

When she leaves her door unlocked, she expects only the music and the steam of her shower to fill the empty house. But the front door opens, and her husband’s sudden, silent presence in the bathroom doorway promises a confrontation—until he grabs her, his hunger turning a morning routine into a raw, mirrored claiming.
The front door opens, a sound that shouldn't exist. Elena freezes, towel clutched to her chest, water dripping down her spine. Lucas fills the hallway, his dark eyes not on her face but on the shape of her beneath terrycloth. The air changes—thin, charged, like before a storm. Her skin prickles, a flush spreading from her core outward, her body recognizing his intent before her mind can form a protest.
His hands were on her again before her legs could steady, turning her, lifting her. He carried her from the bathroom not like a bride, but like a prize, his stride purposeful. The hallway mirror flashed her reflection—flushed, dripping, eyes wide with sated shock. He didn't take her to the bed. He took her to the living room floor, where morning light streamed in, and lowered himself over her, his cock already hard again against her thigh. The world wasn't the quiet aftermath; it was the storm deciding to circle back for more.