Mark turned the key in the lock, the familiar click echoing in the quiet suburban street. Friday. Finally. The weight of the week pressed down on his shoulders, a dull ache settling behind his eyes. All he wanted was Sarah. Her smell, the curve of her hip under his hand, the specific way she smiled when he walked in.
He pushed the door open and the scent hit him first – garlic, onions, something savory simmering on the stove. Home. And then he saw her.
Sarah stood at the kitchen counter, bathed in the warm late-afternoon light filtering through the window over the sink. Her back was mostly to him. She wore one of his old band t-shirts, stretched tight across her shoulders, and a pair of worn denim jeans that hugged her ass perfectly. He loved that ass. Round, firm, just the right handful. Her blonde hair was pulled back messily, loose strands escaping to curl around her neck. He watched her lean over the chopping board, the movement pulling the thin fabric of her tank top taut across her chest. He knew exactly how full her breasts were beneath that cotton, heavy and soft, her nipples a dark, dusky rose. He felt the familiar stir low in his gut, the weariness of the day starting to melt away, replaced by a growing heat.
"Smells incredible," he said, his voice a little rough.
She turned, a wooden spoon in her hand, a smudge of tomato sauce on her cheek. Her smile was wide, genuine, lighting up her face. "Hey, you. Long day?"
"The longest." He dropped his briefcase by the door, kicked off his shoes. He crossed the space between them in a few strides, needing to touch her. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his chest, burying his face in her hair. It smelled like her shampoo, coconut and vanilla, mingled with the cooking smells. He inhaled deeply. "Better now."
He slid his hands up from her waist, deliberately brushing the undersides of her breasts through the thin fabric. She leaned back against him, a soft sigh
