Chapter 2: The Contractor Returns
The doorbell chimed, a flat electronic buzz that felt alien in the half-built house. Paula padded to the door in her faded grey yoga pants and a thin, wine-colored v-neck, her hair piled in a messy bun. Through the sidelight, she saw Oscar’s truck in the driveway, and her stomach did a slow, liquid flip. She opened the door to find him standing there, a toolbelt slung low on his hips, his white t-shirt dusted with drywall powder. "Hey, Paula," he said, his eyes dropping to the deep vee of her shirt before snapping back to her face. "Sorry to drop by. Gotta check the master bath plumbing before the drywall guys seal it up tomorrow." "Dave’s not here," she heard herself say, as if that were the most important fact. "That’s fine," Oscar said, his smile easy. "Just need five minutes." He followed her up the raw, uncarpeted stairs, his work boots heavy on the treads. The late afternoon sun poured through the bedroom’s uncovered window, turning the floating sawdust into gold glitter and illuminating the stark lines of his shoulders beneath the cotton. He stood in the center of the room, his gaze taking in the progress, the half-rolled scarlet rug. "Looking good," he said, but his voice was a little thick. Paula crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, acutely aware of the weight of her breasts, the dark nipples pressed against the soft fabric. "Yeah," she managed. "You guys are fast." Oscar walked toward the en-suite, his movement fluid. He stopped just inside the bathroom doorway, his back to her. She watched the muscles in his forearms tense as he gripped the doorframe. "Paula," he said, not turning around. "You should probably… not wear that shirt when the drywall guys are here. The dust. It’ll ruin it." The silence that followed was loud, filled with the hum of a distant lawnmower and the frantic beat of her own heart. He was giving her an out, being a professional, a gentleman. And the heat that flooded her, sharp and shameful, had nothing to do with gratitude.
And the heat that flooded her, sharp and shameful, had nothing to do with gratitude.
It was a recognition, plain and simple.
“Right,” she said, her voice barely a scrape. “The dust.” He finally turned, his eyes meeting hers, and she saw it—a flicker of the same knowledge, the same circuit completed. It was there in the slight tightness of his jaw, the way his thumb rubbed against the grain of the doorframe. He didn’t move. She didn’t either. The space between them, ten feet of unfinished floor, seemed to thicken with every silent second.
“It’s a nice shirt,” he said finally, the words falling into the quiet like a stone into deep water. A compliment, or a warning. She couldn’t tell.
“Thanks,” she whispered. He gave a single, slow nod, then turned fully into the bathroom. She heard the metallic clink of a wrench, the groan of a pipe valve being tested. Paula leaned against the bare drywall, the cool paper surface against her back. She pressed her palms flat against it, grounding herself. She could hear him moving, the solid, capable sounds of his work. She could still feel the phantom weight of his glance, exactly where the vee of her shirt plunged. She imagined, just for a second, the dust from his hands on that fabric, leaving ghostly prints. Her breath hitched. Stop it, she told herself. You’re married. He’s working. But the other voice, the one that remembered the Miami beach and the shame that made her wetter, was louder. She pushed off the wall and walked to the bedroom window, looking down at his truck. It was practical, blue, a little rusty near the wheel wells. She wondered what his place looked like. If it was tidy. If his bed was unmade.
“All set.” His voice behind her made her jump. She turned. He was wiping his hands on a rag, his toolbelt buckled again. He stood in the bathroom doorway, a silhouette against the bright white of the new tub. “Pressure’s good. No leaks.”
“Great,” she said, forcing a smile. “That’s a relief.”
He walked toward her, not to her, aiming for the bedroom door. He paused as he passed the scarlet rug. “This’ll look good here,” he said, toeing the edge with his boot. “Warm.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. He nodded, his gaze lifting to hers. The afternoon light caught the flecks of amber in his brown eyes.
“Tell Dave I’ll send the invoice for this phase by Friday.”
“I will.” He held her look for a beat too long, a deliberate, quiet thing.
“Take care of yourself, Paula.” Then he was moving, his footsteps receding down the stairs.
She didn’t follow. She listened to the front door open and shut, the solid chunk of the latch. She listened to his truck engine growl to life, the crunch of gravel as he pulled away. Only then did she let out the breath she was holding. Her body felt charged, humming with a stupid, girlish electricity. She looked down at her shirt. She saw the faint outline of her nipples, dark through the thin material. He’d seen that. He’d definitely seen that. A flush spread from her chest to her throat. She spent the next hour in a daze, wiping counters that didn’t exist yet, rearranging paint samples. The encounter played on a loop in her head. The way his eyes dropped. The thickness in his voice. The warning about the shirt that was not a warning at all. It was an acknowledgment. A shared secret laid bare in the dust-filled air. By the time Dave’s key turned in the lock, the fantasy had already taken root, weaving itself into her nerves.
“Honey, I’m home,” Dave called, his voice echoing in the empty living room. She heard the thump of his laptop bag hitting the plywood subfloor.
“In the kitchen,” she shouted back, though it was just a space with a temporary sink and a cooler. He appeared in the doorway, still in his work slacks and a wrinkled blue dress shirt, his tie loose. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when he saw her.
“There’s my girl.” He came to her, his arms wrapping around her waist, and she melted into the familiar scent of him—cotton, clean sweat, his faint cedar cologne. He nuzzled her neck. “How was the battlefront?”
