Wednesday morning, I only worked a half-day. My schedule was flexible—so long as the work got done, no one cared when I left. And I made sure it was done, every single time. Even on half days, I still got paid for a full day, which was a luxury I never took for granted.
After shutting my laptop and grabbing my keys, I stopped by
my parents' house. Their longtime cleaner, Maria, had always done an immaculate
job, and today, I needed her more than ever. I kept my place clean—I’m not a
slob—but it was too big to scrub from top to bottom alone in just three hours.
Besides, I had zero patience for dusting all the knick-knacks decorating every
shelf and nook. I’d rather clean a bathroom any day than painstakingly dust
tiny figurines or picture frames. I paid Maria well for her help, grateful as
always to have someone who could handle the details I didn’t want to. I was
deeply appreciative—not just for the work she did, but for the kind, quiet way
she moved through a home. Maria was an awesome person and a better friend.
Today, I didn’t just leave her to it. I stayed and helped
her clean—vacuuming, scrubbing the stovetop, and even wiping down the blinds.
We worked quietly side by side, chatting occasionally, and by the time we were
done, the house sparkled from top to bottom. It smelled fresh, and everything
gleamed.
With the house ready, I ran out again—this time to a liquor
store. I picked up four bottles of wine: two rosés and two reds. Not because I
thought we’d drink them all that night, but because I wanted options—something
light, something deep—and because sometimes the best nights deserve a backup
bottle or two for later. I didn’t know what Randy might be cooking, but I liked
to be prepared. Then, I stopped by a flower stand nearby and filled my backseat
with several bouquets of fresh roses—soft pink, creamy white, classic red, and
warm peach.
Once home, I tucked roses into vases and scattered them
thoughtfully throughout the house—one on the kitchen counter, another by the
hallway table, and the last two? I placed the final two bouquets in each
bedroom. A quiet indulgence. The scent was faint and sweet, just enough to
remind me of spring without overwhelming anything.
Then I got to baking both brownies and cookies. Two trays of
each, cooling on wire racks while I headed to the bathroom for what I liked to
call an "everything shower."
I didn’t rush. I lathered up shaving cream thoroughly, shaved my legs
carefully, making sure every inch was smooth, and took extra time trimming
below, so everything felt just right. I washed and conditioned my hair, letting
the warm water rinse out every last bit of the day’s stress. Then I reached for
my favorite rose-scented body wash—the kind that clings softly to your skin and
makes you feel like you’re wrapped in petals. After toweling off, I massaged on
matching rose-scented body cream, letting my skin soak it in. My skin was soft,
smooth, and fragrant—ready for him.
Next, I blow-dried my hair with curlers in, giving it volume
and bounce. I slipped into a casual summer dress, the kind that felt light but
still showed a little skin. Underneath, delicate lace—matching bra and thong
set, black and sheer enough to tease but elegant. I loved the way it made me
feel: confident, sensual, ready.
The house was ready. Wine glasses out, the table set neatly
for two. The kitchen gleamed, dessert trays tucked under glass covers. Josh
Groban’s voice played softly through the speakers—warm and rich, a constant
presence through the entire night.
When Randy arrived, he carried three grocery bags with an
easy confidence. “I hope you like garlic,” he said as he walked in, setting
down linguine, fresh asparagus, chicken breasts, garlic, olive oil, and a
bottle of white wine I hadn’t even thought to pick up.
“I love garlic,” I told him with a smile, already moving in
close. “You’re speaking my language.”
We shared a smile and a lingering kiss, the kind that
promises the night is just beginning.
The kitchen filled quickly with the warm scent of sizzling
garlic and butter. Randy moved like he owned the space, sautéing chicken,
asparagus, garlic, butter, olive oil, and a few herbs and spices while the
linguine boiled beside him. I poured the wine—our glasses catching the soft
light—then leaned against the counter, watching him. His forearms flexed as he
worked, and when his eyes found mine, he gave a slow, teasing smile.
