“I want you” he tells you, his voice deep, firm and sincere, the tone in his throat confident and relaxed yet strict with expectation, commanding and demanding. His hunting eyes fixing with yours, committed and unflinching, their hazel heat igniting, so intense your heart blushes and rushes with panic.

“He’ll be home soon” you protest, pleading with defiance, the epitome of innocence, and yet he senses a quivering in the delivery, apologetic and helpless, an adulterer’s confession, knowing full well your disobedience is far from negotiable.

“I don’t care” he defies you, stepping forward, his bright eyes breaking over you like rolling ocean waves crashing onto a body of softened sand, his hands slow in their motion, unbuckling his jeans.

Your thoughts muddle, words failing to form as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth and step toward him, drawn by the gravity of his demanding physique, your hands coming alive, fumbling with his, mirroring his intent, eager to unfasten his belt, your eyes intimately tied with his, your energies interwoven through chords of light.

Relieved of their undertaking, his hands slip around you and pull you to him, your body softening, melting into his arms, your kiss, breathless, full and deep, your tongues and mouths wet with wild wanting.

Eyes closing, fusing from within, your hands busily push their way down inside his jeans, easily finding his hardness, unencumbered, naked and firm.

Your thighs soften, seduced by the curling touch of your fingers closing around his girth, gripping against his manhood and taking the firm weight of him in your hands. 

He reaches his hand into the full head of your hair and grips tight, a begging, burning bright light of white ignites behind your eyes as they flash open, finding him, your kiss breaking with his, your full lips wet with breathlessness.

Your mind tumbles. A flash of fantasies, one hidden within another, and then another. Losing your strength to his, your insides flushing, rushing and softening, your knees trembling as they soft buckle, your thigh bones melting with the thought of his hands, rough and firm, turning you, pushing you over the island counter of your kitchen.

His palms spreading, possessive, pushing your dress up onto your hips, his fingers grabbing at the sodden gusset of your spoiled, sex soiled knickers, tugging them aside, pressing his cock to the split of your tightness, then fucking you roughly against these cabinets.

In your fevered mind your flattened breasts press through your dress, pushed down into the counter-top, your grip reaching for the farthest edge, my fist firmly in your hair, clutching tight and from behind.

You’re begging him to rush, to fuck hard and not risk the front door flying open, for your husband to come stumbling into the hallway with his far away eyes frozen to the horror of your fantasy.

But he doesn’t. Instead he holds the pause between you, savoring the dilemma, his eyes fixing with yours, defiant and demanding, patiently reading the scripts of your imagination before slowly sharing a smile that only you could ever know, one that comes with intimate and guilty knowledge of his knowing you.