Helping Hands and Forbidden Touches

Vanessa stood barefoot in her kitchen, cursing under her breath as cold water seeped from the cabinet beneath the sink and soaked the old towel she had shoved underneath. Forty-two, newly divorced, and alone in the quiet suburban house that still smelled faintly of her ex-husband’s cologne, she felt every year of neglected desire press against her skin. Her tank top clung to the heavy curves of her breasts; her yoga pants hugged an ass that had only gotten fuller since the split. She twisted the wrench again, uselessly, and water sprayed her cheek.

A knock sounded at the open back door. Bruno leaned against the frame, twenty-four and already filling the doorway with that easy, athletic bulk. Dark skin gleamed under the afternoon light, tank top stretched across a chest built from endless gym sessions, basketball shorts hanging low on narrow hips. He grinned, white teeth flashing.

“Saw you wrestling that thing from my yard,” he said, voice deep and warm. “Want a real hand, Vanessa?”

She wiped her face and tried not to stare at the thick veins running down his forearms. “I was managing.”

“Looked like it was managing you.” He stepped inside without waiting, crouching beside her. The scent of his skin—clean sweat and something darker—hit her immediately. When he reached under the sink his shoulder brushed her thigh. Heat shot straight between her legs.

They bantered while he worked the pipes. She made a joke about being helpless now that she was single; he looked up at her over his shoulder, eyes dragging slowly over her tits, her waist, the soft swell of her hips.

“Helpless is the last word I’d use,” Bruno said. “Those curves look like they know exactly what they’re doing.”