“Later,” he promised, voice low and thick. “When I’ve earned
it.”
Dinner was slow, unhurried—just the way I liked it. We sat
across from each other. Our feet brushed beneath the table, hands found knees,
and laughter spilled between bites of perfectly cooked linguine. The sweetness
of the brownies and cookies I’d baked earlier lingered on my tongue, but the
real sweetness was in his touch.
“Which one’s sweeter?” he asked, eyes glinting with
challenge as I placed a cookie on his plate, then a brownie.
“Come find out.”
The first time was slow, exploratory—making love like
we hadn’t seen each other in years. We undressed each other in the bedroom,
unhurried, savoring every brush of skin, every new reveal. He kissed my
shoulders, my breasts, my ribs—learning me with his mouth. When he finally slid
inside me, we gasped together, holding still for a moment, just breathing, just
feeling.
Our bodies moved together like a quiet conversation—soft
thrusts, gentle hands, mouths trailing everywhere. My legs wrapped around his
waist and he held me with one arm as the other slid up my back, his fingers
threading into my hair. He whispered my name like it meant everything.
And in that moment, it did. He came in me, screaming my name
The second time was needier, a kind of heated
claiming. We tangled on the floor beside the bed, breathless and laughing,
until he pushed my thighs apart and kissed his way down. His tongue teased me
until I was trembling, begging, and when he came back up to kiss me, I tasted
myself on his lips.
He entered me again, this time harder, deeper, both of us
already desperate. I clung to his shoulders, hips arching, meeting every
movement. His mouth found my throat, my breast, and I shattered underneath him,
moaning into his kiss as he followed me over the edge. He came in me again.
The third time happened after a shower. We were still
damp, steam curling in the air, his chest warm against my back as he pulled me
to him from behind. He kissed my shoulder, then slid inside slowly as we stood in front of the mirror.
His arms wrapped around me, hands roaming over my stomach and
breasts, while his hips rocked into mine in deep, deliberate strokes. Our eyes
met in the mirror. Watching ourselves like that—connected, flushed, moving
together—it was more intimate than anything.
I came with a loud moan, trembling in his arms. He held me
through it, murmuring soft praise in my ear, his own cum following not long
after—deep inside me.
The fourth time was in bed again. He took his time,
fingers exploring every inch of me, lips trailing over every sensitive spot. I
felt worshipped, cherished, devoured. He made love to me with a kind of
reverence, eyes never leaving mine as he moved inside me. My fingers gripped
his back, holding on as wave after wave of pleasure built and broke.
We kissed through it, again and again, like we couldn’t get
enough. He stayed buried in me until we both stilled, breathless and undone.
The fifth time was the sweetest. He pulled me into
his lap, sitting against the headboard, guiding me down onto him as we wrapped
ourselves around each other. The rhythm was slow, sensual. My forehead pressed
to his. Our mouths met softly. I whispered his name against his lips as he held
me close, rocking us through the final waves.
When we collapsed afterward, tangled and aching, he wrapped
his arms around me and didn’t let go. He had cum in me each and every
time.
“I might stay over more often,” he said, voice thick with
sleep and satisfaction.
“You should,” I whispered.
After he fell asleep, I moved quietly around the house. I
collected our glasses, turned off the music, and stood for a long moment in the
hallway, heart still racing from the night’s intensity. Then I slipped out to
the guest bathroom and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. I placed a new
toothbrush, a stick of men’s deodorant, and his favorite body wash inside.
Just in case.
Then I returned to the kitchen, wiping down counters,
washing dishes, and putting away pans until the space gleamed once more,
spotless and ready.
Just in case became more and more certain with every slow
kiss, every soft smile, every night like this.
And the best part? We both had Thursday off. His ex-wife had
the kids after school, so we’d have the house to ourselves.
We planned on staying in bed all day—making love, dozing,
touching, kissing, and making love again.
And after tonight, I already couldn’t wait.
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