Forbidden Fruit

A love-debt, a bad idea, and Eden after dark

Some fruit looks sweetest in the dark.

We met Amber at the same time—Patrick and I—on a night when Eden lived up to its name. Strobe lights, cheap fog, bass heavy enough to rattle ribs. She was with two friends, we were out for a guys’ night, and two dumb forces collided on the dance floor like that was the plan all along.

Out of the three, Amber was the one. Dark curls that refused to behave, a mouth made for trouble, freckles dusted across her collarbones like someone shook cinnamon there. She had the look, the attitude, that something that snaps your attention like fingers in a quiet room. I felt it. Patrick felt it. Chemistry crackled—two parts me, one part Patrick.

One night out became two, then three. By that math, a triangle drew itself. She leaned into the attention, flirting with both of us just enough to make it hot—and uncomfortable.

Patrick had been my best friend since forever, but this… whatever it was… started shaking the bedrock. We finally talked.

“Dustin, you have to let me have this one,” Patrick said.

“I don’t have to do shit but grow old and die.”

“You owe me.”

“Don’t pull that card.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got, so I’m playing it.”

“Fuck, man. Really?”

“I really like her. I’ve never met anyone like her, and I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. So yeah, I’m tossing in my chip.”

That chip was my life. Not figurative—literal. Car wreck. Fire. Someone dragged Patrick out, but I was pinned. When the flames popped, the good Samaritans lost their nerve. Pat didn’t. He went back in. The interior flashed as he yanked me free. I can still feel the heat when I think about it.

“I’ll never ask you for anything again,” he said. “Give me Amber, and we’re even.”

“Okay… okay. But if it doesn’t work out—if you break up, if she dumps you—then all bets are off. I move in immediately. Deal?”

“Yeah. If I fuck it up, she’s all yours. Deal.”

We did the handshake we’d done since we were kids—the one that meant something.

Back then I thought: she’ll be mine in a month.

It’s been five years. They’ve been married for three of them.

The girl from Eden turned into forbidden fruit. No matter how much I wanted a taste, she was out of reach.

Maybe that was for the best. Patrick was the stable one. I was the bad idea people liked but didn’t bet futures on. He worked hard; I played hard. Two different paths. Amber was better off with him. That’s what I told myself.

We were all still best friends. Thursdays were ours—takeout cartons and trash talk over Mario Kart, the three of us yelling at the same screen like kids. I stood beside him as best man, and Amber still knocked the air out of my lungs every time I saw her.

Forbidden fruit, I’d whisper to myself whenever our eyes locked and that old spark—real or imagined—jumped the gap.

So when Patrick was away on business and Amber got spooked by someone in the backyard, everyone but me thought it was a great idea that I play watchdog.

“Hey, Dustin.”

“What’s up, Pat?”

“This is short notice, but Amber thought she saw someone in the yard last night.”

“Did the cameras pick up anything?”

“Motion sensor tripped, but nothing on the feed. She’s pretty shaken. There’s been a rash of break‑ins, and she doesn’t trust the system.”

“How can I help?”

“Would you crash in the guest room tonight? I’ll be home tomorrow evening. It would make her feel better if someone else was in the house.”

I was already saying yes before caution had a chance to weigh in.

“Yeah, man. No problem. I’ll house‑sit your wife.”

“Great. She said she’ll make your favorite. I owe you, buddy.”

I winced at that—owed didn’t sit right anymore—but I kept it out of my voice.

“Tell her I’ll be there around six‑thirty.”

The line went dead. I let out a long breath.

Forbidden fruit.

I pulled up at 6:45 because I can’t be on time if my life depends on it. The porch light threw soft gold over everything, and the house smelled like butter and onions before I even knocked. Amber opened the door. That smile—the one she knows drives me insane—lit up.

“Well, my knight in shining armor. Here to protect little old me?”

She wore a casual dress—soft ribbed cotton the color of red wine, thin straps, hem brushing mid‑thigh. Bare feet, chipped black polish on the toes. The fabric clung like it had a crush and swayed when she moved. I grabbed my overnight bag, got the hug that said you’re nothing more than my husband’s best friend, and stepped inside. Warm skin, a whisper of citrus shampoo and something floral I couldn’t name—enough to fog good judgment.

