Dripping in the Kitchen

All characters are fictional and over the age of 18.

Rosa 43, thick in all the right places, braless under a worn tank and poured into a pair of faded mom jeans. She hadn't expected Andrew--her son's 22-year-old friend--to walk in while she was bent over in the kitchen. But when he did? He couldn't stop staring. And she didn't tell him to.

The morning sun slanted through the kitchen window, warming the worn tile beneath Rosa's bare feet. She stood at the counter in a pair of tight, faded mom jeans that clung to her wide hips and generous ass. The denim that showed her curves, every soft dimple and sway of flesh beneath captured with unflinching honesty. She stirred her coffee absentmindedly, one arm folded beneath her heavy breasts -- two ripe, braless juggs pressed taut and obvious beneath the cling of her pale tank top.

The fabric was stretched thin over her big chest, each shift of her body made the shirt rise just slightly above the soft dome of her belly, revealing a sliver of warm, untouched skin -- pale and plush.

Philip had just left a few minutes earlier, slamming the door in a flurry of football gear and half-eaten toast. The house had gone quiet again. Rosa exhaled slowly, her breath steaming faintly over the surface of her cup--

She didn't hear the front door creak open.

Didn't notice the shuffle of sneakers against wood until a voice -- deep, young, uncertain -- came from the hallway.

"Mrs. Rivera?"

Rosa startled, nearly spilling her coffee. She turned, her tank top clinging in a new direction, and there he was.

Andrew.

Philip's friend.

Twenty-two. Dark-haired. Tall. A little wiry but strong in the arms, still flushed from the bike ride over. His hoodie was unzipped, gray t-shirt clinging to his chest with sweat. And his eyes -- brown and wide and struggling to stay politely above her neckline -- landed on her with an expression somewhere between guilt and something far more primal.

"Oh! Andrew -- I didn't know anyone was coming over," she said, pressing one hand across her chest instinctively, only to realize the gesture made her tits lift even more. "Philip just left."

"I--sorry, I thought he might still be here," he murmured quickly, eyes darting toward the floor, then back up, unable to stop from looking. "He, uh... murmured we had practice early. I just thought--"

Rosa shifted, crossing to set her cup down. The denim pulled tighter across her backside, the hem of her tank riding up again, revealing a curve of lower back, the barest suggestion of her ass crack. She didn't notice. Or maybe she did.

"That's alright," she murmured, her voice casual but low, a little rough from sleep. "You want some coffee before you go?"

Andrew blinked.

His mouth opened-- Closed.

She caught him staring. His gaze kept returning to the soft swell of her chest, the weight of her breasts pushing visibly against the strained cotton. Her nipples were still hard.

He couldn't help it.

Rosa watched his throat move as he swallowed.

Then she smiled. Not teasing. Not embarrassed.

She was just real and like she knew what she looked like.

Andrew couldn't stop staring at her body.

He tried. God, he tried. But her body was just... fucking there. Right in front of him. Her tank top clung to every inch of her, and without a bra, her breasts were impossible to ignore -- huge, heavy, low-hanging juggs that shifted slightly each time she moved. They weren't perky, not high and tight like a twenty-year-old's. They were mature. Soft. Natural. Their weight made them rest against her torso, flesh pressing together in a deep, warm line of cleavage that barely hid beneath the scoop of her thin white tank.

And her nipples...

He could see everything. They weren't just hard -- they were long, fat, shadowed through the fabric. Darker than he expected. Thick outlines pressing against the cotton, moving slightly each time she shifted, jiggling faintly when she leaned over the counter. He kept pretending to glance at the window behind her, but his eyes would fall again. To the slight sweat stain beneath one breast. To the way her tank top clung to the curve of her belly. To the roundness of her thighs trapped in those impossibly tight jeans.

She wasn't trying to dress to be seen. She was just... in her body.

And that, somehow, made it even worse.

Rosa stirred her coffee again, slower this time. Her eyes flicked up for just a second. She noticed.

Of course she did noticed.

The way his voice had changed. The way he kept adjusting his posture. The way he couldn't keep still.

But she didn't say anything.

She didn't cover herself. Didn't cross her arms. Didn't change a thing.

She just tilted her head slightly and murmured, "So, how's football going? You guys winning?"

Andrew blinked like he'd forgotten where he was--

"Uh--yeah. We're doing alright. Philip's been killing it lately. Coach moved him to tight end."

Rosa smiled softly, her hips shifting as she leaned against the counter, one foot bare, the other brushing against her heel. Her jeans hugged everything -- high-waisted and button-fly, stretched taut across the plush swell of her belly. There was a faint crease just above the waistband where her soft middle pressed against the denim. The zipper tugged to the left a little, straining slightly.

"That's great," she murmured, lifting her cup to her lips. "He's been working hard. Always in and out of here, forgetting his gear, yelling about protein."

Her eyes glinted with something warm.

She set the cup down slowly, and Andrew caught a glimpse of the way her breasts shifted under the top -- a slow, weighted swing-- No bounce. Just mass.

"You still planning on applying to Oregon?" she asked.

He nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Still hoping to get in with the kinesiology program. You know... sports therapy, maybe strength coaching later."

Rosa nodded, arms crossing lightly below her chest -- not hiding her breasts, just resting her wrists beneath them, almost pushing them up.

"That's a good plan," she said. "You've always been the smart one in the group. Quiet. Focused."

Andrew shifted again, his pants suddenly uncomfortable.

"You ever get tired of them?" she asked, tilting her chin toward the door Philip had slammed earlier. "The noise. The smell. The chaos?"

He laughed nervously. "Sometimes. But it's... you know, kind of fun too."

God, she smiled again, slower this time. Shit, her eyes drifted down to his hands -- noticing how he gripped the edge of the table -- then back to his face.

Rosa turned away from him, crouching gently in front of one of the lower kitchen cabinets. Her jeans tightened even more, pulling high between the cheeks of her full, round ass. The denim strained at every seam, bunching in the center like it was being swallowed by the weight of her hips. Her ass was enormous -- not in the exaggerated way of youth, but real, heavy, lived-in. Soft at the sides, wide across the bottom, and when she bent deeper, it lifted slightly, swaying as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

Andrew's throat went dry.

She kept talking like nothing was happening. "I still make him breakfast when he lets me. Usually eggs, something simple. But you know boys your age -- all they want is cereal and protein powder."

Her voice was breezy, casual.

