Chapter 22

We were on the outs. He never handled the household chores right and left everything a damn mess. Me, with my thing for order and spotless everything, I couldn’t hack the sloppiness. The fight got ugly, and for three days we hardly said a word. The house hung heavy with this thick, tense quiet. But that Saturday morning, he came up with this unexpected, kinda sweet way to break the ice and pull us back together.

Still half-asleep, I stayed put in bed. The spot next to me was empty and cold, meaning he’d been up for a bit. I wasn’t about to call out for him; pride and that lingering hurt were still yelling loud. I just lay there, shaking off the sleep from my limbs, until I heard noises drifting in from the kitchen.

It was sounds of stuff getting done: drawers sliding open and shut, dishes getting stacked, water running in the sink. Cutting through it all, his voice shattered the quiet:

“Babe, where’s the detergent?”

That was our pattern. We’d argue, spend days with long faces, and then he’d try to make nice somehow. But deep down, I knew the score: those changes never stuck. The gestures, sweet as they seemed, always fizzled out small and half-assed.

I dragged myself up slow, with that defeated vibe of someone who knows the day’s off to a shitty start. I stretched out on the edge of the bed, muscles still weighed down by sleep, and yanked my hair back quick with a scrunchie. No rush, I slipped on my flip-flops, straightened my thin sleep shirt, and headed for the kitchen, geared up to chew him out. It wasn’t like him to finish what he started anyway.

But when I stepped through the doorway, my pissed-off mood got derailed in this almost funny way. There he was, looking a little clumsy but giving it his all. Young, ripped muscles popping with every move he made, he had on just this ugly floral apron that hardly covered jack shit, his package swelling up under it, and his strong back out in the open showing off a round, soft ass. The whole thing caught me so off guard that a laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

“What the hell is this? Why are you buck naked cleaning the kitchen?”

I asked, trying to play mad, but the grin tugging at my lips gave me away.

He spun around, putting on this innocent act, dish towel clutched in one hand and that sly grin flashing his bright teeth. The apron snagged my stare — it looked even tinier up close from the front. I fought to keep straight-faced, but my eyes wandered over that body of his, familiar as hell but still turning heads every time.

“I figured it’d be a way to make you happy.”

He said, that half-smirk mixing sweet and teasing.

I folded my arms, planted at the door like I was pissed. Truth was, some other spark had already snuffed out most of the anger from earlier. It wasn’t just the awkward try, but the real effort he was throwing into it, even if he had no clue what he was doing.

“You aiming to be my little maid now?”

I teased, arms still crossed, fighting to hold onto the serious look.

He just chuckled, all chill, like this was no big deal. Sweat gleamed on his tan skin, and with the muggy morning heat, the day was gonna be a scorcher. Droplets slid slow down his face, tracing his jaw and those sharp features that always hooked me.

“You’re already all sweaty.”

I said, rolling my eyes.

“Wipe that face off, but don’t use the dish towel!”

He glanced around for something to grab, came up empty. Then, without overthinking, he hiked up the apron to his forehead and dabbed at himself with it. That easy, no-fucks-given move hit me harder than I expected.

Under the fabric he lifted, there was that body I knew inside out. My mouth parted a bit, without me even realizing, as my gaze dropped to what he’d just uncovered. Hanging below the apron was the cock that had filled me up and driven me wild so many times. Even soft, it was a sight — a blend of power and silkiness, with those groomed lines making it straight-up mesmerizing. It was thick, packing a solid girth even at rest, all in this smooth light caramel tone, shaved clean without a hair in sight. No foreskin hid the pink head, looking like some fat gem dangling off the shaft. It was like ripe fruit begging to be plucked by anyone watching. His balls hung below, framing it perfect, putting together one hell of a male package.

I swallowed hard, hiding the flush creeping up my cheeks and the ache starting to throb low in my gut. Pride wanted to keep up the front, but my pulse and skin were already shifting gears.

Yesterday’s dishes sat neat in the drainer, sparkling clean, while the sink stayed damp from his fresh work. My eyes scanned it all on autopilot, and damn if it didn’t look straight. Still, handing out props for basic shit? No way.

“Now, little maid,”

I said, eyebrow cocked, tone dripping with tease on purpose,

“grab that squeegee and dry off that wet sink — we don’t want anything wet around here!”

I crossed my arms again, waiting for him to jump to it, a smirk sneaking in with the fake sternness. If he was out to make amends, he was seeing this through.

As he turned his back to me, my eyes locked on how his body moved, all natural flow. That ass of his, sculpted just right, put on a show with every shift or bend. His skin had these faint tan lines from swim trunks, marking exactly where the sun had hit his flawless curves. Like his body held onto memories of hot beach days, no scars or nothing else marring it.

The way he leaned in was straight-up sabotage on my self-control. Every flex of muscle, every offhand motion, lit a fire in me I couldn’t stamp out. I stared, locked in, as heat bloomed through my body like a fever grip, thick and unavoidable.

Between my thighs, the want throbbed — not some light fancy, but a deep crave spreading out, hitting me with hot, slick waves. I was soaked, giving in to the urge that hit without asking. My legs squeezed tight, like they could trap the building buzz starting right there, my senses cranked up — each breath, each heartbeat hitting different, sharper.

My tits went hard against the fabric brushing them, so sensitive it felt like they were begging for a touch I wouldn’t risk. Sweet agony spiraled up my skin. Never thought something this everyday — him just wiping down the sink — could drag me under like this, total give-in to lust. But here I was, breathing deep, clawing for any hold on myself, while he made the boring into this show that stripped me bare.