When we were done eating, the two of us cleared the table together, moving in a rhythm that felt natural. The clinking of plates, the gentle rush of water from the tap, the faint hum of music still playing in the background — it was domestic in the most dangerously tender way. She passed me a dish towel, and our fingers brushed.
We finished the dishes in comfortable silence. But as soon as the last plate was dry and set aside, I couldn't hold back anymore. I turned, catching her by the waist before she could step away.
"Richard," she breathed, her hands instinctively pressing against my chest.
"Yeah?" I murmured.
Her outfit — that damn sheer lace robe — clung to her body in ways that tested my self-control. Every time she moved, the fabric shimmered against her skin, teasing me with fleeting glimpses of what lay beneath. My pulse quickened.
I wanted to reach for her, to throw her down right there on the dining table and worship her until she forgot her own name.