But Andrew wasn't hearing her anymore. Not clearly. His eyes had dropped to her waist, to where the hem of her thin tank top had ridden up again -- this time fully exposing the soft roll of her belly.

It was gorgeous.

Pale, untouched by the sun, gently hanging forward as she crouched -- loose and round, like a warm invitation. Her jeans cut tight across the lower swell, leaving the top curve exposed. The skin there was smooth, with the faintest line across the middle from where her waistband had sat earlier. Her belly jiggled slightly as she moved, not in a way that embarrassed her, but in a way that was completely unconscious.

Andrew's eyes traced the line where her tank clung to her back, the way it hugged the slope of her ribs, then rose above the waistband as she stretched for something deeper. He could see a sliver of lower back, the soft indent above her tailbone, where the jeans dipped slightly -- like gravity was pulling them just a bit too far down

Then she exhaled, grunted softly, and reached further--

The motion made her ass push out more, shifting beneath the denim like dough in a tight pan. Her bare foot adjusted its position, toes curling against the cold floor. The muscles in her thighs tensed, but not in a gym-bunny way -- they were thick, supportive, the kind of legs that held weight and history.

Andrew's cock throbbed in his pants.

He didn't dare to fucking move.

He just stood there, frozen, staring at the jiggling undercurve of her belly, at the soft flesh threatening to spill forward as she balanced on her heels.

She pulled out a pan -- slow, one hand bracing herself on the counter as she rose. Her body shifted again. The tank top caught against the arch of her back and stayed there -- bunched high enough now that a full inch of belly remained exposed, catching the golden morning light.

Still speaking, she turned toward him, smiling gently.

"You boys ever cook for yourselves?" she asked, holding the pan against one hip. "Or are you just surviving on pizza and girls who know how to boil water?"

Andrew blinked, hard. His eyes flicked up just in time -- but he knew she'd seen where he was looking.

She didn't say anything, she just let the silence stretch between them. And the belly stayed bare.

And Andrew just stood there, pulse pounding, pants tight, trying not to breathe too hard.

The chair scraped softly against the tile as Rosa sat down across from him, the metal legs catching on a worn groove in the floor. She moved slowly, settling with a soft exhale, her thick thighs pressing wide as she leaned back. The denim of her jeans stretched tight across her belly and hips, the button fly visibly straining. Her tank top had ridden up again -- even more now. A full strip of her soft, bare stomach peeked out, the lower curve folding gently over the waistband, loose and honest.

Her nipples were still hard. Still plainly visible.

Andrew sat rigid, his hands clenched awkwardly on his thighs, trying not to look -- failing completely.

She stared at him quietly for a few seconds. The silence was warm and strange, broken only by the slow hum of the fridge and the faint tapping of her thumb against the ceramic mug.

Then, in a voice low and even:

"I can see how you're looking at me, Andrew."

He froze.

His eyes snapped up. Her tone wasn't angry. But it wasn't soft, either.

Rosa's gaze didn't move. It was firm, heavy-lidded, cheeks pink with heat but mouth calm. She crossed one leg over the other slowly, the shift of weight making her hips widen even more against the chair, her belly softening further where it met the table's edge.

"I'm not mad," she said. "But it's not appropriate."

Andrew's throat moved in a tight swallow. His cheeks flushed red. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. I just..."

He looked at her fully now -- not at her breasts, or her belly, or the tight seams of her jeans, but at her face. There was something raw there. Embarrassment. Want. Shame and thrill tangled together.

"I've had a thing for you," he said-- Rosa blinked.

Andrew kept going, almost breathless now.

"All the guys talk about you," he murmured. "Philip's friends. Everyone. They all say how hot you're. How you've got this... this body. Like, real curves. Real tits. That soft look that none of the girls our age have."

He stopped himself, breath catching.

"I mean-- I know it's wrong. You're his mom. But I couldn't help it. I saw you this morning and just... fuck."

Rosa flushed.

Not subtly.

Her skin darkened from her neck to her cheeks in a slow, spreading bloom. She bit her lower lip, her eyes dropping briefly -- not in shame, but in thought. Her hand smoothed her tank top over her stomach, then let it ride up again. She didn't tug it down.

Her thighs shifted slightly, uncrossing, then crossing again the other way. The motion pressed her breasts forward, pulled the tank tighter across them -- nipples still visibly thick and pointed.

"You boys..." she murmured quietly, almost to herself. "You're ridiculous."

But she wasn't angry with him and she wasn't moving.

God, she just sat there, flushed and warm, her soft body framed in the sunlight, her belly bare, her breath shallow.

And Andrew?

He couldn't take his eyes off her.

Rosa sat still for a long moment, her lips parted just slightly, her chest rising and falling beneath the snug white cotton that barely contained her.

Then, with a soft sigh, she looked down -- not ashamed, but collecting herself. Her hand drifted to her belly, resting lightly on the exposed curve of skin where her tank top had ridden up. She smoothed it absently, a motion that drew Andrew's eyes again despite himself. The soft pad of her palm moved slowly over the flesh, brushing just beneath the curve of her navel.

Then she looked back up.

"You should go," she said quietly, her voice steady, but not cold. "You're already late."

Andrew blinked, sitting up straighter in the chair. "Right. Yeah. I--sorry."

Rosa gave him a faint smile. Not playful. Not harsh. Something in between. Shit, her thighs shifted slightly as she moved to stand -- slow, heavy, and deeply physical. God, she rose with a little grunt under her breath, her jeans pulling tighter across her ass, her belly swaying slightly with the motion, still bare, still soft. The tank caught for a moment under one of her breasts, then slid back down -- not far enough to hide anything--

Andrew's eyes flicked there again -- just once -- and then quickly away.

Rosa noticed--

But she said nothing.

God, she just turned toward the counter, placing her empty mug in the sink. Her hips swayed unconsciously as she moved, the curve of her ass pressing against the denim, her bare foot slipping forward with a gentle slap on the tile.

Behind her, Andrew stood awkwardly, adjusting the waistband of his sweats.

"I didn't mean to make things weird," he mumbled.

She glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.

"It's fine," she murmured. "You didn't."

And then -- more softly, almost like she didn't mean to say it aloud:

"You boys really think too much with your eyes."

Andrew flushed, mouth opening to speak, but no words came. He hesitated, then nodded.

"I'll see you," he said.

Rosa gave a small, quiet nod -- not turning around--

Andrew lingered a beat longer, then stepped out of the kitchen. The door clicked softly shut behind him.

