Bored Housewife Takes BBC Plumber

Becky Thompson stood in her sunlit kitchen in a state of mild panic, water gushing from under the sink like a broken fire hydrant. Her husband Mark had been gone for nine days this time—some conference in Chicago—and the house felt as empty as their sex life. At twenty-eight, with a tight body kept in shape by yoga and boredom, Becky had taken to wearing the same tiny yellow sundress for three days straight. It barely covered her ass and made her feel dangerous.

She called the emergency number. Forty minutes later the doorbell rang.

When she opened it, her brain short-circuited.

Jamal stood on the porch like a fantasy that had taken human form. Thirty-two, built like a linebacker who’d discovered the weight room and never left, skin a deep, rich brown. His navy plumber’s uniform looked two sizes too small, the fabric stretched across a chest that could bench-press a Prius. But it was the obscene bulge running down the inside of his left thigh that made Becky’s mouth go dry. The thing looked like it was trying to escape.

“Mrs. Thompson?” His voice was a low, amused rumble. “You got a leaky situation?”

Becky realized she was staring directly at his crotch. She snapped her gaze up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

“Kitchen sink,” she squeaked. “It’s… really wet.”

Jamal’s mouth twitched. “Usually is, with sinks.”

He stepped inside, toolbox in one massive hand, and the crackling tension entered the house with him. Becky’s nipples tightened against the thin cotton of her dress. She hadn’t felt this aware of her own body in years.

Under the sink, Jamal folded his huge frame with surprising grace, ass flexing against his work pants. Becky hovered, useless and horny.

“Can I get you some lemonade?” she asked brightly.

“Only if you’re bringing it in that dress,” he replied, voice muffled by the cabinet.