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“Oh, thank God,” Nat says as she opens the door. “You’re here to look at the A/C, right?”
The handsome man on the other side of the threshold looks surprised at her question for a moment, then his mouth turns up in a smirk as he looks her over; he starts at her face then his eyes go down, skimming over where her sundress exposes her cleavage and stops high on her thighs. “Yup,” he replies, popping the p with satisfaction as he looks at her face again. “Can I come in?”
“Wait. Can I see some ID to make sure you’re who the landlord sent?”
He leans against the doorframe, casual, still eyeing her a bit more than is strictly polite, as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket. His driver’s license gets passed between them, the brush of their fingers sending a thrill through her palm.
“Bradley Bradshaw,” she reads, skeptical. It’s exactly what a fake ID made by a serial killer would read. Still, she hands it back and beckons him in.
His footsteps echo on the hardwood floor as he follows her from the entryway to the bedroom. The temperature is noticeably higher in here, and it’s been that way for the past few days since the “worst heat wave San Diego’s ever seen” hit. The built-in wall A/C unit had just stopped, not with a bang or with a whimper, but just stopped dead in its tracks and hadn’t restarted, no matter how much begging Nat and her husband had done.
“It’s right over there.”
Bradley follows where she points, crouching down to investigate it. He pulls off the cover of the unit, looks around, touches some stuff, deft fingers working for a while. She takes the opportunity to appreciate the strong breadth of his shoulders and the flex of his forearms from the back, what her mother would call a “solid man”. It takes about 3 minutes before he pulls back and announces, “That should do it. Should be back on in an hour.”
“You sure?” Being in the bedroom instead of the living room (where she and her husband have been sleeping on account of the somehow still functioning unit in there) has sweat starting to pick up at her hairline and around her nose.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, standing up straight so he can place his hands on his hips. “Anything else I can take a look at for you?”
Nat thinks for a second, then gestures for him to follow her again, which he does, dutiful, to the house’s tiny kitchen. She opens the door to the freezer, which is mercifully still working and pulls out the ice cube tray and bin, then offers it to him.
Bradley looks between her and the tray, her and the tray, his eyebrow raising incrementally with every glance.
“I could use your help,” she tells him around a smile, “cooling down in the meantime.”
His small smirk turns into a full-blown one as he looks down at her, pupils wide. “Sure. I can help with that.” Bradley steps in closer, hands carefully taking the ice from her. His look so much bigger than hers, long thick fingers molded around the tray. He dips his head just a little. “Where do you want it?”
Everywhere, Nat thinks, knowing she’s wound tight from the heat wave and wanting any relief at all. It’s not just about the promise of the ice actually doing its job, it’s about the attention that will draw her own away from the temperature itself, the welcome and necessary distraction.
She returns his smirk as she pulls him in by the waist, hand grabbing indelicately at the thin white cotton fabric of his shirt until he’s flush against her. He smells like sweat and cologne, but mostly sweat, and she loves it. She leans up as he leans down, and the kiss is hardly a kiss: it’s immediately filthy, tongue against tongue. Bradley backs her up against the counter behind her, puts the tray down next to her, and uses one free hand to cup the back of her neck and tangle with the few stray hairs she hadn’t been able to pull up into her ponytail.
Bradley pulls back just enough to ask, “Here?”
“Right here,” Nat affirms, tilting her head back.
He takes the cue and smears a kiss below her jaw, then down to the hollow in her collarbone. Her dress is clinging to her, but Bradley peels the thin straps down and guides her arms out, then attaches his lips to the top of her cleavage. He gets the top of her dress down under the curves of her breasts and, right as he’s about to wrap his lips around a nipple, says, “Sorry, I don’t think I asked for your name.”
Teasing fucker. Nat winds a hand into his curls, damp at the root with sweat, and tries to direct him back to her chest. “It’s Natas—ooh!”
He throws her off course by circling an ice cube around her other nipple, the one not mere centimeters away from the heat of his mouth. The jolt of cold sends her arching into his touch, her hand convulsing against his scalp. He grunts, grins against her skin before he laves his tongue against her, his mustache tickling her just a little.
The ice doesn’t take long to melt against her, leaving her shivering from both his touch and the temperature — hot and cold, cold and hot. “That feel good?”
“Fuck,” she manages to get out, despite watching him pick up another ice cube and switch which nipple gets it. He actually winks up at her, self-satisfied, as the prickle of his teeth into the soft, sensitive skin of her breast makes her moan out, makes her hips widen so she can hook a leg around him and bring him as close as possible. He’s hard in his shorts, and at this angle, he’s pressing up against her thigh, heat palpable even through the denim. “Fuck,” she repeats, her other hand clutching at his bicep at the overwhelming onslaught of contrasting sensation.