“It was probably a cat,” I said, trying not to stare at the way the dress shaped her—curve at the hip, the small of her back, the constellation of freckles across her chest that my eyes kept finding like they’d been mapped for me.

“Then you’ve got a fifty‑fifty chance of winning the fight if it gets in.”

“Haven’t met a pussy I couldn’t beat.” The words jumped out before I could snatch them back.

Amber paused, glanced over her shoulder, smile sharpening, eyes bright. “Is that right?”

Forbidden fruit, I muttered, and changed the subject. “What’s to eat? I’m starving.”

“Your favorite—meatloaf, mac and cheese, salad…” The kitchen was a warm heartbeat: oven ticking, gravy burbling low, steam fogging the window over the sink.

“Brown gravy?” I was already drooling.

“Of course. What kind of housewife do you think I am?”

She drifted toward the kitchen and the dress whispered against her thighs. My eyes followed the sway she couldn’t help. When she turned the corner, I swear she caught me. I adjusted like that would fix anything. Maybe I failed.

That’s how the night went—little slips like that. The house hummed—ice clinking in a glass, the air‑con kicking on, the soft scrape of her bracelets when she set plates down—and the line kept blurring in everyday conversation with my best friend’s wife.

When I whispered forbidden fruit again, trying to reel myself in, Amber caught it with her teeth.

“You keep calling me that. Forbidden fruit. What’s that about?”

“What? No… I—”

“You’ve said it at least four times tonight. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, just never this many. Why am I forbidden fruit, Dustin?”

A mess of emotions flashed across my face—heat, guilt, want. I probably looked like a kaleidoscope.

“Wow. All that?” She sat on the couch, impossibly close. “Why am I forbidden fruit, Dustin?”

“You’re my best friend’s wife.”

She laughed, like that answered nothing. “Yes, but for something to be forbidden, it has to be wanted.” She leaned in. “Do you want me, Dustin?”

Too close.

Every cell in my brain said lie, so when the truth came out it shocked me too. “I’ve wanted you since the day I saw you. But Patrick wanted you more.”

That landed. For a second I saw something like disappointment.

“So what—you gave up? Flip a coin? Arm‑wrestle for me?”

I was already in deep. “He tossed in his marker. I stepped back.”

“Marker? What does that even mean?” Heat in her voice now; the idea of being bargained for didn’t sit well.

So I told her: the wreck, the fire, how Pat went back in when everyone else froze. How we’d been friends since forever, and that bond outran self‑preservation.

“Bros before hoes,” Amber said, dry.

“Look, it’s not like I wanted to.”

She thought about it—really thought—like a mystery finally clicking into place. “No, it makes sense. I always wondered why you just… stopped. I knew it wasn’t me playing you two against each other. I just figured you—being you—wouldn’t have given me up.”

“I didn’t give you up. I let him win. There’s a difference.”

Her eyes locked on mine; her hand found the back of my knuckles. “It’s romantic, in a stupid way.”

“He really wanted you.”

“I suppose. But what if we hadn’t worked out?”

My brain sounded the alarm again, but the vault was already open. “I’d have been on you the second it happened.”

She pulled her hand back, took a breath that caught, and looked at me like I was about to ignite.

Her phone rang—sharp enough to make us both jump. Patrick. She answered. “Hey, love… yeah, Dustin’s here. Not sure how much good he’s gonna be. He ate so much, the only thing he’ll defend tonight is the toilet.” She winked at me; my heart skipped.

Forbid— I bit the word in half. She smiled, stood, and took the call down the hall.

I decided I’d done enough damage and retreated to the guest room.

In hindsight, I should’ve locked the door.

Because after the call, Amber went into the master, showered, and—while I lay there staring at the ceiling—eased my door open wearing something only a husband should see.

Red lace, black trim. A two‑piece that looked stolen from the dark: balconette bra with thin straps and a small satin knot between the cups, matching panties cut high on the hip with a whisper of sheer along the sides. Damp curls framed her face; a drop of water tracked from her collarbone to the edge of the bra like it knew the way. The fabric wasn’t loud about it—it just fit, like it was designed to make gravity jealous.