And Rosa stood there, her hand on the edge of the sink, her soft belly bare to the light, nipples still hard beneath the tank, the kitchen silent once more--

The kitchen was silent again.

Rosa stood at the counter, her hand still resting on the edge of the sink. Her coffee mug sat in the basin, forgotten. The sunlight had shifted slightly, spilling in across her bare feet and up the front of her legs, warming the soft stretch of her exposed belly where her tank top still sat just a little too high.

She hadn't pulled it down.

She exhaled slowly.

The quiet made her more aware of her body -- the soft heat between her thighs, the tightness of her nipples still pressing against the worn cotton of her top, the way her jeans felt a little more snug now, the zipper tugging slightly to one side, cutting across the lower swell of her belly.

Her pulse was louder than she wanted it to be.

Andrew.

God, she shouldn't even be thinking about it. He was Philip's friend. Practically a boy. But he wasn't, not anymore. He was tall now. Broad in the chest. That face, flushed and tense, trying so hard not to stare. That voice, low and husky, when he told her how long he'd had a thing for her.

And the way he looked at her.

Not like she was just someone's mom-- Not like she was past her prime.

But like she was... thick, hot, present. Like her belly and her big, heavy tits and the soft curve of her thighs meant something. Like he wanted her exactly as she was -- not in spite of her softness, but because of it.

Rosa's hand moved from the sink to her hip.

Then lower.

She pressed her palm gently against the front of her jeans, where the denim was warm from her skin -- right over the place where she could feel that slow, deep ache spreading. Her breath hitched.

No.

She shook her head, blinking hard.

This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. He was just a kid. It was probably just the hormones, the loneliness, the tension of the morning. It would pass.

Still...

God, she rubbed her palm once more, slow, over the button of her jeans -- feeling the pressure against her mound, the tight pull of fabric across her lower belly. Shit, her nipples throbbed, and she caught her reflection faintly in the microwave door -- tank top clinging to her breasts, her hair messy from sleep, skin flushed.

She looked like she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to--

She stepped back from the counter quickly, dragging her fingers through her hair.

"Get a grip, Rosa," she whispered, her voice tight.

And yet -- as she walked away, thighs rubbing, belly jiggling just slightly with each step -- she could still feel the ghost of his eyes.

Right there.

All over her.

The door creaked open with a soft metallic sound, and Andrew stepped just inside.

"Mrs. Rivera?" he called out gently, before even realizing what he was walking into.

And then he froze.

Rosa was bent over at the waist, both hands buried in the dryer drum, sorting warm clothes from damp towels. Her ass was pushed high -- full, round, and completely framed by the thin white linen pants she wore. The fabric was nearly translucent in the morning light, sheer enough that Andrew could see everything. The red thong underneath cut high across her wide hips, the thin strap riding deep between the cheeks of her ass, disappearing down the middle in a bright slash of color against soft, golden skin.

She wasn't wearing anything else underneath. No shorts. No coverage. Just the red.

The pants clung to her completely -- pulled tight between her thighs, outlining the lower curve of her ass like a second skin. The material bunched slightly beneath the cheeks, caught and lifted by the wedge of the thong, drawing his eyes straight to the soft, rounded under-crease that jiggled faintly as she shifted from foot to foot. Her thighs were thick and bare beneath the linen -- full and dimpled, swaying gently with each movement.

The waistband of the pants rode low across her back, dipping just enough to show the top band of her thong and the first few inches of soft, warm flesh above it -- the beginning slope of her ass, untouched by fabric. She was barefoot, hair piled up in a messy twist, the curve of her spine visible as she reached deep into the dryer.

Andrew's cock twitched so hard it made him stumble back a step.

His breath hitched, caught in his throat--

It was obscene--

Beautiful.

So fucking casual.

She hadn't heard him yet.

The sight of her like that -- bent over, red thong on full display, the weight of her ass hanging heavy and soft behind her -- nearly made him come in his pants right then and there.

He swallowed hard. Tried to speak.

"G--good morning," he managed, voice cracking.

Rosa jolted upright, startled but not alarmed. She turned toward him, the linen pants falling looser now around her legs but still see-through enough to tease the outline of everything beneath. Her breasts swayed slightly beneath a gray tank top -- no bra, nipples just faintly visible through the worn cotton.

"Oh--Andrew," she said, breath still catching from the sudden motion. She smiled. "Didn't hear you come in."

Andrew stood frozen in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide the bulge that had already grown too obvious.

Rosa brushed a loose curl from her cheek and continued, easy and warm, "Philip already left for training. Just missed him."

She turned fully to face him, arms crossed beneath her chest -- pushing her breasts up just slightly beneath the tank -- and leaned one hip against the dryer.

Her thong was still visible through the pants. The outline unmistakable--

Andrew couldn't stop looking.

And Rosa?

She just smiled at him like nothing was wrong--

Andrew couldn't stop.

Now that Rosa was standing in front of him, hips tilted slightly, legs set just a little apart, her weight leaned lazily into one side -- his eyes dropped again. Lower. Too low.

To her crotch.

The white linen pants, so thin and soft, hugged every inch of her. The red thong beneath had ridden up -- high in the back, yes -- but now, from the front, it was something else entirely. The tight, narrow triangle of fabric pressed hard against her mound, pulling snug between her pussy lips, parting them visibly. The linen clung around it like a second skin, catching every outline. Her labia were clearly visible -- not hinted at. Seen.

He could make out the soft puff of her pussy, full and thick, barely contained. The fabric stretched there tighter than anywhere else, puckering faintly at the edges. A faint seam in the pants ran right down the center, disappearing beneath the outline of the thong's crotch, cutting between the lips like a suggestion he couldn't unsee.

His eyes locked there.

He didn't blink.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

Rosa followed his gaze.

She saw exactly where he was staring.

Her cheeks flushed -- quickly, fully.

"Andrew..." she said, her voice lower now. Less amused. Less warm. "Stop looking at me like that."

But she didn't move to adjust the pants.

She didn't cross her legs. Didn't cover herself.

Just stood there, belly soft beneath her tank, pussy clearly outlined beneath white cotton, breathing fast.

Andrew's eyes rose, slowly.

When they met hers, something had shifted in his face.

His jaw was tight. His voice, when he spoke, was deeper. Firmer. Cold, but not cruel.

"I can't," he said.

Rosa blinked. Her lips parted.

