Where the fire breaks

The driver didn’t say much on the way to my house. He must’ve sensed the storm brewing behind my silence. Randy called—once, then again, then again. I declined each call, each one stoking the fire in my chest, until I finally blocked his number altogether.

Instead, I called Sarah. This time, it wasn’t for answers but for appreciation.

"Hey," I said once she picked up. "I just wanted to say thank you for being honest."

"Of course," she replied.

"And I blocked Randy."

"Oh." A beat. "Thanks for letting me know. Are you mad at me?"

"I'm not as mad at you as I am with him, but yeah... I'm angry. You should’ve told me sooner. He played both of us, Sarah. That kind of thing doesn’t get brushed off.”

She let out a strained sigh. “I’ll sit down with him and we’ll have a conversation about this.”

"You do what you need to do," I said. "Just leave me out of it."

She gave a short, awkward laugh. “Alright. I will.”

And with that, the call ended.

The driver gave me a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye, one brow arched in subtle curiosity. I met his look flatly. “You don’t want to know.”

He chuckled. “Okay.”

When we pulled up to my house, I tipped him extra through the app. Safe. Discreet. Nonjudgmental. He deserved every penny.

I was in the middle of a hot shower when my phone buzzed with a message from Dom. I dried one hand and swiped open the screen.

Dom: Hey, I’m a few minutes out. Gonna make a quick stop at the liquor store and grocery first.

Me: Ok. See you soon.

I finished rinsing off and wrapped myself in towels—one around my body, one wrapped around my hair. I was halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Dom standing there with a handful of grocery bags and my house key dangling from his fingers.

“Well, look who’s here,” he said with a grin. “And looking gorgeous.”

“Hey yourself,” I said, stepping aside to let him in.

He moved straight toward the kitchen as I eyed the key in his hand.

“How did you get that?”

“Some guy outside—Andy? Randy? He said he was gonna leave it under your doormat. I figured I’d save you the trouble.”

Relief surged through me. Thank God Dom had run into him and not me. My mouth and my attitude would’ve turned that interaction nuclear. Dom, on the other hand, handled it like it meant nothing but I could see the unasked question in his eyes.

“Who’s this Andy/Randy?” he asked finally, lifting the key one more time before setting it beside the coffee machine.

“Just a guy I dated casually,” I said evenly. “It’s been over for a while.”

That was enough. Dom didn’t push.

I went back upstairs, brushed out my damp hair, and slipped into an oversized shirt—no bra, no panties. The towels would’ve gotten in the way, and I wasn’t trying to pretend anymore.

When I came back down, we unpacked groceries together. He’d picked up deli meats, cheese, Greek yogurt, steaks, burgers, hot dogs, and three bottles of wine. Everything went into the fridge or pantry in companionable silence.

Then, as I closed the fridge, he leaned in and kissed me.

Soft at first—then deeper. Hungrier. I moaned into his mouth as I felt his hard dick pressing insistently through his shorts.

He didn’t even ask. He just picked me up with both hands, carried me the few steps over to the kitchen counter, and sat me down on it like I weighed nothing.

“I want you,” he murmured, eyes blazing. “But I need to know you want this too.”

“Yes,” I whispered, barely able to breathe.

“I don’t see you as a fling,” he said. “This isn’t just sex for me.”

“I want to date you,” I told him.

He gave a crooked, relieved smile. “I was hoping you’d say that as I want to date you as well.”

Then, in one practiced motion, he unbuckled his belt, dropped his shorts and boxers, and gripped my thighs as I hiked my shirt up over my hips.

I spread my legs for him and he slid in—deep—with one hard, forceful thrust.

“Jesus,” I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, eyes slamming shut. “Fucking hell—you’re so tight.”

“I don’t know how you fit,” I gasped, already breathless.

“You take me anyway,” he growled, beginning to move. “So fucking deep.”

He pounded into me like he couldn’t get close enough—hips slamming, skin meeting skin. My legs locked around him, dragging him closer with every thrust, while his dick filled me to the hilt again and again.

“You were made for me,” he groaned into my ear.

“Don’t stop,” I moaned. “Please...”

He didn’t need more encouragement. He held me down against the counter, his grip bruising, his pace relentless—thrust after thrust until I shattered around him, my orgasm tearing through me with a cry that bounced off the cabinets.

He growled my name and stayed inside me, grinding through the climax until we were both shaking.

I somehow managed to return to cooking. The kitchen smelled like garlic, lemon zest, and butter—heat curling up from the pan as I stirred the risotto, trying to remember how to function.

The music played low, rhythmic, and almost hypnotic. The vegetables were cut. Rice cooked perfectly. I'd done most of the work.

“You stir like you mean it,” Dom said, voice like warm smoke behind me.

“Everything about cooking is about feel,” I said, still stirring. “Timing. Pressure. Heat.”

“You describing risotto or yourself?”

“Um, both? I said as I scraped the spoon along the pan. “Twelve minutes left. You can cope.”

He laughed under his breath and stepped in closer, body heat pressing up against my back. One arm brushed my waist; the other reached for a broccolini spear.