“Don’t,” I said.

“Five years, Dustin… five years.”

She stepped into the room and the temperature climbed.

“He’s my best friend.”

“He’s my husband,” she countered, “and yet here we are.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s always been a snake in Eden—for both of us.”

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing us in. The hum of the central air, the distant chirp of crickets—it all faded into a thick, heavy silence broken only by the frantic drum of my own heart. She crossed the room, the red lace a wicked promise against her skin. Every step was a verdict.

“Don’t,” I said again, my voice a strained rasp. It was the last, feeble protest of a man already lost.

She didn’t stop. I should’ve stopped her. She knelt on the floor beside the bed, her eyes never leaving mine. Her fingers, cool from her shower, found the waistband of my boxers. She hooked her thumbs in the fabric. “Five years is a long time to want something, Dustin.”

She pulled my boxers down just enough to free my cock. It was already painfully hard, straining toward her. Fuck. Her warm breath washed over the tip, a ghost of a touch that made my entire body clench. She didn’t touch me with her hands, just looked, her dark eyes drinking me in.

“You’ve thought about this,” she whispered, not a question.

“Every fucking day.”

A slow, wicked smile touched her lips. She leaned in, her mouth hovering an inch away. “Tell me what you thought about.”

“Your mouth. Your fucking perfect mouth.”

That was all the invitation she needed. Her lips parted and she took me in, not all at once, but with a slow, wet glide that stole the air from my lungs. Her tongue pressed hard against the underside of my cock as she sank down, her warmth enveloping me completely. Jesus Christ. My head fell back against the pillow, a guttural sound tearing from my throat.

She set a rhythm that was pure torture—slow, deep sucks followed by a teasing pull back to the tip, her tongue swirling around the head before she plunged down again. She was methodical, relentless, her hands gripping my thighs, holding me in place. I could only watch, mesmerized, as her head bobbed in the dim light, her curls brushing my stomach. She looked up at me, her eyes locked on mine, and the intensity of that connection, the raw fucking intimacy of it, was almost too much.

“Amber…” I groaned, my fingers tangling in her hair. I didn’t guide her, just held on. “You have no idea… how good your fucking mouth feels.”

She moaned around me, the vibration shooting straight to my core. She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips glistening. “I’ve thought about it, too. Wondering if you’d taste like this.” She dipped her head and licked a long, slow stripe from my balls to the tip. “You taste better.”

She took me back into her throat, deeper this time, and I felt the back of her throat open up, accepting me. I was drowning in her, in the wet heat and the obscene, slick sounds filling the quiet room. My hips bucked involuntarily, and she took it, her hands moving to my ass, pulling me deeper into her. I was fucking her face now, and she loved it, her eager moans vibrating through my entire being.

I was close, too close, and this wasn’t how it was going to end. I pulled her up by her hair, gently but firmly. She came up gasping, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed with lust.

“My turn,” I growled, flipping her onto the bed. She landed on her back, laughing breathlessly, her red bra a stark contrast against the pale sheets. I yanked her panties down her legs and tossed them across the room. She was bare beneath me, her cunt glistening, already wet and ready. The scent of her—musky, sweet, entirely her—hit me like a drug.

She opened her legs wider in invitation. “What are you waiting for?”

I wasn’t waiting. I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her wetness. I didn’t push in. I just rubbed myself through her slick folds, watching her face contort with need. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

“Please, Dustin. Please. I need to feel you.”

I thrust into her in one smooth, brutal motion. Her back arched off the bed, a sharp cry ripped from her throat. She was tight, so fucking tight, and hot, clenching around me like a fist. I stayed buried to the hilt, letting us both adjust to the overwhelming sensation of it, of finally.

She wrapped her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my back. “Move. Please move.”

I drove into five years of restraint, setting a punishing pace. Each drive of my hips was a claim, each grunt a prayer. Her nails scraped down my back, surely drawing blood. She met me thrust for thrust, her hips rolling, taking everything I gave her.