Andrew stepped forward once, just a foot -- not touching her, but closer than he should be. His posture had changed. He wasn't nervous anymore.

"I've tried to ignore it," he said. "But I want you. And I know you feel it too."

Rosa stared at him.

Silent.

Flushed.

Breathing harder now.

Between them, the dryer hummed. The linen still clung. And neither of them moved--

Andrew took another step toward her.

Close now-- Too close.

The air between them was thick with heat -- the kind that didn't come from the dryer. He could smell her: warm skin, faint laundry soap, and something subtler, more primal beneath it. The scent of a woman caught between refusal and arousal.

"You're just teasing me," he said, his voice low and close, breath hot against her cheek. "Walking around in these little pants... that thong... showing me everything."

Rosa swallowed hard. Her lips parted to speak, but nothing came at first.

"N-no," she finally whispered. Shit, her voice broke around the word.

But her body told the truth--

Her thighs pressed together slightly, like she was suddenly aware of how wet she felt under the linen. Her stomach fluttered beneath her tank, bare where the fabric had lifted. The outline of her pussy was still there, still obscene, the red thong buried deep between her thick lips, barely holding back anything.

Andrew's hand came up slowly.

Not asking for permission but just claiming.

His fingers curled around her waist -- one side first, then the other, palms flat, warm, steady.

Her flesh yielded beneath his grip. Her soft belly pushed slightly into his hands, her lower back arching without meaning to. He could feel the heat rising from her skin through the linen, the warmth of her breath as she tried not to react.

But then she moaned.

It wasn't loud. Just a tiny sound -- surprised, involuntary, cracked open from somewhere deeper than her throat.

Shit, her eyes fluttered.

Andrew's grip firmed, fingers pressing into the sides of her waist, anchoring her in place-- His thumbs traced just beneath the waistband, brushing over the cotton, over skin, so close to the edge of the thong.

"You've been driving me crazy," he murmured. "Since that morning in the kitchen. You know what you're doing."

Rosa shook her head faintly, but it was weak, breathless.

"Andrew... we can't..."

He stepped closer. Their bodies weren't touching, but barely. The fabric of her thin tank skimmed the front of his chest. Her nipples -- already hard -- grazed the inside of it with every breath she took.

"Then tell me to stop," he murmured, voice calm, but deep, edged with something darker now.

She didn't.

Her lips parted -- but no words came.

Only her breath. Hot. Shallow.

His fingers tightened slightly on her waist.

And her thighs pressed together again -- hard this time.

Andrew's hands moved suddenly with no hesitation.

Shit, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Rosa's thin linen pants and yanked them down in one swift motion.

The soft fabric whispered against her skin, catching slightly on the curve of her ass before sliding past her hips and pooling at her ankles.

Rosa gasped -- sharp, breathy, her hands instinctively twitching toward her thighs but not moving fast enough. Shit, her entire lower body was exposed now. The red thong clung to her like a strip of sin -- narrow, low, almost decorative.

The tiny triangle in front was already damp, soaked and stretched tight across her thick, flushed lips, disappearing into the warm softness of her folds. Shit, her hips flared wide above the thong, a curve so full and womanly it made Andrew's breath stutter in his chest.

She stood there trembling in it -- heavy, wide, completely bare save for the thong string buried deep between the cheeks. Shit, her flesh spilled around it, full and round and real, soft at the edges and thick with life. The straps bit into her skin slightly, indenting the plush meat of her hips and rising high between the swell of her cheeks like a visual invitation.

She was a woman built for grip and sin--

And she stood motionless, breath shaking, thighs tight and trembling as she felt the open air wrap around her bare legs and ass.

Andrew's voice dropped lower. Rough now.

"Turn around."

Rosa didn't move.

She looked back at him -- eyes wide, face flushed, lips parted.

He stepped closer, just enough for his chest to almost touch the tips of her hard nipples.

"I want to see that ass," he said, slower this time. Firmer.

Her body jerked like she'd been touched, even though he hadn't moved a muscle.

Then -- slowly, so slowly -- she turned.

First one step. Then the other.

Until her back was to him.

Until her full, bare ass faced him in the center of the room, trembling with each breath.

The red thong disappeared into the deep cleft between her cheeks, stretched tight against the inner softness. Shit, her thighs were thick and smooth, touching near the top. Shit, her lower belly curved forward beneath the hem of her tank top, and her spine arched subtly with tension, the soft slope leading down into that exposed, aching heat.

Andrew let out a quiet breath through his nose, slow and hard.

His cock throbbed.

And Rosa stood there, bare and burning, her pulse hammering in her ears, her body open and waiting -- without a word.

Andrew's voice dropped into something darker-- Quieter. A low current vibrating just beneath the surface.

"Bend over--"

Rosa hesitated -- just a flicker -- then obeyed.

God, she braced her palms against the edge of the dryer and slowly leaned forward, her soft, bare belly folding slightly, the hem of her loose tank top riding even higher across her back. Her thick ass pushed back naturally, round and weighted, the red thong slicing deep between the cheeks as her stance widened.

The position made everything more obscene.

Her thighs parted just enough to change the view -- the under-curve of her ass now jiggling freely, the soft flesh pressing out to the sides, the thong stretched to its very limit. The string pulled tight against her cleft, vanishing completely between the cheeks, buried so deep the flesh nearly swallowed it whole.

Andrew stepped behind her, breath thick in his chest.

"Spread your cheeks."

She shuddered at the words.

Then reached back -- slowly -- and hooked her hands around each soft cheek, pulling them apart.

The flesh yielded easily. Her ass opened, wide and deep and warm. The red string of the thong vanished into her crack, and behind it -- just barely -- he saw the soft, dusky glimpse of her little puckered star. Her anus twitched slightly, tight and delicate, framed in the open curve of fat flesh she now held apart for him.

Andrew groaned low under his breath--

She was soaked -- the crease beneath her cheeks glistened, slick with her own arousal, the scent of it thick in the air now--

He reached out.

His hands sank into the meat of her ass, grabbing both cheeks firmly, kneading them slowly, possessively. Her skin was so soft. Warm. She moaned when he squeezed -- not a word, just a broken, feminine sound from deep in her chest.

Her thighs trembled.

Shit, her fingers clenched tighter, still holding herself open, offering everything.

Andrew's thumbs pushed gently outward, testing the give of her flesh, spreading her wider. The red string tightened further, tugging up against her opening, cutting into the heat of her slit beneath.

