The house smelled like lemon polish and wealth trying not to show off.

It was big but mostly empty like they’d only just moved in and hadn’t figured out what parts they wanted to live in yet. White walls. Pale wood floors. Big glass doors that looked out onto a backyard with a pool the color of glacier melt. Everything inside was sharp-edged and echoey like a magazine spread someone forgot to warm up.

I didn’t mind. It was a babysitting gig, not a sleepover. And they were paying me more than I made all week at Walmart.

Two kids. A boy and a girl: four and five, practically twins in how much energy they burned. They warmed up to me fast. Little desert lizards, darting in and out of rooms barefoot, sticky from watermelon and sunscreen.

Jillian opened the door when I arrived. Sunglasses still on, even though the sun was halfway down behind the mountains. She wore a flowy navy dress with her hair twisted up in a way that said “effortless” but probably took twenty minutes and a YouTube tutorial. She was beautiful in that glossy Scottsdale way: tan, toned, shell-pink nails, some kind of gold charm at her throat.

“This one’s easy,” she said, smiling like she’d just come back from a facial. “Dinner’s done. They know the bedtime routine. If they give you trouble, just threaten to tell me. That usually works.”

She moved like someone who used to model yoga pants and now posts about gut health on Instagram.

Keith came in behind her, rolling up his sleeves and clipping a sleek watch onto his wrist. White dress shirt open at the collar. Sharp jaw. Not freshly shaved, but not lazy either.

He looked tired, in a held-together way. Clean but rumpled. Like the kind of man who could make you feel like the most interesting person in the room, and forget your name by morning.

He smiled at the kids, tossed them a distracted, “Be good, okay?” but didn’t really look at me. Jillian glanced at her phone and said something low to him that I couldn’t hear. He muttered something back, and she gave a tight little laugh.

They were already arguing, I think. Just in that quiet, practiced way married couples do when they’ve had the same fight enough times to whisper it.

They left in a cloud of perfume and something unspoken.

By 7:30, both kids were out cold. A story each, some water, and one round of “but I’m not tiiired” before I tucked them in.

I padded barefoot into the kitchen: white and chrome, like a skincare ad, and helped myself to a Diet Coke. They’d said I could. The fridge was a tower of LaCroix, coconut milk yogurt, and overpriced juice blends. I popped the can and let the cold fizz hit the back of my throat.

It was fully dark now, that soft late-summer heat still clinging to the glass doors. The pool glowed like some secret lagoon, blue and impossibly still.

I curled up on the sofa, legs tucked under me, my favorite old t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. I wasn’t dressed up. Just comfy. Cutoffs and soft cotton. No bra. Scottsdale didn’t need one.

I found some trashy dating show and let it play in the background, not really watching. Mostly just soaking in the stillness. Big-house quiet is a different kind of quiet, like it swallows sound instead of making space for it.

And then I heard the garage.

The mechanical whir. The click of the door.

Then… voices.

Not loud. But tense.

Jillian's voice, sharp like the edge of a manicured nail. Keith’s is deeper, flatter. Trying not to rise.

I muted the TV.

Their words weren’t clear, but the tone was. That weird, cold kind of argument where no one’s shouting but you can feel the heat anyway.

Then the sound of heels. Sharp on tile. Moving fast.

Front door. Slam!

And silence.

My heart did that little fluttery skip, like I’d just tripped but hadn’t hit the ground yet.

I didn’t move. Just listened.

No more voices. No car pulling away. Just the fridge hum, and the distant, steady click of the pool filter outside.

And somewhere in the house, still here… Keith.

Alone.

___ 🐺 ___

I sat there a second, frozen in that weird middle space between curiosity and good judgment. Not that I usually leaned toward the second one.

I took another sip of Diet Coke, staring past the muted TV to the hallway where the front door had just slammed.

Jillian was gone.

Keith was still here.

And I was... babysitting. Technically.

