The guest room incident

Monday afternoon, after getting home from Randy’s, my phone buzzed beside me while I worked from home. His name lit up the screen again.

Randy: How’s work?
Me: Surprisingly productive.
Randy: That’s surprising considering you just sent me a pic of those gorgeous legs.

I smirked and sent another—this time a slightly more suggestive shot, my smooth thighs stretched out beneath the desk.

Me: Still productive?
Randy: Not even pretending anymore.
Me: Good.
Randy: I’ve got that image stuck in my head now. Thinking about what it would feel like if you wrapped those legs around me.
Me: Keep thinking. Tonight, you don’t have to imagine.

Our texts drifted from playful to bold, pushing limits all afternoon. The anticipation settled low in my belly and stayed there.

Later, another message from him:

Randy: Kelsey’s coming over around six to hang with Emma and Max.
Me: Lucky them.
Randy: She said I need to get laid or she’s going to start threatening people ha ha ha.
Me: Smart woman.
Randy: I’m coming over right after she gets there. Hope you’re ready.
Me: Already am.

When he showed up, he stepped inside with Chinese takeout in one hand and two bottles of wine in the other. His eyes were dark with heat.

“I need to eat you before we even think about dinner,” he said, voice low.

I laughed and pulled him toward the kitchen. “Fridge first.”

We slid the food and wine into place, and before I could close the door, he had me backed up against the counter. His hands moved fast, his mouth finding the inside of my thigh like he’d missed me for weeks, not hours.

He dropped to his knees without a word, lifting my leg over his shoulder and my skirt past my hips. I gasped at the first touch of his tongue.

“Already soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’ve been waiting for this all day, haven’t you?”

I nodded, barely able to breathe.

He took his time eating my pussy—teasing, tasting, groaning softly like I was something decadent. By the time I came, legs shaking, he hadn’t even taken his coat off.

Outside, he didn’t give us a chance to cool down. We were on the back deck within minutes, the night air sharp against my skin. He lifted me easily, pressing me back against the railing as he entered me hard and fast.

“Say my name,” he demanded, teeth grazing my neck.

“Randy,” I moaned, clutching at him.

“Louder.”

“Randy,” I gasped, nearly crying out into the night.

“Mine,” he growled, his rhythm relentless.

“Yes,” I whispered fiercely. “Yours.”

It was urgent and wild, the kind of release that left us both a little unsteady. We collapsed against each other, breathless in the cool night air.

Back inside, we half-dressed, laughing as we reheated the food. We curled up on the couch, wine poured, food in our laps, some movie playing in the background that neither of us bothered to follow.

“You planned all this,” I said, smirking over my glass.

He shrugged, clearly proud of himself. “Not sorry.”

The couch didn’t keep us apart long. We barely made it to the bedroom before we were tangled again—mouths searching, hands pulling clothes aside instead of removing them properly.

He pushed me onto the bed, kissing his way down until I was squirming. His fingers slid inside slowly, coaxing, curling. His mouth followed, unhurried and focused.

“You’re gonna kill me,” I breathed.

“Not until I’m done with you,” he said, voice low.

And then I couldn’t say anything at all.

Later, in the guest room, he took me from behind, his grip tight on my hips as he moved with purpose. The headboard thumped hard against the wall with each thrust. Louder. Louder. Until—

CRACK.

The whole thing shifted beneath us, the wood splintering audibly.

We froze. I blinked. “Not another headboard!”

He burst out laughing, breathless, still buried deep inside me.

“I’ll buy the next one reinforced,” he muttered.

“Or just install handles.”

We collapsed into the pillows, still laughing, limbs tangled, my body aching in the most satisfying way.

We found the kitchen next—hands on countertops, hips bumping cabinet doors. He bent me forward, one hand steadying me, the other exploring slowly, thoroughly.

“Could do this all night,” he muttered.

“You just might,” I said breathlessly.

The shower was steamy and wordless. He backed me against the tile wall, water cascading around us as he moved inside me again. Slower this time, but still hungry. His hands roamed everywhere—steady, reverent, claiming.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“You,” I moaned. “Only you.”

Tuesday morning, he woke me early by slipping beneath the sheets and sliding his hard dick into me, warm and hard and sure. We moved slowly at first, then faster as the urgency took over. No words, just breath and heat and the quiet intimacy of waking wrapped in someone you want.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets for a while, reluctant to start the day. Another quick shower—hands kept mostly to ourselves this time—before we dressed and went our separate ways.

All day Tuesday, our texts flared up again between meetings and phone calls.

Randy: Can’t concentrate. Still thinking about last night.
Me: I’m sore in all the right places.
Randy: Good. I want you to feel me for days.
Me: You’re not making it easy to focus, you know.
Randy: Bet you’re thinking about the deck.
Me: The kitchen. The shower. Your mouth. Your hands. All of it.
Randy: I want more. But tomorrow—I want to change the pace.

That caught my attention.

Me: Oh?
Randy: I want to make you dinner. Just us. No rush. No distractions.
Me: You already know every part of me.
Randy: Not like I want to. I want to know what makes you laugh, what makes you quiet. I want the space to go slow.
Me: You’re serious.
Randy: Very. After dinner, I want to take my time with you. No rushing. Just passion; making love. I want to feel every second of it.
Me: Then I’ll bake us dessert.
Randy: You in the kitchen, in nothing but an apron, smelling like chocolate and sugar? Dangerous.
Me: You have no idea.
Randy: Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

I flushed, smiling like a teenager. A different kind of heat built in my chest—warm, unhurried, real.

The thing was—I didn’t even like kids. I didn’t want them. Didn’t get them. But when Randy talked about his, I nodded like I did. Feigned interest. Asked the right questions. Smiled like the idea of Emma’s soccer game or Max’s obsession with dinosaurs lit me up.

It didn’t. Not even close.

But he did.

And the way he spoke about them—with reverence, with hope, with weight—that mattered to me. Even if I’d never be the bedtime-story type.

Earlier, when we talked about Kelsey, I understood even more.

“She’s their rock,” he said one night, quiet over dinner at the diner the other night. “My ex… she didn’t care for my sister or my mom. Thought they were ‘too much.’ But after the divorce, the only women Emma and Max wanted around – besides their mom - were Kelsey and my mom. That bond? I’m not taking it from them.”

He reached across the table and took my hand that night. “You’ve given me more meaning. You gave me a reason to keep that family connection strong. They trust her. And they should. I want them to grow up surrounded by women who love them and show up. You’ve become one of them too.”

And that—more than any touch or teasing—was what stayed with me longest.

This evening, after work, I’ll stop at the store on the way home. My cart was simple: a toothbrush, men’s deodorant, and a bottle of body wash I knew he used.

Small things. Subtle things.

But they meant: Come back. Stay the night. Stay more than the night.

They meant: You have space here, if you want it.

And I had no doubt that he would.