31. Graham
31
GRAHAM
The house is quiet, save for the soft hum of my monitors and the rhythmic clicking of my keyboard. My office is dimly lit, the glow of multiple screens casting sharp angles across the room. The whiteboard is covered in notes, arrows scrawled between district names, financial ledgers, and lines of fragmented code.
I exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I cross-check the ransomware attack patterns from North Cape School District and Glendale River School District against my database of known hackers. It’s a slow, methodical process—tracking digital signatures, tracing IP addresses that don’t want to be found.
The attacks on North Cape and Glendale River followed an eerily similar playbook. Both received phishing attempts in the weeks before. Both were hit fast, their networks locked down with demands for cryptocurrency ransoms.
Two is a coincidence. But what if there are more? This could be an emerging pattern, a new player on the board.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
No, that doesn’t track. The signatures aren’t the same. They’re similar, like cousins. But if it was the same person, they’d be identical.
Unless they’re sloppy.
I adjust some parameters on Sentinel and Oracle and run it against my personal database of established hackers and signatures.
I stare at the screen, watching the code scroll by as the search runs. Minutes tick by, the cursor blinking as it combs through terabytes of data.
The logical part of my brain is locked in, waiting for the data to untangle this puzzle.
But the other part of my brain? It’s shouting at me. To step away from my desk, to cross the hall, to beg my wife to give me a front-row seat to a repeat performance.
I roll my shoulders, force my focus back to the monitor. Numbers. Signatures. Patterns. Not Francesca. Not the way she gasped my name last night.
The search continues, a code flashing across my screen. My eyes scan the first few lines, my mind processing the patterns with the same efficiency I’ve always relied on.
But then there’s a soft shift in the security feed. I should ignore it, keep working. The cameras are there for security. A precaution. But my gaze flicks left before I can stop it.
And there she is.
I shift in my chair, my sweatpants growing uncomfortably tight. I steal a glance at the monitor on my left, a split screen of her bedroom and her bathroom.
She’s lying on her bed, candles lit around the room casting a soft, flickering glow across her delicate features. Romeo is curled up in his crate in the closet, softly snoring, I’m sure.
She’s engrossed in her kindle, eyes scanning the screen as she loses herself in the world of the story. One hand absently twirls the ends of her hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers like water. The candlelight catches on the golden highlights, making her hair shimmer as it cascades over her shoulders.
She’s been like that for hours now. She once told me binge-reading romance novels should be a national sport. Something about a twenty-four-hour readathon.
I glance at the program, making sure it’s still running and hasn’t hit any snags. But my eyes are continually drawn back to the security feed of my wife’s room. The sight of her, so soft and relaxed, completely absorbed in her book, it tugs at something deep inside my chest.
An idea begins to form, teasing the edges of my mind. This is probably a terrible idea, surely some kind of invasion of her privacy.
But before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers are flying across the keyboard. I download the app and open up a new window in Sentinel to access her account through a tiny window in the code. It takes me less than a minute to bypass the security measures, login, and see her kindle library.
She’s currently sixty-seven percent through book two of a dark mafia why choose romance series. I don’t think I even know what that means.
I scan the titles in her library, intrigue arching my brows with each one. I wonder what kind of books my sunshine wife stays up reading all night.
Curiosity pricks against my skin, and I open book one in the current series she’s reading. It opens to the last page, and I drag the slider at the bottom of the screen back to the one percentage point.
My wife highlighted the dedication.
for my grandma + grandpa
who were unfazed by the spice and read every single book—several times
this one is for you.
My cursor hovers over the highlight, and a note pops up. It’s just the laughing emoji.
Well, now I’m really curious. I click on the annotations icon, and the screen fills with every page she bookmarked and every line she highlighted. I scroll through them, pausing to read a few.
He kisses me like he’s running out of air. Like the next hour, the next minute isn’t guaranteed, and this is how he wants to spend it.
I exhale through my nose.