I gave it one more minute, then slipped off the couch. My feet were quiet on the tile as I made my way toward the kitchen, like I was sneaking up on something wild. Or maybe something broken.

The lights were low, just the soft under-glow from the backsplash, casting everything in warm amber. He didn’t hear me at first.

Keith was leaning against the counter, barefoot, shirt untucked, sleeves half-rolled like he’d given up halfway through getting ready. One hand braced on the counter. The other gripping a clear bottle by the neck.

He took a long pull straight from it. Tequila. No lime, no salt, no ceremony.

I hovered in the doorway for a second, then stepped in like I had a reason. Like this was normal.

"You know," I said, voice light but not too chirpy, “most people use a glass.”

He looked up. Didn’t startle. Just blinked like I was a puzzle piece he hadn’t expected.

Then he laughed. Low. Rough at the edges.

"Didn’t think anyone was still awake."

I shrugged, leaning against the island, letting the cool stone kiss the back of my thighs. "Kids are out. I couldn’t sleep."

Not entirely true. But close enough.

He nodded like he knew what that meant.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. Just the hum of the fridge and the scent of agave in the air between us.

Then he held the bottle up toward me.

“Want some?”

His voice was calm. Tired. But there was something underneath it. A flicker. A test.

I glanced at the bottle. Then at him.

And I smiled.

“Sure.”

His eyebrows lifted a little, like maybe he expected me to play innocent. I didn’t. I watched him grab a glass from the cabinet: crystal, stupidly nice, and pour maybe two fingers' worth. No ice. No mixer. Just heat.

He set it on the island between us.

I picked it up, held it to my nose for a second. The smell alone was enough to make my throat prickle. Something smoky. Clean and mean.

I took a sip.

It burned.

I tried not to cough and definitely didn’t let my face show the full reaction, but damn.

“Jesus,” I muttered, clearing my throat. “That’s not the cheap stuff, is it?”

He gave this half-smile, not quite proud. “Nope.”

I took another, smaller sip, letting it warm me slower this time.

Keith leaned back against the counter again, arms crossed, watching me, not in a creepy way, just… curious. Like he couldn’t quite place what I was doing here. Or why I wasn’t running back to the couch like a good little sitter.

After a moment, he said, “Sorry about the… noise.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t hear much. Just… doors. And heels.”

That got a breath of a laugh out of him. Bitter again, but softer this time.

“Jillian’s good at those exits.”

He took another pull straight from the bottle. Didn’t even flinch.

I looked at the glass in my hand, then back at him.

“She coming back tonight?”

It slipped out before I could think better of it. But I didn’t take it back.

He looked at me for a second too long. Then shook his head.

“Probably not.”

___ 🐺 ___

Somehow, we ended up back on the couch.

Keith brought the bottle. I brought my glass. Some baseball game on TV, a replay from earlier. I didn’t care who was winning. The sound was low. Just enough to fill the space between sips and silence.

I sat cross-legged, angled toward him, the hem of my cutoffs creeping up as I shifted. The tequila had softened my limbs, made my skin feel a little more electric, a little more aware of itself.

He sat a cushion away, slouched in that loose, tired way guys do when they’ve given up on keeping their posture polite. His shirt had come untucked on one side, and he’d lost a couple more buttons somewhere between the kitchen and here.

I took another drink. Still burned. Still good.

“So,” I said, letting the word hang a little, “how long have you guys been in Scottsdale?”

He glanced over at me. “Couple months. Moved from Austin.”

I made a face. “Why?”

That got a smirk out of him. “Job offer. And Jillian wanted something... quieter.”

I snorted. “This place is like if a golf course and an Instagram filter had a baby.”

He actually laughed at that. Really laughed.

“I’m stealing that.”

“Please do.” I smiled into my glass. “I’m full of useless wisdom.”

He looked at me again, slower this time. Not like a dad. Not like someone twice my age. More like a man who’d just realized something about the person sitting next to him.

“You’re funny,” he said.