“Quiet,” she said into his shoulder. “Oscar stopped by.”
“Oh yeah? Everything okay?”
“Plumbing check.” She pulled back just enough to look at his face. His expression was open, curious, no shadow in it. She felt a wild, reckless courage bubble up. She grinned, a big, uncontrollable grin that made her feel fifteen again. “You know who’s hot?” she said, the words tumbling out. She braced, her muscles tensing for a flinch, a frown, anything. “Oscar.”
Dave’s face didn’t fall. It ignited. A slow, deep smile spread across his features, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He let out a soft, knowing laugh. “I knew it,” he said, his voice warm with triumph. His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her tighter against him. She could feel the firm outline of him already growing hard through his trousers. “The way you’ve been talking about the ‘quality of the finish work’?” he teased, nipping at her earlobe. “I had a feeling.”
The relief was so profound it felt like a drug. Paula laughed, giddy, the last knot of guilt dissolving. He wasn’t angry. He was thrilled. He was hard. She kissed him, deep and hungry, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He reciprocated, his hands under her shirt, pushing the fabric up. He broke the kiss, his breath hot on her skin. “Tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me what you thought about when he was here.”
They left a trail of clothes up the raw stairs to their makeshift bedroom—his dress shirt, her yoga pants, her wine-colored v-neck tossed over an exposed stud. The single bulb was on, casting its stark light over the drop cloth-covered mattress. He laid her back, his mouth finding her breasts, his tongue circling one dark nipple then the other. She arched into him, the loud moan escaping her lips before she could stifle it.
“Dave,” she gasped. His hand was between her legs, working her with a rough, knowing pressure.
“I want a story,” he breathed against her damp skin. “Give me the Oscar story.” She was close already, the adrenaline and the permission hurtling her toward the edge. But she held it back. She pushed at his shoulders until he rolled onto his back beside her. She straddled him, her full breasts swaying above his chest. She reached down and took him in her hand, guiding himself to stroke himself as she looked into his eyes. This was their ritual. This was safe.
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice already taking on that low, confessional tone he loved. She began to move her hips in a slow, lazy circle, not taking him inside, just letting the heat of him brush against her. “I confessed I liked him.”
Dave’s eyes fluttered shut, his hand pausing on himself. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I told him. I said I thought about him.” She leaned forward, her breasts grazing his chest. “I went to his house. He showed me around. It was clean. Neat. Like him.”
Dave’s breath hitched. “Keep going.”
“I went into his shower. A glass walk-in. I turned it on. The water was hot. I got my white t-shirt wet,” she said, her words coming faster now, painting the picture in the air between them. “So he could see my tits through it. Every detail. He stood in the doorway and watched.”
“Fuck, Paula,” Dave groaned, his fist moving faster.
“He came in then. I got him in the shower. We got naked. We kissed.” She described the kiss, the taste of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the hard planes of his chest under her hands. She told him how Oscar lifted her out of the shower, water sluicing off them, and carried her to the bed. “He laid me down. He kissed down my stomach. He ate my pussy.” Dave’s eyes were wide open now, fixed on her face, drinking in every word. “He worshipped my clit. His tongue… oh god, Dave… he was so focused. Like it was his job.”
She was rocking against him in earnest now, the slickness between her legs coating him. “Then he got inside me. He was so thick. We took turns. I fucked him.” She emphasized the words, claiming the action. “I fucked him, Dave. I rode him. He grabbed my hips so hard I knew I’d bruise. He slapped my ass.” She mimicked the sound with her own hand on her thigh, a sharp crack in the quiet room. “He asked me where I wanted his cum. My tits or my ass.” She paused, milking the moment, watching Dave’s face contort with pleasure. “I told him my mouth.”
Dave made a choked sound. “He pulled out. He went over to me. He sprayed his cum all over my face and into my mouth. Hot. So much of it. I swallowed it. Every drop.” Her own climax was coiling tight, fed by the story, by Dave’s rapt, desperate face. “We went back to the shower to clean the cum off of me. He sat on the seat in the shower. And I rode his cock again.” She was gasping now, the words punctuating her movements. “I kept saying how rock hard he was. How he stayed so hard for me. I rode him until my legs shook.” She fell forward, her mouth against Dave’s ear. “And the whole time,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “the whole time, I was thinking of you. I was thinking about telling you.” It was the truth, twisted into the perfect shape for them. It unleashed him. With a rough cry, Dave’s body bucked beneath her. She felt the hot pulses against her belly. The sight, the feel of it, tipped her over the edge. Her own orgasm slammed through her, silent for a stunned second before the moan tore from her throat, loud and echoing in the skeletal room.
They collapsed together into the sweat-damp sheets, breathing in ragged unison. Sawdust glittered in the lamplight, settling slowly. Dave’s hand stroked her back, tracing the small lotus tattoo on her lower right hip.
“That was the hottest thing you’ve ever told me,” he said, his voice gravelly with spent passion. She buried her face in his neck, spent and trembling. The fantasy still buzzed under her skin, vivid and alive. It felt different this time. It had a name, a face, a truck in the driveway. It had the weight of a possibility.
“Do you think,” she murmured, the question forming before she could stop it, “that he was flirting with me today?” Dave’s hand stilled on her back. She felt his chest rise and fall in a deep, considering breath. The air in the room changed, charged with a new, thrilling current.
“I think,” he said slowly, carefully, “we should find out.”