He’d been with your mom for almost two years now—married for one. You’d always thought he was too young for her, and deep down, you knew he thought the same. But if it bothered him, he never showed it. He didn’t care.

And that was what drove you mad.

You told yourself he was untouchable, that he was supposed to be off-limits. But the forbidden part only made it worse. You didn’t bother with harmless teasing or subtle brushes of contact. No—you were bolder than that. You pressed your lips against his neck when no one was around. You whispered filth into his ear, painting him pictures so vivid that even he—confident, composed, a grown man—flushed crimson.

He never gave in. Not once. At least, not out loud. He kept his walls high, repeating excuses like a lifeline: you’re too young… I’m with your mom… this can’t happen. And yet every time, you saw it—the crack in his composure, the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes darkened for just a second too long.

He was crumbling. He just hadn’t broken yet.

It was a hot afternoon when you found him in the kitchen, fresh from the pool—hair damp, droplets sliding down his shoulders. His swim shorts hung low on his hips, nothing but bare skin above as he leaned casually over the counter, blender humming.

Outside, your mom was still tanning, half-asleep in the sun. Which meant in here, it was just you and him.

“What are you doing?” you asked as you stepped closer, voice light.

He looked down at you briefly, eyes catching the gleam of tanning oil still slick on your chest before he snapped his gaze back to the blender. He swallowed, like he hadn’t meant to look at all, and tried to play it off with a crooked grin.

“Making a smoothie. Obviously.” His tone was casual, too casual. Then he smirked. “Why? You finally ready to try something that isn’t fast food for once?”

You smirked back, leaning one hand against the counter. “Maybe.”

His chuckle was low, but there was tension behind it. His fingers slipped against the blender’s grip, and the machine sputtered violently for a second before a splash of liquid shot out, splattering across his chest.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, fumbling to shut it off. The mess dripped slowly down his skin, cutting a trail along his chest and stomach.

You couldn’t look away.

It was unfair, the way everything seemed to happen in slow motion—the thick liquid sliding down, the muscles in his torso flexing as he cursed, the sharp line of his collarbone catching the light.

He glanced around, searching the counters for a towel, but found nothing. “I’ll just clean up in the bathroom,” he muttered, already stepping back.

But you stopped him.

Your hand wrapped around his wrist, holding him in place. His skin was warm under your touch, his pulse beating just beneath it. You stepped closer, your eyes dropping to the trail of smoothie still gleaming on his chest.

“Why go all the way to the bathroom,” you murmured, your voice low, “when I could help you right here?”

His brow shot up, a warning on his tongue. “Don’t—”

But he didn’t get the chance to finish, because you leaned down, your mouth brushing against his skin before he could stop you.

“Hey—what are you—” His words broke off into a sharp inhale as your tongue dragged over his chest, slow and deliberate.

The taste of fruit and sugar mixed with the salt of his skin. He froze for a moment, his breath hitching, before instinct forced him back against the counter. His hand braced hard against it, knuckles white, as if steadying himself against the pull of gravity.

You followed the trail higher, unhurried, savoring the way he trembled beneath the attention he swore he’d never want. By the time you lifted your head again, your lips glistened and your gaze locked on his.

He looked wrecked—chest rising unevenly, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.

You swallowed, your tongue brushing across your bottom lip before curling into a slow, wicked smirk.“First time your smoothies actually taste good.”