I shrugged, letting my shoulder slide bare again. “I try.”

We lapsed into silence for a minute, watching a double play on the screen like we cared. I wasn’t even pretending to follow it anymore. My glass dangled loosely from my fingers.

“You in school?” he asked finally.

“Yeah. Just started. Freshman year. ASU.”

“What are you studying?”

I made a face. “Communications. Which I’m pretty sure is code for ‘I have no idea what I’m doing with my life yet.’”

That earned another grin. His eyes crinkled at the corners again. He had one of those half-smiles that looked like it hadn’t been used in a while, but still fit.

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Hope so,” I said, stretching my legs out across the rug. “Otherwise, I’ll just keep babysitting for tequila and career advice.”

That made him laugh again, but softer this time. He looked at the glass in my hand, then back at my face.

“You okay to be drinking?” he asked, almost like he remembered he was supposed to be the adult in the room.

I lifted an eyebrow, gave him a lazy little grin.

“I’m drinking, aren’t I?”

His mouth twitched.

“Fair enough.”

I swirled the last of the tequila in my glass, watching it catch the light from the TV.

"You know," I said, not looking at him yet, "this is probably the most fun I’ve had babysitting in… ever."

Keith glanced over, his arm slung lazily along the back of the couch. “Low bar, I’m guessing.”

I shrugged, the motion slow, loose from the drink. “Depends. Some dads are weird. Some moms are worse. Mostly it’s just Paw Patrol and crumbs in my bra.”

That got a laugh. A real one. His eyes stayed on me this time, lingering a second too long. I felt the heat of it and leaned into it without fully meaning to.

“But you…” I glanced at him now, grinning a little, “You’re not so bad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not so bad?”

I nodded, lip caught between my teeth for just a second. “Mmhmm. I mean, you’ve got tequila, you’re not yelling, and you’re…” I trailed off like I’d just caught myself. Then I smiled wider, letting the tease land. “You’re doing fine.”

Something shifted in the space between us.

His gaze dipped— slow, deliberate. From my face to my throat, down the line of my bare arm to my hand curled around the glass. He didn’t say anything. Just looked.

When his eyes came back up, they were different.

Hungrier.

Keith moved closer. Not all the way. Just enough that I could feel the heat off his skin, smell the faint smoke and citrus of whatever cologne was still clinging to his collar.

“You really shouldn’t talk like that,” he said, low.

I tilted my head, lashes fluttering just a little. “Like what?”

He held my gaze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t back off.

“Like you want me to forget how old you are.”

My heart gave a hard thump behind my ribs.

Neither of us moved.

I didn’t smile this time. Just looked at him. Daring. Curious. A little breathless.

And then he kissed me.

No warning. No question. Just heat.

His hand cupped the back of my neck, and his mouth crushed into mine, all fire and need and tequila and something way too messy to name.

I made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and kissed him back.

Hard.

For a second, I froze.

Not because I didn’t want it, but because I did.

Because his mouth was on mine and his hand was in my hair and it was real and hot and happening, and everything in my body was saying yes while my brain barely caught up.

His kiss deepened, rough and full of something he hadn’t let himself feel until now. Not careful. Not sweet. Just need.

When I breathed in, he followed: mouth dragging down the side of my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.

And then we were moving.

My glass hit the rug with a soft thud. His hands were already under my shirt, sliding up over my ribs, my breasts. I arched into his touch before I even realized I was doing it.

He pulled my shirt off in one motion, arms tangled for half a second before it was gone, dropped somewhere behind the couch.

Then his hands were everywhere: palming, tugging, pinching lightly at the sensitive places like he already knew what made me shiver. My nipples hardened instantly, bare and aching, and he didn’t waste time. His mouth closed over one, and I moaned without meaning to, thighs squeezing together under him.

His fingers dug into my hips, dragging me closer. My legs came apart on instinct. My shorts were shoved down, then gone, cool air hitting the slick heat between my thighs like a jolt.