"You have no idea," he growled, voice low, rough, "how long I've wanted this ass."

Rosa whimpered, bent and open, breath shaking.

And he just held her there--

Palming her. Spreading her. Staring.

Taking his time.

His breath deepened as he knelt behind her, close enough to feel the radiant warmth of her thighs, the tremble in her calves. The air between them was thick with her scent -- sweet and musky, like skin and sex and something older. He leaned forward, eyes locked on the cleft of her, the way the red string of her thong disappeared between the parted cheeks she still held wide for him.

When his nose brushed her puckered star, Rosa let out a choked gasp. Not fear. Not refusal. Just shock -- a fragile, broken whimper of sensation she hadn't expected.

He paused there. Inhaling.

The heat of her-- The ripe, dizzying smell of her skin, sweat, and something slicker -- faintly floral, feminine. It wasn't the smell of filth. It was sweetness. Salt. Shit, her.

His tongue emerged slowly, reverently -- not thrusting, not pressing, but just grazing the taut red string stretched tight over her anus. The fabric tasted faintly of her skin, warmed by her heat, soaked in her ache. He licked it again, slower this time, letting the texture roll over his tongue.

Rosa whimpered.

Her fingers clenched tighter on her own cheeks, her breath stuttering.

He didn't speak.

Didn't touch her anywhere else.

Just knelt there, tongue moving in long, teasing drags over the thread of fabric bisecting her shame. The string twitched with each lick, shifting against her tight little star, framing it, feeding it to him.

She tried to breathe -- failed.

Tried to moan -- couldn't.

Shit, her body had gone silent, all her energy sunk into holding still.

Holding open.

Letting him do this.

And Andrew... didn't stop.

He licked the string like it was holy.

Like she was.

And she was--

To him.

Right now.

Exactly like this.

God, she shivered.

A deep, involuntary tremble that rolled from her shoulders down through her parted thighs. The muscles in her legs twitched, and her breath caught in a moan -- half-protest, half-need, the kind of sound that betrayed more than words ever could.

"Andrew," she whispered, voice hoarse. "We... we can't."

But even as she said it, she stayed where she was -- bent over, braced against the cool metal of her laundry machine, her bare ass arched high, cheeks spread in her own grip. Her thong was still pulled tight between them, soaked, trembling with each breath she took. Her skin was flushed and glowing beneath the harsh white light of the laundry room, and her cunt was visibly slick, her arousal glistening along the curve of her inner thighs.

Shit, he didn't move away.

Didn't hesitate.

He pressed closer, his breath ghosting over the heat of her exposed flesh, his voice low and cutting.

"You're already spreading for me," he murmured. "In your laundry room.."

She flinched.

Not away from him -- but deeper into it.

Into the truth of it.

Her lips parted in a soft, broken gasp, and her grip on her own ass tightened. Her thighs trembled again. Something shifted in her eyes -- not guilt. Not shame. Something darker. More dangerous.

She wanted to say no.

God, she needed to say yes.

But instead, she just stayed there -- cunt open, breath shaking, heart pounding in her throat -- trembling under the weight of a single word that stung like sin and felt like praise.

And Andrew?

He just smiled.

Because he knew exactly what she was now.

Even if she didn't have the words yet they were coming.

And she was already soaked with them.

He reached up.

Two fingers slipped beneath the damp waistband of her thong -- stretched tight between the round, trembling cheeks she still held open for him -- and with one slow, deliberate motion, he peeled it downward.

The fabric clung to her for a second, reluctant, soaked through with the slick proof of her arousal. Then it surrendered. The red lace rolled down over the curve of her ass, the string dragging through her cleft, leaving a faint, shining trail of moisture behind.

Rosa whimpered.

Her knees shook as the fabric passed the swell of her thighs -- sticky, glistening -- and settled at the bend of her knees. Trapped there. Tangled like a ribbon around a gift that had already been unwrapped.

Shit, her ass was bare now and visibly wet.

The light in the laundry room was unforgiving -- fluorescent and sharp -- but it only made her more obscene. Her skin shone with sweat, flushed pink along the crease of her inner thighs, where the glimmer of arousal had begun to drip in slow, lazy trails.

Her pussy was swollen.

The lips parted just enough to show the soft, pulsing heat within. Shit, her clit peeked out, flushed and trembling. Shit, her arousal had soaked the entire seam of her thong -- and now, without it, the wetness spread down the inside of her thighs, sticky and shining.

Andrew let out a slow breath behind her.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick, quiet, and sharp. "Wet like a slut--"

Rosa moaned -- not in shame, but something far worse.

Far better.

Shit, her head dropped between her shoulders, and she let out a soft, shuddering breath that sounded dangerously close to surrender. Shit, her hips shifted back -- involuntary, instinctive -- presenting herself even more fully.

And her thong stayed there.

Red and drenched, wrapped around her knees like a symbol of what she was becoming.

What she already was.

"Get on your knees," he murmured, voice low, steady.

Rosa hesitated -- just for a breath -- then obeyed.

Her hands released her ass, and she straightened slowly, her thighs slick, her thong still tangled around her knees as she turned and lowered herself down. The cold tile kissed her skin as she knelt before him, hair messy, cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths.

"Take your top off."

Her fingers shook slightly as she reached for the hem of her tank -- damp now with sweat, clinging to the heavy curve of her breasts. She pulled it up slowly, revealing the soft underside of her belly, the deep crease below her ribs. Her nipples were already hard beneath the fabric, and as the tank lifted, they sprang free -- fat, heavy, low-swinging tits that trembled with every movement.

She was bare now.

On her knees in her own laundry room, breasts exposed, thighs parted, thong bunched useless at the base of her legs.

Shit, he stood in front of her, watching her. Then, without a word, he undid his belt -- slow -- the sound of the buckle sharp in the quiet.

Shit, her eyes flicked up.

His zipper slid down.

And then his cock was out.

Long.

Thick.

Heavy.

It didn't spring -- it swung, hard and full and veined, the head flushed dark and gleaming. The sight of it made Rosa's lips part, her breath catch. God, she'd seen it once before, outlined in his sweatpants when he'd sat on her couch -- but this... this was real. And it was big. Bigger than she'd imagined. Bigger than she'd taken in years.

Shit, he stepped forward.

And without warning, he slapped her face with it -- once, twice -- the wet head smearing across her flushed cheek, leaving a streak of warmth and slickness in its wake.

She gasped.

