Hammering Out Temptation

I never thought I'd be the kind of woman who hires the neighbor kid to tear apart her kitchen and ends up with his cock down her throat, but here I am, confessing every filthy detail because keeping it locked inside was burning me alive. After the divorce papers were signed last spring, I felt like a ghost in my own skin. Forty-two years old, two decades of marriage that had dried up into polite silence and separate beds, and suddenly I was rattling around this old house with its avocado-green cabinets and cracked linoleum, wondering if anyone would ever look at me like I still had heat left in me. The kids were grown and gone. My ex had already moved in with his yoga instructor. I poured myself a glass of wine most nights and stared at the outdated kitchen like it was a metaphor for everything stale in my life.

Marcus lived next door. Twenty-four, fresh out of some trade program, always outside fixing his truck or hauling lumber for side jobs. I'd watched him all spring—broad shoulders, that easy grin, the way his jeans hung low on his hips. When he offered to help me rip out the kitchen for a fair price, I told myself it was practical. Summer was already sweltering, the house needed work, and God knows I couldn't afford a full crew. Sophie, my best friend since college, raised an eyebrow when I mentioned it over coffee.

"The hot neighbor?" she said, stirring her latte. "Elena, he's practically a baby."

"He's a grown man who knows how to use a sledgehammer," I shot back, trying to sound casual. But even then my pulse did a little skip. Sophie noticed the lingering looks later, of course. She always does.

The first morning he showed up in a tight white T-shirt and work boots, tool belt slung low, I felt ridiculous in my old tank top and shorts. I was suddenly aware of every soft curve the divorce had left me with, the way my breasts strained the fabric, the faint lines at the corners of my eyes. Marcus just smiled that charming, open smile and said, "Mrs. H—Elena—we're gonna make this place look brand new. A woman like you deserves better than this dump."

We started demo that afternoon. Crowbars, hammers, dust everywhere. The banter came easy. He teased me about my weak swing, I teased him about being too pretty for construction. Then, while we were hauling out a chunk of counter, he leaned in close, sweat already darkening his collar, and murmured, "You know, a woman like you deserves to be handled properly. Not left to rot in a kitchen that hasn't been fucked in years."