Little Miss Cheater

Megan sits on her bed, pissed, heart thumping like a pissed-off rabbit. Some random schmuck just told her that her boyfriend's been sticking it somewhere else. Perfect. She wants payback, quick and dirty, and her brain lands on the messenger himself—Daniel, the boy with the sad face and probably a story full of holes bigger than his common sense. Two wrongs might not make a right, but two bodies grinding together sounds about right enough. She texts him a casual "hey, come over" like she's asking for pizza. He shows up, awkward as ever, some excuse about the rain. She answers the door half-dressed, smell of peach body lotion hitting his nose like a dare. He's inside before she decides whether or not to lock the deadbolt. Clothes tumble. Knees knock furniture. She wraps a hand around his already-ready dick—heat, weight, a slick bead at the tip—and gives one slow pull just to watch his stomach twitch. Daniel grabs her hips, knuckles white, and she guides him into her in one greedy drop. She rides him hard enough that the headboard laughs against drywall; he meets every thrust with a rough palm cupping her ass, squeezing until she gasps. Sweat slips down her spine and pools where their skin sticks together. She rolls onto all fours, and he follows without a word, driving in deep, balls slapping, the sound wet and ridiculous. She presses two fingers to her clit and comes first, thighs trembling, a long moan that turns into a laugh because revenge has never felt so stupid or so good. Daniel grunts, slams, and finishes inside her, hot and sudden, pulling out only to watch the mess drip down her thigh. They sprawl on ruined sheets, breathless. Megan stares at the ceiling, still angry, a little less disappointed. Mission accomplished. End of story.