Her eyes fluttered closed. But she didn't pull away.

He let it rest there -- his cock laid heavy across her face, the thick shaft stretching from her mouth to the edge of her cheekbone, his scent filling her nose, hot and primal.

"Beg for it," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

The weight of him stayed there--

Hot.

Throbbing--

Commanding.

And Rosa... just knelt.

Tits bare. Mouth trembling.

The head of his cock resting across her lips like a question she already knew the answer to.

His hand reached down, slow and deliberate, tangling into her hair -- thick, warm fingers threading through the golden strands like reins--

He gripped tight at the base of her skull.

Not cruelly.

But firmly.

Like he owned it now.

"Try again," he murmured, voice dark and calm. "Beg. Like a bitch who knows what's resting on her face."

Rosa's breath caught.

Her lips were parted -- his cock still resting across them, thick and pulsing, the weight of it pressing against her cheek. The scent of him filled her nose: skin, sweat, something sharp and masculine. Her nipples throbbed, tight and flushed, swinging slightly with each panting breath.

She blinked up at him, helpless. Hungry.

"Please..." she whispered. "Please, let me have it."

He tightened his grip, tilting her head back until she was forced to look up at him, her mouth still brushing the underside of his cock.

"Not good enough," he said, gaze cool and steady. "You're kneeling half-naked on a laundry floor with your tits out and your pussy dripping. You can beg better than that."

Rosa whimpered.

The pressure of his hand held her in place -- not hurting, just controlling, as if the act of holding her hair meant she couldn't think without permission.

"Please," she said again, louder this time. "Please let me taste you. I need it. I need your cock. I want to suck it. I want to serve it."

Andrew smirked -- slow, smug, proud.

"Good girl."

The words hit her like a jolt -- not mockery, but praise. Intimate. Unforgiving.

He stroked her cheek with the thick shaft, dragging the wet head across her lips again, marking her skin.

"That's it," he murmured. "Sounding like the little house-pet I always knew you were. Look at you. Hair in my hand. Pussy soaking the floor. All for a cock you were never supposed to want."

Her eyes fluttered closed.

Her cheeks burned.

But her thighs opened wider.

"You like being talked to like this?" he asked, letting the head of his cock tap her mouth twice -- rhythmic, possessive. "Like a good little bitch who knows she was meant to kneel?"

"Yes," she whispered, throat tight. "Please... I'm begging. I'll be good. I'll do anything."

He grinned.

And leaned down slightly -- just enough for her to feel his breath hot against her face--

"Then open up."

Her mouth opened, lips glistening, eyes wide with anticipation and something closer to need. She tilted her head back further, throat exposed, blonde hair twisted tight in his fist like a handle.

Andrew didn't say a word.

He just stepped closer.

The heavy head of his cock nudged against her lips -- slick, flushed, already smeared with her spit. She kissed it instinctively, then again, softer, reverent. Then he pressed forward.

Her lips stretched.

First the head, thick and blunt, slipping over her tongue with a wet, yielding sound. She moaned around it, the vibrations low and desperate. Shit, he didn't thrust. Not yet. Shit, he fed it to her -- slow, deliberate -- letting her feel the width of it, the weight.

More.

Deeper.

Her lips sealed around the shaft as he pushed, inch after inch, her jaw straining, saliva beginning to slick the corners of her mouth. The deeper he went, the louder it got -- the obscene wet suck of her mouth trying to handle him, her throat fluttering as the head kissed the back of it.

God, she gagged.

Just once.

He paused -- just for a beat -- letting her adjust.

Then her hands came up on instinct, bracing against his thighs, fingers curling, and she pushed forward into him. She took him deeper, her eyes watering, her breath quick and desperate through her nose.

"Good girl," he said softly, watching her mouth stretch around him. "That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

Shit, her throat opened.

The sound was wet, thick -- gagging, slurping, a messy, lewd symphony of effort and submission. Spit spilled down her chin, trailing along her neck, dripping onto her tits. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, gagged again, then swallowed around the head, the noise raw and helpless.

He gripped her hair tighter.

Not pulling -- anchoring.

Guiding.

She was moaning now, loud and constant, as her face moved with his rhythm -- slow, deep glides of his cock along her tongue, in and out of her warm, sucking mouth. Her lips clung to him on every pull back, her throat fluttering every time he bottomed out.

Shit, her mascara was smeared.

Her jaw trembled.

Her tits bounced with each controlled thrust.

And still she took him.

Hungry.

Desperate.

Obedient.

He pulled back with a slick, wet sound -- his cock leaving her mouth glistening, stretched, her chin painted with spit. She gasped, lips still parted, tongue twitching like her body didn't want to let go.

"Turn around," he growled, voice rough with need.

She obeyed immediately.

No hesitation now.

She turned on her knees and leaned forward, bracing her palms on the cold tile, ass lifting, legs parted, the soaked strip of red lace still twisted around her knees like a leash. Shit, her breasts swung heavy beneath her, nipples hard, her back arched beautifully -- the full swell of her ass exposed, glistening with sweat and leaking arousal.

Andrew knelt behind her.

His hand slid up between her thighs, fingers spreading her open, revealing the flushed, swollen lips of her pussy -- slick, glistening, hot to the touch.

She whimpered.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, watching a fresh string of wetness drip slowly from her cunt to the floor.

He dipped two fingers in without warning--

Rosa gasped.

Her hips jolted forward, but he gripped her by the waist and pulled her right back, holding her in place as his fingers pushed deeper -- thick, deliberate thrusts that squelched audibly in the tight, soaked heat of her body.

She moaned low, her head dropping between her shoulders--

"That's right," he growled. "You're dripping. All over the fucking floor. You like being fingered like a bitch in heat, don't you?"

"Yes," she breathed. "God, yes..."

He added a third finger, twisted them deep -- curling until her legs buckled.

Then he grabbed her hair.

A rough fistful at the base of her skull -- yanking her back, forcing her arch even deeper. Her spine bowed, her ass lifted higher, her pussy stretched open and pulsing around his hand.

And then he was there.

Pressing against her.

The fat, wet head of his cock nudged her entrance -- just once, just enough for her body to flinch.

"Hold still," he hissed.

And he slammed into her.

Shit, he slammed into her -- hard, thick, burying himself in one brutal stroke that knocked the breath from her chest.

Rosa screamed.

Not in pain.

