Anita’s pov
“She’s gone,” I said the second the front door clicked shut and Leah’s car pulled out of the driveway.
Afternoon light poured through the kitchen windows and the house felt bigger without her in it.
Marcus stood at the counter pouring a glass of water like nothing had happened in the car an hour ago, like my shorts weren’t still damp from his fingers.
He set the glass down and looked at me. “Friends’ lunch. She’ll be gone in a couple hours at least.”
“So it’s just us.” I walked into the kitchen and hopped up on the island, legs swinging, the same shorts from earlier riding high on my thighs. “Are you going to keep being polite or are we done pretending?”
Marcus leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, that careful forty-three-year-old face still in place. “We’re talking. That’s all.”
“Talking about nothing,” I said. “That’s what this is. Silence doing all the work while you stare at my legs.”
He didn’t deny it. His eyes stayed on the bare skin between my shorts and my knees. “You always sit like that when you’re alone with a married man?”
“Only when the married man spent the whole drive with his fingers inside me.” I spread my knees a little wider on purpose. “You left me dripping, Marcus. I had to walk into that café smelling like sex.”
He pushed off the counter and came closer, still moving slowly, still careful. “You cleaned my fingers with your mouth. Don’t act like you didn’t want it.”
“I wanted more.” My voice came out lower. “You stopped. Drove me there. Made me put the shorts back on. Now we’re standing in this big quiet kitchen and you’re still pretending you’re just being nice.”
He stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could see the pulse in his neck. “Your sister’s not here. That doesn’t mean I forget she’s my wife.”
“Then why is your dick hard again?” I nodded down at the front of his jeans. The outline was thick and obvious, pressing against the fabric the same way it had in the car. “Polite men don’t get hard just from talking about nothing.”
Marcus let out a short breath. “You’re trouble.”
“You’re the one who offered the ride. You’re the one who told me to take my shorts off. You’re the one who said the pool is still happening tonight.”
I leaned back on my hands, chest pushed out, nipples already tight under the tank top. “So talk. Tell me about the weather. Tell me about work. Keep being careful while the silence does whatever it wants.”
He stepped between my open knees and rested both hands on the island on either side of my hips.
The heat of him hit me right away. “You still smell like me.”
“Because you fingered me until I was a mess and then made me sit in it.” I locked my ankles behind his thighs and pulled him closer.
The hard line of his cock pressed against the crotch of my shorts. “Feel that? That’s what talking about nothing does.”
Marcus’s hands moved to my waist, thumbs sliding under the hem of my tank top. “Leah could come back early.”
“She won’t. You know she won’t.” I rolled my hips once, slow, dragging my wet shorts against the bulge in his jeans. “Are you going to keep standing there being careful or are you going to do something about the fact that I’m soaked again?”
He pushed the tank top up and over my tits, leaving it bunched under my arms.
My nipples were already hard and dark. He stared at them for a long second. “These are bigger than I thought.”
“You can touch them. They’re not going to bite.”
His hands came up and cupped both, heavy and warm, thumbs dragging over the tips.
I moaned and pushed into his palms. He pinched one nipple, then the other, watching my face the whole time.
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Harder.”
He pinched again, rougher, and I felt the pull straight down to my clit. My shorts were ruined, the fabric sticking to my pussy.
Marcus dropped one hand and shoved it between my legs, rubbing over the wet spot.
“Still this wet from the car?” he asked, voice still calm, still careful even while he was feeling how soaked I was.
“I never dried. You made sure of that.”
He yanked the shorts and panties to the side and slid two fingers straight into me. I was so slick they went in easily.
He pumped them slow, curling, while his other hand kept working my tit. The wet sounds were loud in the quiet kitchen.
“Listen to that,” he muttered. “Your pussy’s louder than you are.”
I laughed, breathless, and rocked against his hand. “Then make it louder.”
He added a third finger and stretched me open, thrusting deeper. My head fell back and I gripped the edge of the island.
Every time he pushed in I could feel how hard he was against my thigh, the thick shape of his cock begging to get out.
“Take it out,” I said. “I want to see it.”
Marcus hesitated one second, that polite careful part of him still fighting, then he undid his jeans with one hand and shoved them down enough to free his cock.
It was thick, darker than the rest of him, the head already shiny with precum.
I reached down and wrapped my fingers around it, stroking once, feeling the heat and the weight.
“Jesus, Anita.” His voice finally cracked a little. “Your hand feels better than it should.”
“Wait until it's in my mouth. Or my pussy.” I squeezed him tighter and kept stroking while he fucked me with his fingers.
The kitchen smelled like sex now. My juices were running down his wrist.
He pulled his fingers out, shiny and dripping, and rubbed the wetness over the head of his cock, mixing us together.
Then he stepped closer, lined himself up against my open slit, and just rubbed, not pushing in, just sliding the thick head up and down through my folds, coating himself.
“You feel that?” he asked, still using that careful tone even while he was painting my clit with his precum. “That’s what you do to me. Forty-three years old and I’m standing in my own kitchen about to ruin everything for a nineteen-year-old who can’t keep her legs closed.”
“Then ruin it.” I hooked my ankles higher and tried to pull him in. “Stop talking about nothing and put it in me.”
He held back, the head of his cock resting right at my entrance, pressing but not entering. His breathing was heavier now. “Not yet. Not here. Not while she could walk in.”
“Then where?”
“Pool. Tonight. Like I said.” He gave one more slow drag of his cock through my wetness, then stepped back, tucking himself away with visible effort.
My pussy clenched around nothing, open and dripping onto the island.
I stayed there, legs spread, tank top still up, shorts shoved aside, staring at him. “You’re really going to leave me like this?”
“Yes.” He wiped his hand on a kitchen towel, the careful polite mask sliding back into place even though his cock was still clearly hard in his jeans. “Clean yourself up. She’ll be home soon enough.”
I slid off the island on shaky legs, the wetness running down my inner thighs. “You’re an asshole.”
“I know.” He poured another glass of water like nothing had happened. “But you’re still meeting me at the pool after she falls asleep. Aren’t you?”
I pulled my tank top down and fixed my shorts, the fabric immediately sticking to me again. “Yeah. I am.”
The front door was still closed. The house was still quiet. The silence between us felt heavier than any conversation.
Marcus looked at me over the rim of his glass, eyes dark. “Go change before she gets back. And Anita?”
“What?”
“Don’t touch yourself upstairs. I want you still this wet when I finally fuck you.”