“And in another life, I would’ve made you my queen. I would’ve dragged you back to my place and worshiped you until you begged me to stop.”
My fingers tighten around the mouse.
“I’ll do more than tease you. I’m going to ruin you for everyone else.”
I shift in my seat.
“I swear to god, you better be okay when I get there, or I’m going to burn the city down in retribution.”
I scroll further, eyes narrowing at a personal note she left beneath one passage. Your honor, I love him. The longing, the tension, the way he fights for her. Perfection.
A muscle jumps in my jaw.
I should close out of this, get back to work.
Instead, my gaze flickers to the security feed on my side monitor. The camera isn’t invasive. It’s just there. A precaution. Something she knows about, something she encouraged me to watch.
“Get back to work,” I command myself.
But I can't, because my wife just reached into her nightstand and pulled out a toy.
I stare at the security feed, unable to look away as Francesca trails the toy down the column of her neck, over her collarbone, disappearing beneath the hem of her thin camisole. Her back arches off the bed, head tipping back against the pillows. Even through the camera, I can see the flush blooming across her skin, the way her lips part on a silent moan.
My cock throbs, straining against the confines of my sweatpants. I palm myself through the fabric, eyes glued to the screen as Francesca’s hand slips the straps from her shoulders, exposing those perfect tits. My mouth waters with the need to taste them. To nip and tug, to lave and suck.
She looks right at the camera as she tosses the comforter off her legs, exposing her pretty pussy to me. For me.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I watch Francesca on the security feed, her legs parting as she trails the toy lower, sealing it over her clit. Her hips lift off the bed almost instantly, and I have an idea what kind of toy she’s using. I can practically hear the breathy little moans spilling from her lips, the ones I’ve already memorized.
She’s putting on a show for me. My beautiful, brilliant wife is touching herself, knowing I’m watching. Wanting me to watch. The thought makes my cock ache.
She sighs, shifting against the pillows, and her camisole down her shoulder, baring more of that smooth, golden skin.
I exhale through my nose. My fingers tighten on the mouse.
Just get back to work , I order myself.
But she drags the hem of her camisole higher, barely more than a thin band of fabric around her middle. My jaw flexes. She shifts again, her thighs pressing together, her breath catching just slightly.
I groan low in my throat. I’ve lost this battle already.
I shove down my sweatpants, just enough to free my straining erection. Pre-cum beads at the tip as I wrap my hand around my thick length, stroking in time with the movement of Francesca’s hips rolling.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her perfect tits bouncing with each stuttered breath. So responsive, so eager. Just like she was in my lap.
I stroke faster, feeling that familiar tingle in the base of my spine.
She arches her back off the bed as she works the toy against her clit, her other hand plucking and rolling a pert nipple between her fingers. I can see the desperation building in the undulation of her hips, the quiver of her thighs. She’s chasing her pleasure, lost to sensation, and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.
My hand flies over my cock, matching her rhythm, imagining it’s my fingers pressing against her slick folds, my tongue flicking over that sensitive bundle of nerves. I’d devour her, lick and suck until she was writhing beneath me, until she shattered with my name on her lips.
Her thighs clamp around the toy as her orgasm crashes over her. Even through the camera feed, I can see the way her body tenses and shudders, every muscle pulled taut as pleasure rips through her. And then she mouths my name, and I come harder than I ever have.
“Jesus Christ.”
I drag my other hand over my face with a low groan. I force myself to close the damn window, and shut off the monitors.
But the image is forever burned into my brain.
For the first time in years, I wake up late. It’s already past seven, and my body feels sluggish, weighted down with exhaustion and something else.
After I came all over my hand last night, Francesca went to sleep and I went to work. While I was busy watching my wife, my software finished its data pull. It brought me fifty possible matches. Situations and people and hacks that are just a few lines different from my school district clients.
Cousins not twins.
So I spent hours filtering the data until I could start to make sense of it. But it got too late, my head got hazy and vision blurry.