I was half-naked on this pristine couch, breathless and buzzing, and he hadn’t even taken his shirt off.

He didn’t have to.

He was in charge.

Everywhere he touched, I melted. Every time he pulled or bit or sucked, I got louder— and he didn’t stop. He wanted the reactions. Chased them. Controlled them.

“You like this,” he murmured, voice thick, mouth trailing down my belly, hands holding my thighs open.

I nodded, head thrown back, unable to speak.

___ 🐺 ___

Keith didn’t hesitate.

His hands pushed my thighs farther apart, firm and sure, like he’d done this a hundred times but still wanted to savor every second.

Then his mouth was on me.

No teasing. No soft kisses around the edges. Just tongue: hot, slick, and confident, parting me and diving straight in like he already knew exactly what I needed.

I cried out, hips jerking off the couch, but he pinned me with one strong arm across my stomach and kept going.

Every flick, every circle, every press of his tongue was deliberate. Focused. Like I was a problem he was solving, and he wasn’t leaving until it was done.

His fingers joined in: two of them, deep and smooth, crooking just right, finding that spot that made my thighs shake and my breath shallow and my voice catch in my throat.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, one hand in his hair, the other clawing at the cushion behind my head.

He groaned into me like he liked hearing that, like it spurred him on. And he didn’t slow down. Not even when I came.

Especially not then.

My orgasm hit fast, sharp, and hot and huge, rushing up from the soles of my feet and ripping through me so hard I saw stars behind my eyes.

I would’ve begged him to stop if I could speak. But I couldn’t.

He didn’t stop.

His tongue stayed on me, working me through every wave, every clench, every breathless shudder. My legs shook. My fingers twisted tightly in his hair. My body arched off the couch as he dragged it out longer than anything I’d ever felt.

No boyfriend had ever done this. No one had ever wanted to keep going once I came.

But Keith wasn’t stopping.

He was devouring.

And I loved it.

He rose from between my legs like he was coming up for air: mouth wet, eyes dark, his breath hot against my skin.

I was still trembling. My heart was pounding like I’d run miles. My thighs ached and I was soaked, dazed, and wanting.

Keith didn’t speak. Just looked at me, really looked, and then bent down, hands sliding beneath me, lifting me like I weighed nothing.

I gave a little gasp, instinctively wrapping my arms around his shoulders, legs dangling as he carried me across the quiet, dim house.

We didn’t go far.

The kitchen.

He set me down on the island, bare back meeting the cold stone counter, the contrast making me hiss. My hair spilled over the edge, my head tipped back, the world inverted in a slow, thrilling spin.

I blinked up at him, upside-down now, as he stepped beside my head.

His hands went to his waistband.

The button popped. The zipper slid.

His pants dropped around his feet.

And there it was: his cock, half-hard already, thick and heavy and growing with every breath. Just above me. Close enough to feel the heat of it on my lips.

I didn’t wait.

I stretched my neck, tongue reaching up to flick the tip, tasting salt and skin and something more.

He groaned low.

I smiled, lips barely brushing him. Teased again, slower. Licked the underside, featherlight. He twitched in response, and I felt him swell under my tongue.

“You like that?” I murmured, upside down, voice a little breathy.

He didn’t answer. Just reached down and threaded his fingers through my hair, gripping just tight enough to make my pulse jump again.

That was answer enough.

So I opened my mouth wider and let him slide in, slow at first, tasting every inch of him as he hardened fully against my tongue.

Upside down like that, everything felt more intense. Disorienting in the best way.

He groaned again, deep in his chest, and threaded his fingers tighter into my hair, guiding the rhythm back, then forward, a little deeper. I took him in greedily, lips slick and stretched around him, tongue swirling, throat flexing as I adjusted, pushed myself to take more.

My hands gripped the edge of the island for leverage. I wanted to please him. Craved it.