In shock-- In fullness. In something deeper -- a shattering moan that echoed off the tile as her hands clawed at the floor, her body rocked forward from the force of it. Her ass bounced back, soft and wide, absorbing every inch of him with a wet, obscene sound.

He grunted, teeth clenched, one hand still in her hair, the other gripping her hip like he was anchoring himself in the heat of her body.

And then -- slowly -- he let go of her hair--

Both hands slid down to her ass.

He spread her ass deliberately.

Thumbs pulling wide, her cheeks parting in his grip until her most private places were laid open under the harsh white light.

Her pussy was flushed, stretched wide around the base of his cock, slick with a sheen of arousal that coated her thighs. But above it -- just a breath higher -- her tight little hole pulsed, perfectly framed, twitching faintly with every thrust.

"Look at that," he muttered. "So fucking tight."

Rosa whimpered.

She tried to turn her head, but he shoved it back down.

Then -- without warning -- he leaned forward and spat.

A thick rope of saliva landed directly on her twitching little star.

She gasped -- the sudden heat, the humiliation of it--

He didn't wait.

His thumb dragged through the spit, slow and cruel, circling the puckered ring of muscle with a lazy, wet press--

Her whole body tensed.

"Andrew--"

"Shh," he growled. "You can take it."

And then he pushed.

Shit, her scream cracked through the room.

His thumb pressed past the tight resistance, wet and relentless, breaching her slowly -- stretching that tight, untouched hole as her hips bucked beneath him, her ass quivering, trying to pull away and press back at the same time.

It was snug.

Slick with spit and arousal.

His cock still drove into her soaked pussy, deep and steady, but now his thumb was buried in her ass, circling gently, pressing deeper--

She was gasping, sweating, trembling around him.

Her voice was raw and high, words broken between moans.

And still -- she held herself open.

Because she wanted this--

All of it.

Rosa's body trembled beneath him -- ass spread wide, the slick heat of her cunt still clenching around the thick length buried inside her.

Her breath came in shallow bursts. Every thrust made her body lurch forward, tits swaying, her knees slipping slightly on the tile, the wetness between her legs smearing against the insides of her thighs.

Andrew leaned over her -- one palm still gripping the soft flesh of her hip, the other sliding up her spine with slow, claiming pressure. His fingers traced her skin like he was marking her, memorizing every tremble.

"You're moaning like you want to be ruined," he murmured against her ear, his voice low, gravel-wrapped, thick with heat.

"I... I can't stop," she gasped. "I don't know what's happening to me..."

"You're being used," he murmured, biting the words into her neck. "That's what's happening. You're being taken like you've needed to be for years."

God, she whimpered.

And it was true.

Every controlled movement, every slow grind of his cock deep in her soaked heat made her forget who she was -- forget the house, the ring, the quiet dinners, the folding piles of laundry behind them.

Here, she was just a body.

A dripping, panting, stretched-open body, bent over the washing machine with her thong around her knees and a cock driving into her so deep she couldn't think.

Shit, he moved his hand back down to her ass, spreading her again with deliberate force. Shit, her breath hitched as cool air met slick, flushed skin.

"You feel that?" he growled, letting one finger trace the tight, sensitive spot above where he filled her. "You're shaking-- Your whole body's begging to be opened."

Rosa moaned -- louder now, reckless.

"Say it."

"I want it," she whispered, face buried in the crook of her elbow. "God, I want it so bad."

Andrew smiled -- dark, triumphant.

Shit, he held her hips steady, rocking forward again, hard and deep, letting her feel every inch grind against the softest, rawest parts of her. His other hand slid up again, wrapped in her hair, tugging her back to him.

"You were made for this," he said, panting against her ear. "To be bent, wet, opened, and owned."

God, she cried out -- no words now, just breath and heat and trembling thighs, her cunt fluttering around him like it was trying to pull him even deeper.

And he gave her what she begged for.

Every inch.

Every word--

Every slow, merciless thrust that said: You're mine now.

Her scream cracked through the room.

Not from pain alone -- but the stretch, the shock, the impossibility of it. His cock pressed forward, thick and relentless, spreading her inch by slow, brutal inch. Her asshole clenched tight around the invading girth, fluttering helplessly as her body struggled to open.

"Fuck--Andrew--" she gasped, fists clenched against the floor, her knees slipping on the tile as her breath shattered.

He growled behind her, one hand gripping her waist, the other sliding up her spine, steadying her, holding her right where he needed her.

"Take it," he hissed, voice thick with lust and something darker. "Feel what it means to be used--"

God, she sobbed -- raw, guttural, not resistance, but need. Her body jerked forward, but he held her there, forcing her to stretch, to feel every slick, pulsing inch grind deeper into her virgin hole.

Shit, her pussy -- still dripping from the relentless fucking -- clenched uselessly, empty now, slick arousal trailing down her thighs as her ass was forced to take over. She didn't know if it was pleasure or humiliation or something older -- but it was electric. Shit, her nerves screamed, her spine bowed, and still he pushed in.

Shit, her ass swallowed him slowly. Not all at once. Not easily. But fully.

"Deeper," she whimpered. "God... please, go deeper..."

Andrew moaned. Loud. A sound that shook his whole chest.

"You filthy fucking thing," he said, voice trembling. "You like this? Being split open where you swore no one would ever go?"

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes--yes, I'm yours--fuck my ass--"

And he did.

He started to move. Short, brutal thrusts, fucking her just a few inches at first, letting her adjust -- then more. Then harder. The slap of his hips echoed through the room, obscene and merciless. Her cheeks bounced back against him, flesh jiggling with every impact, her asshole stretched wide and quivering around the thick intrusion.

Her face was wet with sweat and tears and something like joy.

Shit, her cunt was soaked -- untouched, desperate -- clenching at nothing as her ass took everything.

He leaned over her, breath hot against her ear.

"You were made for this," he growled. "Not a wife. Not a housekeeper. A fuckhole. A dripping, spread, ruined little hole. Mine."

Her body shattered on the sound of that word.

Mine.

God, she screamed.

Came.

Unbidden, uncontrollable -- her body convulsing beneath him, juices squirting down her thighs as her pussy contracted around nothing, her ass clamping down around everything.

He let out a ragged, guttural sound--more growl than word--as he drove into her, hard, his balls tight against her skin, cock buried to the hilt.

She felt it instantly the thick pulse.

The deep, urgent twitch.

And then, He came hard.

Thick. Endless. Pouring into her with each pulse, flooding her deeper than she'd ever been touched. God, she collapsed beneath him, panting, trembling, face pressed to the cold tile as the weight of him stayed buried inside.