I drag myself out of bed, muscles protesting the movement. I usually run five miles every morning, but my body feels like it’s been hit by a truck. A gorgeous, brilliant force named Francesca.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself into alertness. It doesn’t work. My reflection stares back at me, eyes bleary and shadowed. I need coffee. And to see my wife.
Not necessarily in that order.
I pad downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and something sweet hitting me as I round the corner into the kitchen. I pause in the entryway, arrested by the sight before me. Francesca stands at the kitchen sink, her profile to me as she tends to the small army of plants lining the windowsill.
But it’s not just the plants that hold me in place. It’s her.
She’s softly singing as she waters them, her voice a sweet, gentle melody that wraps around me like a siren’s call. It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
Something inside me pulls tight, a slow, steady pressure I don’t know how to release. I wasn’t made for this—this warmth, this ease. This . . . softness.
But she was. Francesca moves through my house like it belongs to her, like she belongs here. And maybe she does.
Maybe that should scare the shit out of me. But right now, it just makes the hollow inside my chest feel a little less empty.
She moves through the kitchen into the living room, stopping to sing and water every plant. She’s wearing one of those sleep sets, her hair a mess of loose waves. She’s barefoot, a watering can in one hand, Romeo trotting beside her, trying to lap up the dripping water before it hits the floor.
She lifts the watering can and waters Myrtle, her voice lilting.
I blink.
She turns, still in her own little world, still murmuring soft words of encouragement to the greenery between lyrics.
I’ve never had this in my house before. This quiet hum of life. Something so simple, so completely uncalculated. And it’s hers.
I should make my presence known, say something. Anything, instead of just standing here, watching. But I can’t bring myself to speak, to shatter this perfect, intimate moment. There’s something so peaceful, so achingly domestic about watching Francesca move through our home, tending to her plants and softly singing. It tugs at something deep in my chest, something I’m not ready to examine too closely.
She turns, still lost in her own little world, and startles when she sees me standing in the entryway. The watering can slips from her grasp, clattering to the floor and splashing water over her bare feet.
“Graham! You scared me,” she gasps.
I step forward, an apology already forming on my lips. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She waves off my apology, already bending down to pick up the fallen watering can. “It’s okay, I just didn’t hear you come down.” She straightens up, a soft pink flush coloring her cheeks. “How long were you standing there?”
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Not long enough.”
Her laughter is bright, unguarded. She sets the watering can down, moving toward the kitchen. “Singing is supposed to help them grow.”
“If this actually works, I’m afraid of what you’ll try singing to next.”
Her gaze drags down my chest, pausing on my dick for a beat. “I don’t know, Graham. Does anything else need help growing?”
I bark a laugh, the sound surprising me as much as it does her. It’s loud and unchecked, bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. When was the last time I laughed like that? I can’t remember. But something about Francesca’s playful, flirtatious energy draws it out of me, effortless and unbidden.
She grins at me, eyes sparkling with mischief and something warmer, more intimate. Like we’re sharing a secret joke just between us.
I step closer, my bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor. Romeo pads across the living room, greeting me with forehead bumps to my shins. I crouch down and he wiggles his way closer, resting the top of his head against my chest.
“Fluffy hugs are the best way to start your day, you know,” she muses.
I rest my cheek on his head, dragging both hands through his soft fur. “He’s a good boy.”
Romeo’s tail thumps against the floor, his soft fur tickling my cheek as I hold him close. For a moment, the world narrows down to this simple, perfect thing. The warm weight of him in my arms, the uncomplicated affection he offers so freely. It’s grounding in a way I didn’t know I needed until now.
I glance up at Francesca, finding her watching us with a soft, tender expression that makes my heart stutter in my chest. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter, an iced coffee cradled between her hands.
Now this —this is the best way to start my day.
And just like that, I’m fucked. Because my morning started with Francesca, and now, I don’t want my day to start any other way.