Chapter 2: The Plumber's House Call
The smell of dank, standing water had seeped into everything. Sarah stared at the murky pool gathering under her sink, a sense of profound defeat settling over her. A week of grueling hours at the DA’s office, of navigating Jeremy’s condescending smiles and the other paralegals’ icy politeness, and now this. Her own apartment was rebelling.
The plumber’s knock was startlingly firm.
She pulled open the door, still in the ratty tank top and cotton shorts she’d slept in, her hair a messy knot. The man filling the doorway seemed to absorb all the light from the hall. He was tall, built like he swung wrenches for a living, with forearms corded with muscle and a faded tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. His eyes, a warm hazel, swept over her, lingering for a half-second on the thin fabric stretched across her chest.
“Matt,” he said, holding up a dented toolbox. “You called about a sink.”
“Yeah. It’s… a swamp.” She stepped back, suddenly hyper-aware of her bare feet, the absence of a bra. “Come in.”
He moved past her, the scent of clean sweat and metal filling the small kitchen. He surveyed the disaster, kneeling to open the cabinet doors. The fluorescent bulb above the sink buzzed and flickered, casting his profile in jagged light.
“Tailpiece is corroded straight through,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Gonna have to replace it. Valve’s kinda sticky, too.”
“Great.” She leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest.
He worked in silence for a few minutes, the clank of tools rhythmic. She watched the muscles in his back shift under his shirt. The memory of the alley, of Mark’s hands and mouth, flashed unbidden—a secret, illicit heat in her belly. She hadn’t heard from Mark since. It was just a thing, she told herself. A one-time, reckless thing.
“Hand me the channel locks?” Matt asked, turning his head.
She fumbled in his open toolbox, her fingers closing around the cold, greasy metal. When she passed it to him, their fingers brushed. A simple, accidental touch. It shouldn’t have sent a current up her arm.
He didn’t let go immediately. His eyes locked onto hers, then traveled down, slowly, taking in the thin tank top, the points of her nipples against the cotton. The air in the kitchen thickened, the hum of the fridge growing louder.
“You’re gonna get cold,” he said, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist.
“I’m not.”
He stood up in one fluid motion, still holding her hand, and crowded her back against the sticky counter. His body was a wall of heat. “You sure?”
She couldn’t speak. She just nodded.
He kissed her. It wasn’t like Mark’s hungry, controlling kiss. This was slower, deliberate, a deep exploration that tasted of coffee and mint. His hands, rough and calloused, slid up her sides, under the tank top, and covered her breasts. He squeezed, not gently, and a whimper escaped her throat. He broke the kiss, his breath hot on her cheek.
“These are fucking incredible,” he murmured, his thumbs circling her nipples. “How does everyone not worship these?”
The question, so blunt and appreciative, undid her. A week of being ignored, of feeling like a ghost in her own skin, dissolved under his rough hands. She arched into his touch, her head falling back.
He didn’t linger. As if driven by a singular purpose, he sank to his knees on the linoleum. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her shorts and her underwear, pulling them down in one swift motion. The cool air hit her skin, then was chased away by the heat of his mouth.
There was no finesse, no tentative exploration. He devoured her, his tongue finding a rhythm that was brutally effective. One hand anchored her hip, the other reached up to knead her breast, his attention never wavering. Sarah gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles white. The flickering light played over his bent head, over the tense lines of her own stomach. Pleasure, sharp and insistent, built low in her core—a foreign, almost frightening sensation. It wasn’t the distant, polite thing she was used to. This was a demand.
She came with a choked gasp, her body buckling. He held her through it, his mouth relentless until she was shaking, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
Before the last tremor had faded, he was up, fumbling with his belt. He turned her around, pressed her chest against the cool laminate of the counter. One broad hand slid over her mouth, clamping down. The other guided himself into her from behind.
The intrusion was a shock, a full, stretching pressure. He didn’t ease in. He drove forward, setting a deep, punishing pace that rattled the pipes under the sink. Every thrust jolted through her. The hand over her mouth muffled her cries, turning them into desperate, humid vibrations against his palm. She could see their reflection, distorted and hazy, in the toaster—a tangle of limbs under the dying light.
Her second climax hit like a seizure, silent and overwhelming, wringing a tight, internal pulse around him. He groaned, a raw sound, and followed her over, his weight pressing her flat against the counter as he shuddered to a stop.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the erratic buzz of the bulb.
He eased back, his hand leaving her mouth. She wiped her lips, her legs trembling. He handed her a paper towel from the roll by the sink, then used several to clean himself up, tucking himself away with a practical efficiency.
“So,” he said, his voice back to its normal, easy tone as he fastened his belt. “Your tailpiece.”
She blinked, disoriented. “What?”
“The pipe. It’s still broken.” He gave her a sideways grin, picking up the channel locks from the floor. “I should probably fix it. That’s what you’re paying me for.”
She laughed then, a shaky, incredulous sound. She pulled her shorts up, her body feeling used and wonderfully loose. She watched him return to the cabinet, getting back to work as if he hadn’t just wrecked her against her own kitchen counter.
He worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, then spoke without looking up. “Ran into my buddy Mark at the hardware store last weekend. He’s a cop.”
Sarah froze, a bottle of cleaning spray in her hand.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.
“He was in a real good mood.” Matt’s voice was light, conversational. “Said he’d had an interesting… patrol. Down by the Laughing Marlin. In the alley out back.”
Heat flooded Sarah’s face, a blush so intense she felt it in her scalp.
Matt glanced up, catching her expression. His grin widened, a flash of white in the shadowed kitchen. “Small world, huh?” He gave a final twist to a new fitting and sat back on his heels, looking at her. “Seems like you have a taste for interesting situations.”
She couldn’t formulate a response.
He stood, washing his hands at the now-draining sink. He dried them on his jeans, his eyes thoughtful as he looked at her. “You know,” he said casually, gathering his tools. “Mark and I, we go way back. We’ve been known to… share similar interests.” He snapped the toolbox closed. The final click was loud in the quiet room. “Might be fun. All of us. Sometime.”
He left the new pipe gleaming under the sink, a bill on the counter, and a silence that throbbed with possibility. Sarah stood in the middle of her kitchen, the ghost of his hands still on her skin, the echo of his suggestion hanging in the air like a promise. The water was gone, but the room felt fundamentally, irrevocably changed.