He smelled like chlorine and sin. She opened the sliding door without a word, letting the heat and tension flood the house with him. He didn’t even glance toward the pool—his eyes were already locked on her thighs, on the curve of her hips outlined by a red bikini bottom so wet it might as well have been painted on. She stepped back, silent, the soft click of her heels echoing across the tile as she led him deeper inside. He followed, towel slung over one shoulder, bulge already obvious through damp shorts that clung to his thighs like they didn’t want to let go.
The kitchen counter caught her first. He didn’t ask. Just grabbed her waist, spun her, bent her forward over the granite like he’d done it a hundred times before. Her cheek hit the cool surface, hands flat, legs parting on instinct. She gasped as he pulled the string of her bottoms—one sharp tug and they were gone. Then his fingers were inside her, slow at first, then ruthless, pressing against her like he owned every inch. She was soaked before he even unzipped. The sound of it echoed in the quiet, that filthy, undeniable wetness of someone who didn’t just want it—needed it.
He slid in all at once, no warning, no mercy. Her breath left her in one long, guttural moan. His grip tightened around her hips, fingers digging into her flesh with the kind of force that would leave bruises she’d stare at later with a trembling smile. Every thrust was a punishment. Every slap of skin on skin a reminder that she was being fucked by a man who cleaned pools but destroyed marriages. Her knees buckled. He held her up. Used her. Slammed into her until her words fell apart and all that was left were raw, broken sounds and half-screamed versions of his name.
When he came, he didn’t pull out. Didn’t slow down. He buried himself so deep she swore she felt him in her chest. Then he pulled back, slapped her ass, and walked out the same way he came in—silent, shirtless, dripping.
She lay there for a long time. Bikini tangled at her ankles. Pool filter still humming outside.