Love interrupted

Randy’s text came just after noon on Saturday:

You free tonight? I want to cook for you. My sister’s coming by to take the kids to our parents’ place for the night—so it’ll be just us for dinner.

I said yes before my brain had a chance to catch up with my body.

By evening, I was standing at his door in a fitted red shirt—soft cotton, unbuttoned just low enough to hint at trouble—and a skirt that clung to my hips and floated mid-thigh. No tights. Just bare legs, perfumed skin, and a braid slowly falling loose.

Randy opened the door looking infuriatingly good in dark jeans and a navy polo that hugged his chest and rolled up just enough at the sleeves to show off his arms. His hair was still damp from the shower, and the slow grin he gave me was lethal.

“You clean up dangerous,” he said, stepping back.

“Careful,” I murmured as I passed him, brushing our arms together. “I might think you’re trying to seduce me.”

He didn’t reply right away—just let his eyes roam, heavy and deliberate. Then came headlights.

His sister pulled up in a silver SUV. The kids spilled out of their rooms, bags already lined up by the door. Emma eyed me with something between curiosity and suspicion.
“So you’re the one making Dad all goofy.”
Max blushed and gave me a tiny wave.
Kelsey just laughed. “They’ll come back sugared up and spoiled. You’ve got a whole night.”

As the car pulled away, Randy exhaled and turned to me with a look that was no longer just amused.
“She’s a saint,” he said.

“She might need to be,” I muttered, heat licking beneath my words.

The moment the door shut, the quiet turned electric.

He didn’t hesitate—grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the kitchen, where garlic sizzled and wine already waited. There was bread warming in the oven, a pot boiling, and the air thick with steam and something unspoken.

We cooked together, danced around each other in narrow spaces, brushed too close on purpose. He fed me a bite from a spoon, watching my lips as I slowly licked the sauce.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, stepping close. Our mouths barely apart.

Dinner was creamy fettuccini Alfredo, garlic bread that melted on the tongue, and a salad tossed with something tart and unexpected. We talked. We flirted. We teased each other to the very edge.

After, he suggested dessert out, but I leaned in close and whispered, “I’m already craving something sweet.”

Still, we ended up at a moody little dessert bar. I ordered pavlova. He ordered chocolate mousse. We touched under the table—knees, fingers, slow lingering glances. He stole a bite from my plate. I caught his wrist, then let go too slowly.

“So,” he said, voice low and careful, “this counts as a date?”

“Technically our third,” I said.

He cocked a brow. “You know what they say about the third…”

“I do,” I whispered, “but you’re going to have to prove it.”

Back at his place, the house felt darker. Warmer. Hungrier.

When he closed the door, he looked at me like he wasn’t going to wait.
“Want to stay?” he asked.

I arched a brow. “You planning to behave?”

“Not even a little.”

I didn’t answer with words—I stepped into him, kissed him hard. His hands slid under my shirt. I pulled at his belt. Everything unraveled quickly.

We didn’t even make it to the bedroom the first time.

He bent me over the kitchen counter, lifted my skirt, dragged my panties down, and pressed into me with one long, deliberate thrust. I cried out—half-shocked, half-starved for it—and clutched the edge of the counter as he moved inside me, rough and relentless.

When we finally made it to the bedroom, we took our time. Clothes hit the floor in a trail. He pushed me onto the bed, slid his mouth between my legs, and stayed there until my thighs were shaking. Then he flipped me over, kissed the back of my neck, and took me again—deep, slow, every thrust laced with need and heat and something dangerously close to possession.

We didn’t stop at once. Or twice.

We dozed and stirred, touched and tangled again. He whispered things in the dark—how good I felt, how long he’d wanted this, how he wasn’t letting go. And when he pushed into me that last time, slow and thick and full, I reached for him and pulled him down until our foreheads touched and we came undone together.

He kissed me like it meant something. I let him.

---

Sunday morning was quiet and golden.
He brought coffee to the bed just like he promised. I wore nothing but his shirt, curled against the pillows, already halfway falling back asleep when my phone buzzed.

Thinking it was my brother, I picked it up without looking.

“’Llo?”

“Hey,” came the voice I hadn’t expected. Vic.

I froze. “Vic?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

Before I could say anything else, I felt Randy’s presence—bare-chested, holding two mugs of coffee, standing in the doorway.

He heard the name. His whole body went rigid.

“Seriously?” he said, voice like stone.

I panicked. “Wait—Randy—”

He turned and walked away. No slam. No curse. Just the sharp silence of something that cracked too fast.

I ended the call. Fast. Cold. Regret settled in my bones.

I got dressed slowly, moving like my limbs weighed double. In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, stared at myself and wished I’d thought twice.

Back in the kitchen, he stood alone, arms folded, coffee cooling on the counter.

“Randy,” I said, my voice small.

He didn’t look up.

“I didn’t mean to answer it. It was instinct. Habit. I hung up as soon as I realized.”

He turned, finally, eyes hard. “You’re still answering his calls?”

“Not on purpose. I swear. I’m here. With you. Doesn’t that mean something?”

A long pause. Then: “I’m not going to fight for a spot I haven’t even been offered yet. But I’m not going to be the backup plan either.”

“You’re not,” I said, voice breaking. “You’re more than that.”

Silence thickened between us.

And then he moved.

One step. Two. He was in front of me, hands gripping my face, mouth crashing against mine. The kiss wasn’t soft—it was a demand. A challenge.

I melted into him anyway.

He lifted me onto the counter again, hips grinding against me, hands everywhere. I wrapped my legs around him, breath hot, and wanted - surging all over again.

We didn’t make it to the bed this time. He took me right there, fast and filthy. Then again in the hallway. Then again—finally—in bed, slower, deeper, rough with emotion neither of us wanted to name.

He came inside me with a desperate grunt, face buried in my hair. I arched into him, crying out, still trembling when I heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening.

“Dad!” Emma and Max’s voices rang through the house seconds later.

Randy’s eyes flew open.

“Shit,” he breathed, yanking on his clothes, heart in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

I scrambled too, slipping my shirt and skirt on over bare skin, grabbing my bag and phone.

From the window (first floor), I saw the narrow ledge. A stupid, risky way out—but I wasn’t going to be there when his kids walked in. Not like this.

I opened the window, climbed out into the morning, skirt fluttering, panties and bra shoved in my purse, heart still pounding from the aftermath.

It would be awkward to see them all in church in less than an hour. But I’d made my choice.

Sometimes escape isn’t a sprint.
It’s a breath. A window. A quiet goodbye.