After that cube melts and she melts along with it, Bradley keeps going down, down. Another cube between her breasts while he nips his teeth down the center of chest, down to her stomach, leaves a hickey right beside her belly button while he tugs at her nipples with cold fingers. She pushes him further; the thud of his knees against the tile is gratifyingly loud. His hands curve around her thighs before he pulls her hand from his arm and directs it to the skirt of her dress, an unsubtle prompt to hold the fabric up so he can —
“Jesus Christ, you’re wet,” Bradley groans. She looks down at him, which only seems to spur him on to say, “No underwear. You were just waiting for the handyman to get here to take care of this? Husband doesn’t do it for you?”
Nat grits her teeth at the new surge of arousal that zings through her at that. The idea of her doing nothing around the house she shares with her husband, all in anticipation of a stranger fucking her up against the kitchen cabinets, is so lewd that she has to nod, just a little. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Bradley repeats, voice a rumble against her inner thigh. He grabs another ice cube, pops it into his mouth for a few seconds while he props one leg over his shoulder. She’s still wearing her wedges, and the thick platform digs into the middle of his back. He spits the ice cube out, presses it to her inner thigh, chases it with a kiss.
The sound she makes when he first presses his freezing lips to her clit echoes around the room.
She’s happily speechless after that. Everything narrows to her awareness of where Bradley is sucking and licking, lapping up her wetness and adding more in fluctuating degrees of cool and cold, depending on if he’s just sucked the ice cube between his lips or has given it a minute to melt in his mouth; the variety is enough to keep her free hand clenched around the edge of the countertop, the other holding him right up against her pussy. She thinks she catches him mutter “fucking gorgeous” as he slips two cool fingers into her, no resistance at all.
It’s unbearable after a very short amount of time: she needs to come, desperately. There’s sweat rolling down her back, helping her dress stick to her skin where the fabric is puddled between her chest and hips, and she feels soaked and sensitive between her thighs. He’s not looking at her anymore, eyes closed, totally focused on eating her out and thrusting his fingers deeper inside her than she can usually reach.
Bradley curls his fingers just right and sucks on her clit with just the right amount of pressure, and she feels her entire body liquefy abruptly into a shaking pool of desire.
He works her through it, unrelenting, until she’s at the edge again and she nearly rips some of his hair out in her sudden pull to get him up. Nat needs him, not just his mouth. He obliges, leans his entire body against hers, solid and blazing, and he kisses the breath out of her. He tastes distinctly like her before she turns her head and licks up his neck, taken by the tang of his sweat along the scars there. When he groans, she feels it in his throat, the vibration encouraging her to say, “Fuck me.” It’s hard to do, but Nat shifts in his arms, pressing her bare ass against the denim he still has on. “C’mon.”
As she braces herself with her forearms on the counter and pushes back against him, she looks over her shoulder, only to see him starting to pull his shirt off. “Don’t,” she instructs. “Just pull your pants down and fuck me. C’mon.” He takes his sweet time, a smug little grin on his face, before the expression is wiped off his face and replaced by a slack-jawed lust when she says, sweetly, “My husband will be home any minute and I don’t want him to catch us.”
“Okay,” Bradley says quickly; she watches as he tugs his zipper down, pushes his shorts down and gives himself a stroke. She wonders if he’s flushed dark at the tip, if he’s wet with precome just for her, but those thoughts float away the second he curls his fingers around her shoulder for leverage. “Good?”
“Do you need me to ask you to fix my plumbing too, or —”
In the middle of his breathless chuckle, he lines them up and pushes in. It’s a stretch, sure, but Nat is so wet and keyed up that she works her hips back to take more of him. His hand on her shoulder flutters, fingers letting go before digging back in, and he presses his face against the opposite side of her neck. “Yeah, I’ll fix you right up,” he says, hot breath skirting across her cheek, and then he moves.
It’s delicious. The pace he sets is hard and fast, just what she needs, and his hand bunched in her dress at her waist is pulling it taut. Everything feels so fucking good. She tries to tell him so, but her breath keeps getting punched out of her in almost embarrassingly loud ah-ah sounds.
When she does find the strength to tell him something, it’s not what she’d intended. “The — ice,” Nat says, one hand scrabbling towards the tray. It’s mostly melted by now, but she grabs a cube and runs it around one nipple, jerking in Bradley’s hold.
