Plumbing & fucking

The pipes quit on her at the worst hour. Kelly dialled the only plumber her roommate swore by. He showed up in work boots, grease on his knuckles, and a toolbox that clanged when he dropped it by the sink. Three wrench twists later the leak stopped hissing. He wiped his hands on a rag and met her eyes. She still stood there in the silk robe from the interrupted shower, wet hair darkening the collarbone, nipples pressing clear against the fabric. One step closed the space between them. He cupped the back of her neck, thumb brushing the damp hairline, and pulled her mouth to his. The kiss tasted like salt and metal. He lifted her onto the counter, marble cold under bare thighs, and spread her knees with callused palms. The robe parted; cool air met the heat between her legs. He dragged two fingers through her wetness, circled once, then pushed both inside to the second knuckle. She clenched around them, a low sound leaving her throat. He freed his cock with his free hand—thick, veined, the head already slick—and replaced his fingers without hesitation. One long thrust seated him fully. Her back arched; the motion shoved the dish rack sideways and clattered a glass into the sink. He fucked her in steady, measured strokes, one thumb circling her clit each time he bottomed out. Her ankles locked behind him. Sweat gathered along his spine under the work shirt; she raked her nails over it, marking him. The counter edge bit into her skin, but the sting only sharpened the pleasure. She came first, clamping around him, thighs shaking. He followed with a grunt, heat spilling deep inside her. When he eased out, a slow trickle ran down the tile, another leak he didn’t bother to fix.