“You been thinking about this since I left?” I teased.

He bit down on the vegetable. Didn’t blink. “Not this.”

He wasn’t talking about food.

“You think the counter’s strong enough for a second round?”

I turned, shooting him a look. “Dominic.”

“I’m asking because I care about infrastructure,” he murmured, already undoing the button on his jeans. “And because I’m about to fuck you into next week.”

“There’s food on the stove.”

“There’s you on the counter in my head—and you’re louder.”

He kissed me.

There was no hesitation, no slow build—just need. He gripped my hips, lifted me again, and shoved my shirt up with rough hands. My bare ass hit the counter and then he was inside me again—slow, thick, relentless.

“This is a bad idea,” I managed to whisper.

“This is the best fucking idea I’ve had all week,” he said, grinding deeper. “God, you feel unreal.”

“You’re already hard again?”

“Two days,” he gritted. “I’ve been hard since your first text.”

“I asked if you wanted asparagus.”

“You knew what that meant.”

He began to thrust—slow and deep, making me feel every inch. I clung to him, legs tight around his waist, my world shrinking to nothing but his body and mine.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he murmured. “So fucking perfect wrapped around me.”

“Then don’t stop,” I whispered.

“Say it louder.”

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

“Say my name.”

“Dominic—please, Dominic.”

My second orgasm hit fast—violent, sharp, my nails clawing down his back as I screamed into his neck. He cursed, still thrusting through our climax, his own release building behind every punishing grind.

When he came, it was deep and thick, his entire body locking against mine.

He stayed inside me, both of us slick with sweat, panting into each other’s skin.

Eventually, he pulled out, arms still wrapped tight around my waist as I sagged into his chest.

He looked around the wrecked kitchen and laughed breathlessly. “We just committed culinary murder against dinner.”

“We did,” I panted. “We absolutely did.”

“I’d do it again.”

“You’re insane if you think I’m letting you off the hook for this.”

“We’ll fix it,” he said, kissing my cheek. “Promise.”

He helped me off the counter gently. My legs wobbled. My shirt was rumpled and soaked. The risotto was beyond saving.

“Wine?” I offered.

“Only if I’ve earned it,” he said, already grabbing a towel.

We cleaned up slowly, still half-naked, bumping into each other deliberately. I kissed his shoulder while rinsing a pan. He cupped my hip when reaching past me for the salt.

The music kept playing.

The mess disappeared.

And when we set the last glass to dry, he looked at me with that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes until he was sure I wanted him.

“Where to now, chef?”

I reached for his hand.

“My bedroom.”

He didn’t hesitate, not for a breath or a moment. Just followed.

In the dim light of the bedroom, I was bare and waiting. This time wasn’t hurried. He moved like it mattered—like every inch of me was something to savor. He sank into me with a sound between reverence and hunger.

“You keep looking at me like that,” I whispered, breath catching. “I’ll never sleep again.”

He kissed my cheek and murmured against my ear, “Good. I don’t plan on letting you.”

We stayed that way until the sweat cooled. Until our breathing evened. Until the sheets wrapped around us and the silence didn’t feel empty anymore.

And still, he didn’t let go.

We stayed that way until the sweat cooled. Until our breathing evened. Until the sheets wrapped around us and the silence didn’t feel empty anymore.
And still, he didn’t let go.

An hour later, and a fifth round of sex later, we finally ordered Chinese food.

When it arrived, we pulled ourselves out of bed—still flushed and a little unsteady—and padded downstairs together. Dom wore only his boxers, and I threw on a robe, the sash loose and barely tied. We met the delivery guy at the door, exchanged a few polite words neither of us would remember, then brought the bags into the living room.

We sprawled on the couch, boxes of food opened between us. Lo mein, dumplings, orange chicken, fried rice—it all hit the spot. Dom used chopsticks. I didn’t even bother. My stomach was loud enough to drown out the quiet music still playing somewhere in the kitchen.

Halfway through the meal, I looked at him and asked, “Will you stay the night?”

He didn’t even blink. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

After we finished eating, we cleaned up—slow, lazy movements, still brushing against each other on purpose. We kissed in the kitchen between stacking takeout containers. When everything was put away, we went right back upstairs.

And just like that, we started again.

We kept having sex, neither of us holding back. We climaxed often—sometimes separately, sometimes together—and each time, Dom came inside me, his body pressing into mine with all the intensity he hadn't let go of since the first time he touched me.

Eventually, exhaustion won. We fell asleep curled around each other, tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat, skin, and something too deep to name.

Only a couple hours later, I stirred awake. My body was sore, used, and humming.

I slipped out of bed quietly. Dom stayed asleep, stretched out on his stomach, the sheet low on his hips, his face half-buried in my pillow.

I showered quickly, dressed for work, and padded into the kitchen. I made a cup of coffee, ate a banana at the counter, and packed some of the leftover Chinese food for lunch.

Just before I left, I paused in the bedroom doorway, taking one last look at him.

Then I pulled out my phone and typed:

Me: Heading to work. I’ll be thinking about you while I’m there.

And I meant it. Every word.