Chapter 2: The Kitchen Spill

Sarah hadn't meant to wake up early, but the ache between her thighs and the way her sheets clung to her skin with a dampness that wasn't just sweat had kept her restless. She tossed aside the covers and padded quietly into the kitchen, tugging her loose robe tighter around her full frame. The morning sunlight filtered in softly through the blinds, casting golden strips across the tile floor and highlighting the curve of her thighs, the pull of her robe at her chest.

She hadn't expected John to be up.

He was leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung joggers that did nothing to hide the thick imprint pressing against the fabric. His chest was bare, tanned and defined, a few small drops of water still clinging to his collarbones from his morning rinse.

Sarah froze, her fingers tightening around the robe's sash.

"Morning," he said, voice husky and still touched with sleep.

"Didn't expect you up," she murmured, stepping around the corner into the room.

His eyes flicked down and slowly back up, not even pretending to hide it. "Didn't expect you to come in looking like that."

Sarah gave a breathy chuckle, her lips curving. "Like what?"

"Like you just rolled out of a dream you didn't want to wake up from."

She swallowed hard, walking past him to the fridge, pretending to be unfazed. But her skin tingled. Every inch of her felt alive under his gaze.

She reached in for the creamer, and as she turned, a misstep had her bumping into him. The creamer tilted in her hand, spilling a milky stream down her robe and onto her chest.

"Oh!" she gasped.

John's hand instinctively reached out, grabbing her elbow to steady her. His eyes dropped to the white trail soaking into the thin fabric. "That… might need cleaning up."

Their eyes met. Her breathing quickened.

He reached for a towel, dabbing at the damp spot, but the motion was slow, deliberate. His fingers grazed the edge of the robe where it clung wetly between her breasts. Sarah let out a shaky breath, not pulling away.

"It's just cream," she said softly, though her voice trembled with something deeper.

"You sure about that?"

She blinked up at him. His face was so close now. His hand lingered a moment longer than it needed to.

She turned and walked away before anything else spilled—her coffee, her thoughts, or her control.

Later that Afternoon

Sarah thought the air between them might settle, but it only thickened. The kitchen tension had followed them into the rest of the house like a scent, impossible to ignore.

She was in the laundry room now, bent slightly over the machine, loading towels. Her robe had been replaced by a tight tank top and shorts that barely covered her.

John stepped in without knocking, holding a basket.

"Need help?"

She straightened, her chest nearly brushing his. "I'm good," she said, but she didn't move away.

"You sure about that?" he echoed from earlier.

They were close again, the smell of fabric softener mixing with his clean, masculine scent. His hand brushed past hers as he loaded a shirt into the washer. She gasped when his fingers accidentally grazed the underside of her breast.

Or maybe it wasn't an accident.

Their eyes locked. No one moved.

Finally, he stepped back, voice thick. "I'll be in my room if you need anything."

Sarah stood alone, heart pounding, nipples peaked and pressed against her tank top, breathing hard and heavy.

Evening: The Heat Returns

Dinner was awkward. Heavy silence wrapped in stolen glances. He watched her mouth as she ate; she watched his hands on his fork.

Afterward, she stood at the sink, washing dishes, her hips swaying subtly to the soft music playing. She didn't hear him approach until his body was close again, not quite touching, but enough that she could feel the warmth.

"Want help?"

She shook her head. "It's fine."

Still, he didn't move.

"That robe looked better with cream on it," he said, voice low.

She turned slowly, dish in hand. "You want me to spill again?"

His eyes smoldered. "Only if I get to clean it up."

Sarah placed the dish down, hands wet and trembling. She looked up at him, her lips parting, about to say something she might regret.

But she didn't. Not yet.

She walked away again, leaving wet footprints on the floor—and heat in her wake.