Chapter 4: Rainy Saturday Confession

The week between the third Saturday and the fourth had been a slow, delicious torture. Sunday evening you’d kept your promise—oil on the deck at dusk, Jake’s shirt off, your hands working the tight knots in his shoulders while the last light painted his back gold. You’d kept it light, just as the slow burn demanded: thumbs pressing deep into muscle, your breasts brushing his skin when you leaned in, his low groans vibrating under your palms. But when his hands had tried to return the favor, sliding up your thighs under the hem of your tank, you’d whispered “Not yet” again and sent him home with a kiss on the cheek that left both of you aching. The midweek dog walks had grown longer, Luna pulling you closer each night, arms brushing, breaths mingling, but nothing more. Now the fourth Saturday loomed, and the sky had other plans.

Thunder rolled in just after eight, dark clouds swallowing the sun like they knew what was coming. You stood at the sliding doors in soft gray lounge shorts and a loose white camisole—no bra, nipples already tight from the cool shift in the air—watching the rain lash the new flower beds Jake had built. The mulch would be ruined if he tried to work. Your phone buzzed.

Jake: Still coming. Don’t want to miss our Saturday.

You smiled, heart kicking. At nine sharp the doorbell rang over the pounding rain. You opened it and there he was—drenched, cargo shorts and faded tee plastered to every line of his body like a second skin. Water streamed from his dark hair, down the sharp cut of his jaw, soaking the cotton until it clung translucent to the ridges of his chest and the flat plane of his stomach. His nipples were hard from the cold. The shorts molded to the thick outline of his cock, already half-hard from the walk in the storm.

“Jake—get inside before you drown.” You grabbed his wrist and pulled him across the threshold. Rainwater puddled at his feet. Luna bounded over, whining happily, tail whipping as she licked droplets from his fingers like they were treats.

He laughed, low and rough, shaking water from his hair. “Didn’t want to flake on you, Ms. Emma. Yard’s supposed to get the last touches today, but...” Another crack of thunder shook the windows.

“The yard can wait. You’re soaked.” Your voice had gone husky at the sight of him. You hurried to the hall closet and came back with a towel and a pair of your ex-husband’s old basketball shorts—gray, soft, way too big for most men but on Jake... “These should work. Bathroom’s yours. I’ll pour wine.”