Chapter 2: The Kneel of Hunger

The air between them crackled like static before a storm, thick with the scent of her—musk and coffee and the faint tang of anticipation that hung in the kitchen like perfume. Marcus’s boots thudded softly on the linoleum as he followed her, toolbox swinging from his grip like a pendulum marking the seconds until everything shattered. Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs, each beat echoing the drip that had called him here, but now it was her body leaking secrets: nipples stiff against the sundress, thighs slick where they brushed together, bladder a taut balloon pressing low, insistent, begging for the kind of release that came with teeth and thrusts.

She stopped at the sink, leaning against the counter’s edge, the cool granite biting into her palms as she pointed downward. “It’s right there,” she said, voice a husky murmur that betrayed the quiver in her core. “Been keeping me up at night.” Her eyes flicked to his face—strong jaw shadowed with stubble, lips full enough to imagine wrapped around her clit, eyes dark pools that drank her in without apology. He set the toolbox down with a heavy clunk, the sound vibrating through her like a promise, and knelt before her, knees spreading wide on the floor, his broad frame filling the space under the cabinet.

Up close, he was even better than her fantasies: shoulders straining the seams of his shirt, arms corded with muscle from years of wrenching stubborn pipes into submission. She could smell him now—clean sweat mixed with the faint metallic bite of tools, a working man’s aroma that made her mouth water and her pussy clench. As he opened the cabinet doors, peering into the dim space beneath, his head was level with her hips, close enough that if she shifted just right, his cheek might brush her thigh. The thought sent a fresh gush of wetness between her legs, soaking her inner lips, the dress’s hem flirting dangerously high.

He pulled out a flashlight, clicking it on, the beam slicing through the shadows like a lover’s gaze. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he muttered, voice rumbling low, sending vibrations straight to her clit. Tools clinked—wrench, pliers, a screwdriver that looked phallic in his thick fingers—and he leaned in deeper, ass flexing in those jeans as he twisted to inspect the pipes. Elena watched, transfixed, her breath coming in shallow pants. The pressure built inside her, dual torments: arousal coiling like a serpent in her belly, bladder full and throbbing, each drip from the sink syncing with the pulse between her thighs. Plink. Her clit twitched. Plink. A drop of her own slick trailed down her leg.