The Passion in the Places Between

 In the morning, Andrea was standing at the stove in nothing but one of Doc’s old T-shirts, stirring scrambled eggs while humming along to a jazz record. Doc walked in behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed the back of her neck.

“Careful,” she teased, “I’ve got hot pans going.”

“I’ve got hotter plans,” he murmured into her ear.

Before she could reply, he turned off the burner and spun her around. She gasped as he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, the cool granite a contrast to her warming skin. His hands pushed under the shirt, his mouth following close behind. With one smooth motion, he sank to his knees, pulling her closer to the edge.

“I’m starving,” he whispered, kissing the inside of her thigh, “but not for eggs.”

Later in the day, they’d just come back from a walk with Anthony, who was now deep in his nap. Andrea headed into the bathroom to shower, but before she could close the glass door, Doc slipped in behind her.

Water poured over them, steam curling between bodies. Doc pressed her against the warm tile, hands splayed against her stomach, lips brushing her neck as the water slicked their skin.

Andrea turned, kissed him deeply, then reached for the soap. Slowly, deliberately, she lathered it in her hands and began washing him—torso, shoulders, thighs—her movements sensual, reverent.

“I want you,” she whispered, guiding him inside her, her breath catching as he held her firmly.

Their moans were muffled by the sound of the water, their rhythm slow, intentional—bodies rocking together like waves meeting shore.

The stars were out, and the baby monitor sat quiet on the porch railing. Andrea and Doc curled up beneath a soft blanket on a lounge chair under the moonlight, sharing a glass of wine and listening to crickets.

She climbed into his lap, straddling him, and kissed him deeply, their mouths moving with lazy hunger. Her sundress bunched at her hips as he tugged the straps down her shoulders.

“You’re insatiable,” he murmured, his hands sliding beneath the fabric.

“Only for you,” she smiled, sinking down on him slowly as the night air kissed her skin.

The chair creaked beneath them, the stars watching in silence as they moved together, every breath and sigh carried by the wind.

It started with a shared glance while folding clothes the following morning. A touch here, a brush there, until Doc pulled her into him, pinning her against the dryer.

“Now?” she gasped, half-laughing, half-melting.

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning” he said, already sliding his hand under her leggings.

Her head fell back as he kissed down her collarbone. She clutched the edge of the dryer for support, panting as he drove into her—hard, fast, needy.

The rhythm of their bodies mirrored the hum of the washer. It was quick, raw, and left them both breathless and grinning like teenagers.