The next morning was disarmingly, almost mockingly normal.
Blair stood at the stove in nothing but one of Leo's oversized hoodies—stolen from his room sometime in the night—bare legs gleaming, hair a tousled platinum mess. She flipped pancakes with casual expertise, hips swaying to whatever sultry playlist hummed through the kitchen speakers. When Leo shuffled in, still dazed and sore in all the right places, she glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a lazy, satisfied grin.
"Morning, stud," she drawled, sliding a plate toward him. The pancakes were golden, stacked high, dripping with maple syrup and a dollop of whipped cream that looked suspiciously phallic. She stepped close—too close—pressed her body against his back, and delivered a sharp, playful slap to his ass that made him jolt.
"Eat up. You're gonna need the energy."
She didn't mention the bed. Didn't mention the way she'd ridden him on the floor until the carpet burned his back and her thighs trembled. She just winked, stole a bite from his fork, and sauntered off like nothing had changed—except for the noticeable three-inch lean in her bedroom doorframe when she passed it later, the entire frame now sagging like a drunk leaning on a lamppost.
Leo sat there staring at his pancakes, heart hammering.
He'd crossed the line. Smashed through it. And fuck if it hadn't felt like freedom.
Now his eyes were open—wide, painfully open.
He noticed everything.
The way Sasha's gaze lingered on him across the breakfast table, slow and appraising, lips curving like she was remembering something filthy. The way her fingers brushed his when she passed him the salt, staying a half-second too long. The almost-too-tight hugs when she said goodnight—breasts pressing firmly against his chest, hips rolling just enough to let him feel the heat between her thighs before she pulled away with a sweet, innocent "Sleep tight, little bro."
The desire that had once been laser-focused on Blair now split like a cracked dam—doubling, tripling, roaring through his veins until he could barely think straight.
One humid Thursday afternoon, Sasha was in full crisis mode under the kitchen sink.
She wore cutoff denim shorts so tight they looked painted on—frayed edges riding high enough to show the lower curve of her ass cheeks—and a thin white tank top stretched to near-transparency across her massive tits. No bra. Her nipples were dark, stiff peaks pressing against the cotton, clearly visible every time she twisted.
She was bent over at the waist, ass hiked high, perfect heart-shaped cheeks jiggling slightly as she wrestled with a wrench and a leaking pipe. Grease streaked her forearms and one cheek; a few red curls stuck to her sweaty forehead.
"Stupid fucking thing!" she growled, dropping the wrench with a clang. It rolled under the cabinet. "I swear to God, if this doesn't stop I'm calling a plumber and then fucking him on this counter until he forgets how to charge."
Leo—supposedly "studying" organic chemistry at the kitchen table—hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. His eyes were glued to the way her shorts rode up, exposing the plump swell where thigh met ass, the faint outline of her pussy lips camel-toed against the denim.
He cleared his throat. "Need a hand?"
Sasha straightened, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a fresh grease smear like war paint. She turned, tank top clinging to sweat-damp skin, tits bouncing slightly with the motion.
"Please," she said, eyes hopeful and a little desperate. "I'm about two seconds from bribery-by-blowjob. You're good with your hands, right, Leo?"
He swallowed so hard his throat clicked. "I can try."
He knelt beside her under the sink. Their shoulders brushed. Heads close. The confined space smelled like her—coconut body butter, faint sweat, the warm feminine musk of arousal that had been simmering since she first bent over. His fingers brushed hers when he reached for the wrench. A spark—literal, electric—shot up his arm.
He worked quickly, tightening the fitting, replacing the washer, feeling her eyes on him the whole time.
"Got it!" he announced. The drip stopped.
Sasha let out a triumphant whoop. Before he could stand, she threw her arms around his neck and crashed her mouth against his.
This wasn't tentative. This wasn't exploratory.
This was hunger.
Her lips were soft, full, tasting of cherry ChapStick and desperate need. Her tongue pushed into his mouth immediately, stroking his, claiming him. Leo groaned—deep, broken—and his hands moved on instinct, sliding down her back, cupping the twin globes of her magnificent ass through the denim. He squeezed hard. She gasped into the kiss, arching, grinding her hips against his rapidly hardening cock.