Heat of the Kitchen
The August sun was relentless, turning the interior of my car into a shimmering sauna as I fought through the Friday afternoon traffic. Every minute spent in the gridlock only heightened the anticipation humming in my veins. I wasn’t thinking about the reports on my desk; I was thinking of my wife, whose touch was my only desire.
When I finally pulled into the driveway, I hurried up to our third-floor apartment, my shirt unbuttoned and my heart racing. As I unlocked the door, my appetite for food vanished, replaced by a far more primal hunger.
I found her in the kitchen, kneeling on the floor to retrieve a fallen spice jar. The curve of her hips in those tight leggings was a siren song. I didn’t say a word; I simply stepped behind her, my hands sliding firmly onto her waist. She gasped, a soft sound of surprise that quickly melted into a moan of recognition as I pressed my chest against her back, claiming her in the quiet heat of the afternoon.