I wake up alone. The house still smells like the beer spilled during the game last night. I can hear you whistling. I drag on one of your shirts and go in search of you.
You’re in the middle of the living room putting trash in a large plastic bag. I can’t help but stare. A black bandana on your head, bare chest, sweats sitting low on your hips and a black and white apron that resembles a tool belt.
Every move you make reminds me of how you touch me, your hands on my skin, your arms around me, the nail marks down your back. My mouth waters at the thought of tasting what’s under that apron.
I can’t decide if I want to help you clean so it’s done faster, or make more of a mess so I can watch you some more. To hell with it!
I step up behind you and put my hands on your hips. My lips leave a trail across your back as I pull you closer to me, slide my hands under the edge of your sweats and follow the curve of your hip forward. Your moan drowns out the bag hitting the floor. You’re already hard.