His other hand found my chest. His palm covered one breast, squeezing possessively, thumb rolling over my nipple until it peaked again. Then he pinched, firm and sharp, and I moaned around his cock, the vibration making him hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck, Faye…” he muttered, voice low.

That made me smile, what little of it I could manage, mouth full and jaw aching in the best way.

I moved faster, letting him slide deeper with each thrust. My throat tightened, eyes watering slightly, but I didn’t stop. His grip on my hair pulsed, steady, and his fingers pinched and played with every part of me within reach.

I could feel his hips twitching, feel him getting close.

But then… he pulled back.

I gasped as he slipped out of my mouth, lips wet and swollen, breath catching in my chest. My eyes fluttered open just in time to see him moving.

Around the island.

His footsteps were soft but certain.

And then he was between my legs again, staring down at me, completely naked now, cock hard and heavy, glistening with my spit.

I was sprawled out for him, bare and open, hair messed, thighs parted, nipples flushed and aching.

He stood between my legs, breathing hard, eyes scanning over every inch of me like he was trying to memorize it: skin flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

His hands hovered over my hips but didn’t land.

Not yet.

“Fuck…” he muttered, jaw tense, like he was talking to himself more than to me. “I want to. God, I want to…”

He leaned in closer, forehead nearly touching mine. His voice dropped, raw and rough.

“But I don’t have a condom.”

Condom. The way he said it: low, regretful, very adult, it was like the only part of him still trying to be good.

And I didn’t care.

I was soaked and shaking and still buzzing from the orgasm he’d pulled out of me with his mouth, and I needed him inside me. Needed it bad.

So I looked him dead in the eyes, grinning like sin.

“Then just don’t cum inside.”

Before he could say anything else, I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him in.

He caught himself on the edge of the island, arms braced beside me, eyes burning down into mine.

Then his restraint cracked completely.

He reached down, grabbed himself, and lined up at my entrance.

No more hesitation.

Just heat.

___ 🐺 ___

I felt the head of his cock press against me: hot, thick, and raw.

My legs tightened around his waist, hips rising to meet him without a second thought. I needed him. Not the idea of him. Not the tease. The weight of him. The stretch. The reality.

He pushed in slowly.

God!

My lips parted, a moan catching in my throat as he filled me, inch by inch. He was big, and it had been a while since anything like this. Since anyone like this.

My body resisted at first, tight from want and tension, from how fast it was all happening. But I opened around him, wet and ready, greedy for every inch.

He groaned, deep and broken, as he slid inside.

“Jesus Christ…”

His hands clutched my hips, holding me still as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt.

He didn’t move. Just felt it.

Felt me.

Then he looked down at where we were joined, then up into my eyes like he still couldn’t believe it was happening.

“You’re so fucking tight…” he breathed like the words were being dragged out of him. “God… how are you this tight?”

I couldn’t answer. I was too full, too stretched, too wrecked by the way his cock throbbed inside me.

He rocked his hips forward, grinding deep, and I moaned again, high and desperate and shameless.

He leaned over me, his mouth close to my ear, his voice rough.

“You feel like you’re half my age.”

And maybe I was.

But I didn’t care.

He pulled back just enough to look at me: my flushed skin, the wild, breathless need in my face, and whatever restraint he had left shattered.

His grip tightened on my hips, and then he moved.

Hard.

He drove into me like he couldn’t stop himself, deep and fast, hips slamming into mine with a sharp, wet rhythm that echoed off the kitchen tile. The island rocked under us.

My fingers dug into the smooth counter behind me, bracing as he fucked me like he needed to, like he’d been starving and finally found something worth tasting again.

His breath came hot and ragged. My name slipped from his mouth once, low and rough, just “Faye…” like he couldn’t believe how good it felt.

I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.

Every thrust knocked another moan out of me, high and uncontrolled, my body arching, tightening, pleasure coiling hard and fast in my gut.

He was pounding into me like it wasn’t just about sex, like it was about everything he hadn’t been allowed to want. Everything he’d held back.