“Look at me,” I demanded. Her eyes, dark and wild, found mine. “Why tonight? Why now?”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said,” she panted, her words broken by my rhythm. “That you’d be on me the second you could. I wanted… I needed to know what that felt like. Fuck… right there… don’t stop…”

I shifted, angling deeper, hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back. Her moans became screams, muffled by the pillow she grabbed and bit into. I could feel the coil of my own orgasm tightening, a burning pressure in my balls. I pulled out abruptly.

“Turn over.”

She scrambled onto her hands and knees without a word, presenting herself to me. The sight of her like that, ass in the air, her red bra strap slipping down her shoulder, her pussy dripping—it was the most beautiful, obscene thing I’d ever seen. I positioned myself behind her and plunged back into her wet heat. This angle was deeper, more animalistic. I gripped her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh, and pounded into her. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the room.

I reached around and found her clit, my fingers slick with her wetness. I pressed down, rubbing rough, tight circles that made her entire body jolt. She cried out, a guttural sound that turned into a desperate sob. Her hips bucked against me, rocking back into each thrust as if she couldn’t decide whether to take more of my cock or grind into my hand.

“Fuck, Dustin!” she gasped, her voice breaking. Her inner muscles clenched around me, milking my length with a rhythm that matched the frantic pace of my fingers. “I’m gonna come. I’m—oh God—Dustin.”

Her words unraveled into a moan, low and deep, as her body shuddered violently. Her inside tightened like a vice, gripping me so hard it was almost painful. I kept fucking her, my thrusts relentless, my fingers never letting up on her clit. She came apart beneath me, her cries muffled by the pillow she’d buried her face in. Her legs trembled, her back arched, and her nails clawed at the sheets like she was trying to hold onto something solid in the storm of her orgasm.

“That’s it,” I growled, my voice rough with want. “Take it. Take everything I’m giving you.” Her climax seemed to go on forever, waves of pleasure rolling through her until she was limp, her body quivering with aftershocks. She was panting, her thighs slick with sweat, as I leaned over her, bracing myself on one arm while I kept driving into her. The sound of our bodies meeting was obscenely loud in the quiet room, each slap of skin echoing the rhythm of our shared sin.

She turned her head to look at me, her eyes glazed and unfocused but still burning with need. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Please, don’t stop.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. Every thrust pushed her closer to the edge again, and soon she was shaking beneath me once more, her body tightening as another orgasm rolled through her. I felt it too, the pressure building in my balls, my release coiling low in my gut. My fingers dug into her hips as I fucked her harder, faster, chasing that final, inevitable release.

“I’m coming again,” she whimpered, her voice trembling, as I drove us both over the edge together.

Her orgasm triggered my own. I pulled out just as my release shot across her back, hot stripes painting her skin. I collapsed beside her, spent, gasping for air.

The room was silent except for our ragged breathing. The smell of sex was thick and undeniable. I reached out a trembling hand and traced a line through the mess on her back. She shivered at my touch.

She rolled over to face me, her expression soft, vulnerable. She touched my cheek. “Dustin…”

The weight of what we’d just done crashed down on me. The guilt was a physical blow, a cold knot in my stomach. Patrick. My best friend.

Her smile faded, seeing it in my eyes. “This changes everything,” she whispered.

The house settled around us, a quiet thud from the pipes in the wall. It sounded like a door closing.

A wash of white light bled across the ceiling. The backyard motion sensor.

I was on my feet before thinking, skin still hot, guilt colder. I grabbed nothing, didn’t bother with a shirt, and padded downstairs, careful on the steps, heart kicking against my ribs. The kitchen was a low blue, the sliding glass a mirror of my stupid, naked self.

Outside, the yard glowed like a stage. Something moved by the hedges. I palmed the handle, squinted—ready for anything—and met the unblinking stare of a cat. Gray, bored, tail twitching like it owned the place. It slipped along the fence and vanished. The light hummed on another two seconds, then started its slow fade.

Amber’s bare feet whispered behind me. The bedsheet brushed my calves first, then she stepped into my back and wrapped me up, her chin settling on my shoulder, her breath warm against my ear.

“I don’t want to be forbidden fruit,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not,” I said. “Not anymore.” I swallowed. “But I do feel like the snake.”

We stood there, held together by cotton and consequence, watching our reflections in the glass while the yard went dark again.

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Desire tests loyalty when Eden’s temptation finally comes home to roost.
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