- The Dishes Can Wait –
I should’ve gone to bed an hour ago. Maybe two.
But no. Three-hour XP grind, one too many smacks in co-op, and now here I am – sticky-fingered and overstimulated – sinking into the post-scroll fog with crumbs on my chest. Chasing his rank, ‘cause he pwned me last night. In Apex. My husband. My own husband Octane-rushed me with a Peacekeeper, and just smirked ‘til I raged… and on top of all that? A sink full of dishes daring me to leave them ‘til morning.
I hate waking up to a mess.
The kitchen’s dark, save for the underglow from the oven light and the faint flicker of my phone screen, propped against the coffee pot. Some Korean drama hums through the tiny speaker, all soft crying and dramatic violins. I’m not really watching – it’s just background noise. Something to keep me from slipping into the silence of my own head.
I start the water, let it run hot. The pressure’s trash, takes forever to fill the sink.
I lean forward, pressing my palms to the counter’s edge, chin resting on my arm while I wait, eyelids heavy. A floorboard creaks behind me.
I shift… notice a shadow…
That’s when I feel it.
Big hands slide over my hips, his hands, slow and certain like they already own the place. I freeze, a gasp caught halfway up my throat.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Are… are his eyes even open?
He leans in, his chest warm against my back, his breath sharp with pins and needles snaking up my neck. My whole body stiffens, then softens, and I melt into the counter, heart thudding in my ears louder than the running water.
I don’t know how long he’s been awake. I don’t know how long he’s been watching.
I do know that right now, he’s all heat and intent.
One giant, throbbing problem pressing against my ass through the thin fabric of his boxers. I feel the tension in him, raw and ravenous, radiating off his skin like steam.
And I know.
This man didn’t come into the kitchen to cuddle.
He came to conquer.
A rough tug yanks my nightgown up over my hips.
I feel him step back… I can feel his eyes… What is he doing?
I take a peek, turning my head and trying my best to look lusty and desperate for him… He pauses, fixed on my exposed ass, his nostrils hitching like a predator sizing up prey. He catches me looking and narrows his eyes. He palms my ass and exhales hard, with a grunt, like he’s torn between devouring me here and now or dragging me off into the dark.
Then I feel it.
One hand sliding between my legs like it belongs there – like it’s been there before and it’s got unfinished business.
I gasp, knuckles white on the countertop.
Still nothing from him. Not a word. Just need.
He pulls the gown to the side, cold air biting my bare skin. The Korean drama’s violins spike – a woman’s sob cuts through – as he pushes inside, I cry out with her…
He goes slow at first, stretching me… my breath snags over and over, like a re-spawn glitch. His musk, tobacco and vanilla, floods my nose, and I’m drowning in him, in the heat of his claim, like he’s pwn’ing me again, but this time it’s my body.
He fucks me like he’s committed me to memory, knows where to slow down and how to counter, every thrust is another brutal taunt.
He’s better at this than me…
The counter bites my hips, my hands slipping in dishwater splashes, legs trembling as he drives into me, his grunts raw and animalistic, Korean violins streaming in time with him. The air’s thick with his sweat and the sink’s soapy tang, my head spinning as I’m split open, lost in it, picturing his smirk…
He’s winning.
My breasts sway beneath the fabric, nipples brushing the cool tile. I reach between my legs, fingers sliding down my core, testing my timing, and the second I touch myself, I’m gone.
I press harder with his every move, fingers slick and frantic, and we’re locked in sync like we’re chasing a clutch win.
The build surges –
warmth spiraling low, pressure coiling so tight I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but raw need.
My thighs are trembling, my toes curling against the tile trying to hold their grip. His hips hit deeper, harder, and my body sings for him – every nerve wound up like it wants to break.
I feel the chaos between my legs
Slippery. Swollen. Soaking wet.
My clock hits all zeroes.
I detonate.
The orgasm rips through me like I’ve been waiting all day to fall apart – like every denied breath, every second he worked late, every dish I didn’t do built to this one, feral scream of a release.
I shake, lurching forward, forehead crashing against the cabinet, knees buckling – not pretty, not quiet, not cute. Just me.
And it wrecks him.
He groans like I stole it from him, a raw, guttural sound ripped from his chest. He slams into me once, twice more, then grabs my hips so hard I know I’ll feel it tomorrow; thrusting harder, rougher, losing control, fucking me right off my feet – and cums with a deep, stuttering moan, cock pulsing, thick spurts spilling out as he clutches me like I’m the only thing holding him together.
I feel it all – hot, slick, endless – as he folds over me, panting like he ran a fucking marathon.
Then his whole body locks up – muscle, breath, everything – and the sound he makes isn’t a moan. It’s a growl. Possessive. Final.
And just like that… he collapses against me, sleepy and spent, forehead pressed to the back of my neck.
Neither of us moves for a second.
Then, without a word, he lifts me. Just scoops me up like a ragdoll, throws me over his shoulder, bare ass in the air, and carries me to bed like some cave man who forgot how to apologize.
I’m still dazed. Still aching. Still laughing as he tosses me down and pulls the blanket over me.
I glance up, eyes half-lidded.
“Where are you going?”
He pauses in the doorway, still shirtless, still wild-eyed and damp with sweat. Then he says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Dishes.”
God help me – I love this man.
[Based on Pic #11. Bent over the counter]
submitted by /u/HerAgainAlways
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