His rhythm got sharper, more erratic. He was close. I could feel it: his cock pulsing inside me, his hands gripping too tight, his teeth clenched.

Then…

“Fuck…”

He pulled out fast, just in time.

His cock throbbed in his hand as he came with a low growl, hot ropes of cum spilling across my stomach, my hips, my pussy.

It landed on the counter, sticky and messy, dripping onto my inner thigh.

And then, his cock, still thick and twitching, came to rest right against my clit.

The heat of it. The weight. The pressure.

I gasped, legs still wrapped around him, back arched.

We stayed like that, panting, trembling, dripping in sweat and sex and everything we weren’t supposed to be.

And I fucking loved it.

___ 🐺 ___

I wiped down the counter with one of their too white dish towels, trying to ignore the mess of thoughts racing around in my head.

The island was clean again. My body, not quite. But I’d slipped into the downstairs bathroom, rinsed off what I could, and pulled myself back together. Sort of.

Now I was dressed again: cutoffs back on, my old t-shirt clinging to skin still warm from where his hands had been. My hair was a mess. My mouth swollen.

And Keith...

He stood by the fridge in an oversized gray T-shirt and black boxers, feet bare, eyes darting everywhere but me.

The energy between us hadn’t gone anywhere. It pulsed just under the silence, raw and electric and a little too loud in a room full of quiet.

I tucked my hair behind my ear and glanced at the clock. Almost midnight.

“I should probably get going,” I said softly, avoiding his gaze. “My parents think I’m just watching TV and stealing snacks. If I’m out too late, my mom starts texting emojis like she’s passive-aggressive in code.”

Keith huffed out a breath: half laugh, half sigh, and nodded. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

We stood there for a second too long. Then he walked to the hallway where I’d left my bag and shoes.

I followed. The floor was cool under my feet again, like it had been hours ago.

He handed me my bag, then hesitated. Reached into the drawer near the door. When I looked down, he was pressing something folded into my palm.

It was thick. Paper.

Cash.

“A little extra... for tonight,” he said, voice low. “Thanks. Really.”

I blinked at it. Didn’t count it. Just swallowed the weird twist in my stomach and nodded.

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still not quite meeting mine. “I’ll, uh… I’ll tell Jillian to book you. Next time we need a sitter.”

My mouth twitched. A crooked, tired smile.

“Sure,” I said. “Just maybe not a Friday night.”

That got a real laugh out of him. Soft. Honest.

And then he opened the door.

The desert night hit my skin, cool and dry and full of crickets and distant sprinklers.

I stepped out.

Neither of us said goodbye.

We didn’t have to.

___ 🐺 ___

I got home without anyone noticing.

Slipped through the door, past the hallway light my mom always left on, and padded upstairs like I was still just the good girl with a babysitting gig and a half-finished psych textbook on her desk.

In my room, I peeled off my clothes and tossed them in a pile, not bothering to hang anything. The smell of his cologne still clung faintly to my shirt, and for a second, I just stood there in my underwear, staring at it.

Then I climbed into bed. Sheets cool. The fan spinning above me. My skin still humming.

I lay there, legs curled up, heart finally starting to slow, and reached for my phone out of habit.

Scrolled. Blinked at the time. 12:47.

My thumb hovered over Madeline’s name.

For a second, I almost called her.

Just like we used to. Back when everything felt like a secret and sharing it made it real. We’d stay up whispering into our phones, trading boy stories and wild fantasies like they were candy.

I could already hear her voice: soft, knowing, a little judgy in the way only Mads could be.

But I didn’t hit the button.

She’d just started getting back to herself. I could hear it in her texts lately. Quieter. More grounded. Like the wild had finally started to let her go.

She didn’t need this right now.

So I locked my screen, rolled onto my back, and stared at the ceiling.

The air was still warm. My body was sore in all the right ways.

And my mouth curled into the tiniest, wickedest smile.