House Call

I wasn’t expecting him. Not today. Not before noon.

But there he was—at my door, casual and unhurried, in a black t-shirt that clung to his chest like it had been painted on. His jeans rode low, one hand in his pocket, the other braced against the doorframe like he’d claimed the space—and me—with just a glance.

“I thought I’d follow up,” he said, his voice a lazy rasp, threaded with something darker. “See how my favorite patient’s recovering.”

He didn’t wait for an invitation. The moment I stepped aside, he walked in like he owned the place, the door shutting behind him with a quiet finality. His hands were on me before I could speak—thumb grazing my jaw, palm flattening against my lower back as he pulled me in and took my mouth with his.

There was nothing tentative in him. He kissed like a man with unfinished business, and I melted into it, already gone.

He backed me against the hallway wall and lifted my sleep shirt, dragging his knuckles down the inside of my thighs as he dropped to his knees. His mouth was on me before I could catch my breath—devouring, relentless, his tongue moving with sinful precision. I came fast, too fast, writhing against the wall as his hands held me still and his groan vibrated straight through my core.

My legs gave out. He caught me.

He carried me to the couch, dropped me onto the cushions like I was weightless, then stripped me bare with rough hands. There was no ceremony. Just heat. Just him, skin to skin, hot and demanding.

He slid into me in one deep, unforgiving thrust—thick and full, every inch claimed with a growl against my throat. My breath caught. My nails dug into his back. He didn’t pause, didn’t ask if I could take it. He already knew.

“You really thought I was done with you?” he whispered, hips rolling slow and devastating. “That I’d let you walk out of that hospital without keeping part of you?”

He owned me, right there. Every drag, every thrust, every twist of his hips pulled sounds from me I didn’t recognize—raw, broken, wrecked.

And he didn’t stop.

He turned me over on the couch, pulled me to the edge, and took me again from behind, one hand buried in my hair, the other gripping my hip like he was staking his claim. He bent low to growl filth in my ear, his rhythm punishing but precise, driving me closer to the edge every time.

Later, he had me in the kitchen—bent over the counter, the cool surface stark against my fevered skin as he pushed into me again, rougher this time, chasing something primal. My legs trembled. The fruit bowl hit the floor and shattered. Neither of us flinched.

At some point, I dropped to my knees. Needed to taste him. Feel his dominance there too. He threaded his fingers through my hair and guided me with control that was both ruthless and reverent. When he released, it was with a sound that shook through me—and I took all of it, eyes locked on his as I swallowed, proud of the wreck he’d become.

And then he pulled me back up. Laid me out on the bed like a feast. Entered me again—this time slower, deeper, more deliberate. His hands roamed, his voice low as he whispered how tight I was, how good I felt, how badly he wanted to stay buried inside me forever.

We didn’t speak much after that. There were only sounds—the rhythm of skin on skin, the gasps, the growls, the shattered moans and the screams of pleasure echoing through the house like music.

By the time he was done, my body ached in the best possible way—raw, stretched, completely spent. I was filled with his cum. I was marked. Claimed. Not just once, not just in one place—but everywhere.

And still, he stayed. Resting beside me, his fingers idly tracing patterns across my thigh, his smirk lazy and satisfied.

“I’ll check on you again tomorrow,” he said, brushing his mouth over my shoulder. “For recovery purposes.”

I didn’t argue. I was already ruined. And I’d let him do it again in a heartbeat.