Chapter 6

The following Tuesday, I was supposed to be on a job site until four. That was the plan. Dry forecast until evening, temperatures steady, good enough to pour concrete and get the last footing set.

But by 10:15 a wet snow rolled in off the river -- too warm to stick, too cold to ignore. The foreman swore, the site shut down early, and I found myself sitting in my truck idling outside the chain-link gate, wondering if I should go to the office or just call it a working lunch and head home first.

Home won, so I could at least swap out my muddy boots. Maybe eat something that wasn’t from a gas station.

When I turned onto our street, I saw Aimee’s car already in the driveway, dusted with slushy flakes.

Huh. She was supposed to be in class until two.

Inside, the house hummed with a familiar quiet -- the kind that belonged to nap times and empty rooms. No voices. No TV. Just the low steady churn of the dryer.

I paused in the hallway as I kicked off my boots, listening.

Laundry day, then.

Something about that made my pulse stumble. Too many memories tied to the scent of detergent and warm cotton.

I set my keys down and walked toward the laundry room, stepping quietly in sock feet.

The door was half open, warm light spilling into the hall. I saw movement first -- her arm lifting, shaking out a piece of clothing before tossing it into a basket.

Aimee stood barefoot on the cool tile, wearing an old gray T-shirt and -- God help me -- nothing but thin cotton panties underneath, pale and clinging. Not lace, not planned for seduction, which somehow made it ten times worse. Her shirt’s hem skimmed the midline of her buttocks, leaving just enough visible that my imagination didn’t have to work hard at all. Her bare legs were smooth and soft looking, and my eyes roamed over them hungrily.

Her hair was messy, a few damp strands stuck to the back of her neck from the steam. The warm rush of the dryer had flushed her skin; she looked like she had just stepped out of a shower, like she belonged to this room, to this house.

She hadn’t heard me. The machine masked everything -- my footsteps, my breath, the low groan I made without meaning to.

I should have backed away. Cleared my throat. Given her warning.

Instead I stood there and let the sight of her hit me like a door slammed against my chest.

She bent to grab another armful of laundry, and the shirt lifted -- higher this time, enough to reveal the curve of her hip, the soft stretch of cotton across her backside, the place my hands had memorized in Portsmouth. The T-shirt slipped off one shoulder, exposing a long line of skin I had once kissed like I was starving.

Something in me lurched forward, unsteady and inevitable.

“Aimee,” I said.

Not loud, but enough.

She startled, spun, eyes wide, one hand flying to the hem of the shirt, aware of her ... exposure.

“Jim! What -- I thought you were on-site all day.” She swallowed. “Class got canceled. I didn’t think anyone would be home.”

I was already shaking my head. “Storm shut the site down. I came home for lunch.”

Her gaze flicked over me, jacket half unzipped, cold still in my hair. Then something changed behind her eyes -- something she recognized in mine, and didn’t look away from.

“Oh,” she said, voice softer. “Lunch.”

The dryer ticked as it cooled, a slow settling of metal. Aimee stood barefoot on the tile, one hand still clutching a shirt she wasn’t folding anymore. The air felt warmer than it should. Closer. Thicker.

I should have looked away. I didn’t, my gaze still roaming over her half-naked body, head to pink-painted toes.

“If you tell me to leave,” I murmured, “I will.”

Her breath caught -- just a small sound, but enough.

She shook her head once. Not a command, not a plea. Just truth.

“I won’t,” she said.

I took a step inside the room. Close enough to see the drop of moisture clinging to the hollow of her throat.

“We don’t have to do this,” I managed.

Her eyes flicked over my face, searching, and when she spoke, it was barely sound at all:

“You’re lying,” she said, tossing the shirt in her hand aside.

My hand found the warm cotton at her waist, and the shirt lifted under my fingers. Her skin was soft from the steam, and when she leaned in, her forehead met mine like a promise neither of us had earned.

“I’ve thought about you every night,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. My hands did, sliding up under that thin shirt, cupping her breasts, my palms covering them entirely. Her nipples hardened under my touch, and she stood on her tiptoes to kiss me. Our kiss was hard and frantic and fast, tongues tangling, teeth clacking together.

As I kept fondling her breasts, her hands reached for my ass, pulling me against her. I shrugged out of my jacket, letting it fall to the floor.

We broke the kiss, gasping for air, and my hands went to the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head. She stood there, naked except for a thin pair of panties, and my eyes roamed over her, hungrily. She watched me watch her, and asked a simple question.

“What do you want, Jim?”

“I want you, Aimee. Right now.”

“I’m yours,” she responded, hands frantically unbuttoning my dress shirt, pulling it off me, fingertips scrabbling at my belt. Our limbs tangled as we tried to touch each other, everywhere, at once. I moaned when her hand slid inside my khakis and touched my cock through my boxer briefs. She echoed that sound when my hand slid down her smooth stomach, under the waistband of those panties, fingers pushing through her sparse pubic hair. Her lips were already warm and wet, and she moaned my name in one long, impossibly sexy syllable as I touched her.

“Jimmmmmmmmmm,” she groaned, and my cock felt like it was harder than it had ever been in my life.

I finished unbuckling my pants and pushed them down along with my boxers, letting them pool at my ankles, not even bothering to step out of them. I peeled Aimee’s panties off, crouching to drag them down her long legs, my eyes feasting on her pussy as I stood back up.

I grasped her waist, kissing her again, hard and fast. My fingers sliding to her hips, I turned her around, a little roughly, positioning her belly against the edge of the washing machine. She squealed from the cold.

“Jim -- what are you -- ohmygod,” she moaned with realization as I stepped between her thighs, my cock in my hand, sliding it up against her from behind. She spread her legs wider, lifting her butt a little higher in the air. “Yes, yes, like this, so fucking hot oh god!”

I slid my cock head between her labia, gathering the wetness there, sliding it up and down, making her cry out as I bumped it against her hooded clit on the downstroke, then moving back up. My cock was wet with my own pre-come and her lubrication as I moved the head back to her entrance, and I crouched a little to get the angle right, pushing into her slowly, her torso now fully bent over the washing machine.