“Fuck,” he groans from behind her as he does the same and presses some of the remaining ice against her lower stomach. His front is a sweltering furnace pressed against her from her neck to the small of her back; his dick is rearranging her insides with his steady, deep strokes; and his fingers are cold and just barely touching her where she needs him the most. “You feel so incredible like this.” He leans over closer, like that’s possible, his necklace pendant brushing over her shoulder blades with every thrust.
Nat drops her head, tries to chase the sensations — forward, backward, hot, cold — and pushes back on him with what little leverage she has, her wedges trying to slip on the tile despite Bradley’s best efforts to keep her upright and straight.
“Natasha? You alright?”
His pace falters just enough for her to snake her warm hand back and grip the outside of his thigh; the denim scrapes under her fingertips. “Don’t stop.”
“Yeah,” Bradley agrees and gets back to it.
He keeps going, keeps drenching her in icy water to make her even more sensitive. Fast because like she said, her husband could be home at any time; hard, his hips and hands feeling like they’re going to bruise her. On one particularly hard drive into her, his fingers slip just a half-centimeter downward, just enough to ghost over her clit; the pads of his index and middle finger, still cold from the last cube, circle around it.
“Don’t stop,” she tells him again, and he doesn’t. Not a bit. Keeps his pace, might even pick it up, but it never falters, and he doesn’t slow, and he doesn’t stop, and she needs to come again, needs to feel him come inside her, needs him everywhere. “Please don’t stop.”
Bradley seems to get how close she is, how she just needs one last push. He crowds in closer, nudges her face towards his so he can kiss her. It’s that, the simple slide of their tongues, that makes her fall apart.
She hardly registers the groan from his mouth, the way he presses their lips together as he comes deep inside her, the slide of him out, the feel of his fingers pushing everything that wants to leak out back in with a pleased little sound from him. All she knows is that she’s wet and sticky and utterly satisfied.
Nat takes a minute to gather herself, then says, over her shoulder, “You can leave out the back door.” She nods in the direction of it, gives him a relaxed smile. “Thanks for all your help today.”
Bradley adjusts himself: he pulls his shirt back down (though she savors what she sees of his happy trail), tucks his softening dick into his boxers, zips his shorts up. Her eyes track back up to his face, flushed, mouth wet, hair still mussed. And, of course, there’s the sweat. He’s covered in it, dripping from the tip of his nose, puddled in his collarbone. He looks damn good. She’s tempted to keep him right where he is, but that isn’t a good idea.
“Give me a call if you need a hand with anything else,” he says with a wink before he leaves.
Nat’s just turned on the faucet for the bath when there’s a knock at the back door. When she opens it, Bradley’s there, grinning like an idiot.
“Guess I can check ‘housewife’ off my fantasy list,” he says with a bright, breathless laugh. “Where’d that idea come from?”
Now that she’s out of her wedges, she has to really lean up to kiss him. He still tastes like her. “No idea. Popped into my head a couple minutes after you left for Home Depot.”
“I liked it. Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, let me check your pipes next time.”
Both laughing, he follows her into the bathroom and whips his sweat-soaked shirt into the hamper while she tests the water. It’s just a shade cooler than lukewarm. “Wait, so — did you actually fix the bedroom unit, or?”
Bradley — shirtless, his gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand glinting in the overhead light of the bathroom — sighs, cards a hand through his hair. “Nah, that was pretend.”
“What about the store? Did you get a new one?” Nat pushes her dress down and steps out of it, finally, though both of them being fully clothed had been incredibly hot in more than one way.
“All sold out, everyone’s trying to get one,” Bradley says as he gets out of his shoes, shorts and boxers in haste. “I’ll go back tomorrow first thing in the morning.”
“Christ.”
“Yup.”
“Grab the other ice cube tray from the freezer, I’m burning up.”
Bradley pokes his head back into the bathroom to ask, “Thought I cooled you down?”
“You did a great job,” Nat says, fully meaning it, “and you distracted me from the fact that it’s basically 100 degrees inside our house.”
Bradley’s cheeks go that shade of pink she loves. “Okay. Getting the ice!”
When he leaves, she sinks into the bathtub, smirking at the two rings she sees on her hand: his mother’s engagement ring and the gold band that matches his. “Be quick, my husband’s coming home soon!”
His steps quicken on the way back in so he can drop a couple cubes in and settle in behind her.
“What are the odds you wear an apron when I get home from the store tomorrow?” he asks as he tugs her to lie back against him.
“Slim to none, baby. More ice!”