The room went silent, save for the sound of their breath -- ragged, animal, spent.

She didn't speak.

She couldn't.

His hands dug into her hips as he drove into her from behind -- thick, relentless, using her ass like it belonged to him. Rosa's body jerked forward with every thrust, her palms flat against the cold kitchen tile, her knees wide and slipping just slightly from the force of his pounding. Her asshole stretched wide around the thick girth of Andrew's cock, every brutal inch dragging across nerves that had never been touched like this before.

He grunted low behind her, his breath heavy with control. "You feel that?" he rasped, his voice raw. "That stretch? That's what your ass was made for."

Rosa sobbed -- not from pain, not anymore -- but from the blinding heat rolling up her spine, curling under her skin, blooming deep in her belly. Her face was flushed, mouth slack, breath hitching in high, desperate little moans.

"Ah--ahh--fuck--" she choked, her words catching on the rhythm of his thrusts.

Her tits swung beneath her, heavy and uncontrolled -- thick, natural, dripping sweat, bouncing wildly with each hard slap of his hips against her wide, shaking ass. They slapped together with a deep, wet sound, the soft weight of them swaying forward then back as her whole body rocked beneath him. Her nipples were dark and flushed, long and swollen, swinging in the humid air with each brutal motion. One nearly brushed the tile as her arms buckled, her body unable to keep up with the force of the pounding.

The slap of skin was obscene.

Wet. Animal.

Her ass cheeks spread wide from the grip of his hands, jiggling with every thrust. His cock was buried to the hilt, driving into her like he was trying to fuck the last inch of dignity out of her -- and she was letting him. Begging for it.

"Oh god--oh god, it's too much--" she moaned, her voice broken, teetering between shame and craving. "It's--so deep--fuck, I'm gonna--"

Andrew didn't slow.

He sped up.

Long, brutal pumps that made her whole body slap forward, tits bouncing violently, sweat flinging from her chin as she gasped for air. Her thighs quivered, her cunt drooling down her leg, untouched but soaking -- her pussy clenching, begging, fluttering in the void.

"You love this," he growled, leaning down over her back, cock still slamming into her ass-- "You love being used here. Say it."

Rosa wailed -- voice thin, high, cracked from moaning.

"I love it--oh fuck, I love it--my ass is yours--"

Her back arched deep, her body offering him everything. Her tits bounced once more, heavy and wild beneath her, nipples swinging like ripe, used fruit.

And he kept pumping.

Harder.

Deeper.

Worse.

Just like she needed.

He slammed into her one final time -- deep, brutal -- his hips locked tight to her ass as his whole body shuddered. A strangled groan ripped from his chest as his cock jerked inside her, thick spurts of cum flooding her tight, trembling hole. Rosa gasped -- she could feel it, the molten weight of it, the sudden stretch as her body tried to hold it all in. Her asshole clenched around him instinctively, milking him, sucking every last pulse straight into her guts.

"Oh god," she whimpered, her cheek pressed to the floor, her legs spread, shaking-- "I feel it--oh fuck--I feel all of it--"

Andrew was panting, hunched over her, cock still buried in her ass, twitching as the last few dribbles leaked into her. His grip on her hips loosened but didn't let go. He stayed in. Possessive. Claimed.

And Rosa--God, Rosa couldn't take it.

Her hand shot between her thighs, fingers finding her clit in an instant. Slick, swollen, desperate. The pressure was unbearable -- the feeling of being stretched open, filled, ruined -- and now, finally, the relief of touch.

God, she rubbed tight little circles, fast and vicious, her fingers soaked before they even began. Her breath hitched, and then caught entirely.

"Fuck--fuck--I'm gonna--"

Shit, her thighs trembled violently. Shit, her stomach clenched. Shit, her toes curled against the tile as her whole body twisted under him -- hips rolling back, trapping his cock deep inside her ass while her fingers worked her clit like a woman possessed.

Then she broke.

Rosa came hard.

Her cry was high, raw, feral -- her body convulsing beneath him, ass still spread wide, cunt gushing against her own hand. Her muscles spasmed, milking his cock as she climaxed, wave after wave crashing through her, slick dripping down her thighs, pooling beneath her knees.

Andrew didn't move.

He stayed inside, watching her come undone, watching the ripple of her orgasm take her whole body like a storm.

And when it passed -- when her gasps turned to soft, broken whimpers and her hand slipped away, fingers glistening -- he finally pulled out. Slowly. Wetly.

His cum leaked out behind him, a thick, obscene trickle down the back of her thigh--

She collapsed fully then, cheek resting on the tile, eyes half-lidded, a dazed, wet smile on her lips.

Minutes passed in silence -- just breathing, cooling sweat, the weight of what they'd done still thick in the air.

Eventually, Rosa shifted. Her body heavy, sore, satisfied.

They dressed slowly, quietly.

She pulled her tank top back over her tits without a bra. Her nipples still peeked through the fabric, swollen and dark. Her jeans clung tighter now, her ass red and tender beneath the denim. Andrew adjusted himself, his sweatpants still damp at the waistband, the ghost of her warmth lingering in every step he took.

Neither of them spoke.

But both of them knew they'd never be the same.

Andrew stood near the kitchen doorway, shirt wrinkled in his hand, eyes still fixed on her. Rosa leaned back against the counter, her cheeks flushed, her tank top sticking to the sweat along her belly, her jeans barely zipped. Her hair was wild. Her nipples still hard. The scent of sex lingered between them -- thick, private, unmistakable.

He cleared his throat, reluctant.

"I should go," he murmured, his voice low.

Her eyes lifted to his, and something softer passed across her face. She didn't argue. She didn't beg. She just stepped toward him, slow and barefoot, and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Then she kissed him.

Not a frantic kiss. Not a goodbye.

It was slow. Hot. Her lips lingering against his. Her tongue barely grazing his bottom lip. A whisper of heat and salt and ownership. When she pulled back, her mouth was close enough that he could still taste her breath.

"I want you again," she whispered, her fingers still at the hem of his shirt. "Not just the fucking. You-- That mouth. That weight. That cock. Everything."

Andrew's throat worked, but no words came.

He kissed her cheek once. Then her lips again -- quick, this time, like it hurt to stop.

And then he turned.

The door clicked behind him.

And Rosa stood there, bare feet cooling on the tile, the ache of him still deep inside her, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.