I find myself putting away clean dishes. I wipe down every surface: the counters, the table, the sideboard, even though they’re already pretty clean. I find myself on the back porch with a broom in my hand, sweeping at the light dusting of bright green pollen that’s collected in the corners, because I feel like a shark: if I stop moving I might die.
The porch is practically sparkling when I hear the scrape of the screen door opening.
“What the hell are you doing?” asks Daniel’s slow, deep voice.
I turn, the broom still in one hand.
“There was pollen?” I say.
“Yeah, it’s outdoors,” he says, and then he’s crossing the porch to me, taking the broom from my hand, tossing it down with a clatter. “Who are you, Cinderella?”
He grabs me by the waist, sliding his hands up my ribcage, and already I’m hanging onto his shoulders, the thick muscles there moving and flexing under my hands.
“You just think that because I’m so meek and tidy,” I say, and he laughs.
“My two favorite things about you,” he teases, his nose brushing mine, his fingers finding the bare skin on my back. “You never speak your mind and you’re never a mess.”
I kiss him, and this time it’s like floodgates open. He leans into me, pushes me against the porch railing, the wood solid against my back. I wrap an arm around his shoulders and an arm around his waist and already the kiss is deeper, hungrier, my tongue against his.
Daniel sinks a hand into my hair, tilts his head, presses himself against me. I realize with a warm jolt that he’s already hard, his length pressing against my hips, and the knowledge is a shockwave. I pull him even closer, hook two fingers through a belt loop and tug.
He crashes against me, a low sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He skims one hand along my thigh, grabs my skirt in his hand, hikes it until his fingers can steal underneath it and I sigh.
I reach a thumb underneath his shirt, right above the waist of his pants, brushing the fuzz there and the kiss slows, suddenly less furious as Daniel’s hand moves to my inner thigh and I shift my stance, hoisting one leg, a noise escaping my throat.
“What was that?” he teases, his lips still brushing mine. Now my hand is fully under his shirt, and I can feel the vibration of his voice there.
“Shut up,” I whisper, taking another kiss.
His thumb brushes the edge of my panties, and I bite his lip, but he doesn’t go further. I’ve got one foot propped against the porch railing, my knee against his hip, balancing on one leg. Daniel presses into me again, harder, his thumb still teasing at me, his length like iron.
Then he pauses. His thumb sneaks under the elastic of my panties, the pad rough against the soft skin of my hip.
“This was a bad idea,” he says.
I go rigid instantly, his thumb still stroking my hip underneath my underwear.
“What?”
“I thought this would work better,” he says, and lets me go.
For a second, I’m completely dumbfounded, and then Daniel catches my hand, backs up, pulls me along.
“Daniel, what the fuck are you—"
He backs up against the wicker couch, sits, pulls me so I’m straddling him, my skirt covering his lap.
“You’re an asshole,” I laugh, his hands already up my skirt.
He grabs my hips and pulls me down, against him, and I have to bite my lip so I don’t make a noise.
“Why, you don’t think this is better?” he says.
I kiss him again. I can’t stop. I roll my hips against his erection, separated by what feels like a hundred layers of fabric, the friction delicious. He pushes back, sits upright, anchors me tightly to him. For one wild second I think we could just do it right here. I’m wearing a skirt. There’s no one around, the farmhouse surrounded by forest.
Except Rusty’s upstairs, asleep, and sometimes kids wake up.
Daniel breaks the kiss. He leans back, heavy-lidded eyes looking up at me, one hand on my ribcage as his thumb traces along the bottom of curve of one breast. I’m breathing hard, and with every swell of my chest his hand moves more until he’s cupping me with one hand, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“You are wearing a bra,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
“Of course I’m wearing a bra,” I say, my own hands on his chest.
“I couldn’t tell,” he said. “It drove me crazy all day long.”
“You think I’d go cake tasting with no bra on?” I tease, bending down. He palms my breast harder, grins, shrugs.
“I entertained the thought,” he says. “And I kind of enjoyed imagining that your nipples were just one layer of fabric away.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble,” I murmur, teasing.