan presses two fingers inside, curling, finding the spot that makes Danica’s hips twitch. She works her open with steady, knowing strokes until Danica’s quiet protests turn into soft, helpless sounds. On the table meant for dinner, Ryan gives Danica something her husband never could.