Electrician’s Filthy Kitchen Conquest – chapter -1

“Fuck me right here.”

The words leapt from Sarah’s mouth before her brain could censor them, hanging in the air between her and the electrician. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the stark kitchen light.

Leo, on his knees before the open panel, didn’t even look surprised. A slow smirk spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his tool belt. “Right here on the cold tile, Mrs. Henderson? Or did you have somewhere more… comfortable in mind?”

She’d been watching him for an hour. Watching the corded muscles in his forearms flex as he worked, the way his worn jeans stretched taut across his thighs when he crouched. It was a useless appointment, a call about a flickering light in the kitchen her husband, Mark, could have probably fixed. But Mark was at the office, buried in spreadsheets, and the house felt so terribly, unbearably quiet.

She’d offered Leo a drink. Water. He’d taken it, his calloused fingers brushing hers, and a jolt, raw and electric, had shot straight through her. It wasn’t a flicker from a faulty wire. It was a live current, connecting directly to the numb, lonely core of her.

“The tile is fine,” she breathed, her voice husky, unfamiliar even to herself.

Leo rose to his full height, and he was so much bigger up close. He smelled of clean sweat and fresh air. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. He just looked at her, his gaze a physical weight trailing from her flushed face down to her trembling hands.

“Tell me why,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Tell me why a woman like you wants a man like me to fuck her on her kitchen floor.”

The vulgarity from his lips made her knees weak. Mark spoke in corporate platitudes and polite requests. This was different. This was real.

“Because you look at me,” she whispered, the confession torn from her. “You see me. Not the wife. Not the hostess. You. You look at me like you know exactly what you want to do.”

A low growl emanated from his chest. “I do.” His hands, still faintly smelling of metal and insulation, came up to frame her face. They were rough, wonderfully rough, against her smooth skin. “I’ve been imagining bending you over this fucking counter since I walked in.”

He didn’t kiss her. He tilted her head back, his thumb tracing the frantic pulse in her throat. “I’m going to ruin this pristine little world of yours, Sarah. You sure you’re ready for that?”

A yes was all she could manage, a choked, desperate sound.

That was all the consent he needed. His mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn’t a gentle exploration; it was a claiming. A hot, hungry invasion of tongue and teeth that tasted of mint and man. One hand fisted in her perfectly styled hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp into his mouth. The other slid down her back, palming her ass through her tailored slacks, squeezing hard.

She clutched at his shoulders, the rough cotton of his shirt grounding her as the world tilted. He walked her backward until the cold, hard edge of the granite countertop bit into her lower back. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Turn around.”

She obeyed, her movements clumsy with need. She bent over the cool stone, presenting herself to him. She heard the clink of his tool belt hitting the floor. Then his hands were on her hips, yanking her slacks and underwear down to her knees in one brutal, efficient motion. The air felt shockingly cool on her exposed skin.

“So fucking perfect,” he muttered, his voice thick with want. One hand smoothed over the curve of her ass, a possessive, approving stroke. The other hand slipped between her thighs from behind. She jerked as his fingers found her, already slick and aching for him. “God, you’re wet. Soaking for me already.”

His fingers weren’t polite. They drove into her, two thick digits curling deep, finding a spot inside her that made her cry out, a raw, unfiltered sound she didn’t recognize as her own. He worked her with a relentless rhythm, his thumb circling the swollen, hypersensitive nub of her clit. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful in its intensity, radiated out from his touch, a white-hot circuit connecting every nerve ending.

“That’s it,” he grunted, the sound vibrating against her back. “Let me hear you. I want to hear how much you like my dirty hands on your pretty married pussy.”

She was beyond words, reduced to a series of ragged moans and whimpers, pushing back against his hand, fucking herself on his fingers. The structured, controlled life she lived evaporated. There was only this. This raw, gritty, magnificent need.

He withdrew his fingers, and she whimpered at the loss. The sound of a zipper. The rustle of clothing. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cock, nudging against her entrance. He was thick, so much thicker than Mark.

“You want this?” he growled, not moving, letting the unbearable anticipation build. “You want me to fuck this sweet, greedy cunt?”

“Yes! God, Leo, please…” she begged, the words mangled.

He didn’t make her wait. He drove into her with one long, deep, devastating thrust. She screamed as he filled her, stretching her, the sensation so intense it bordered on agony for a split second before melting into the most profound, complete pleasure she’d ever known. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips flush against her ass, and held there for a moment, both of them panting.

Then he moved.

He set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust a jolt that shook her entire body. His grip on her hips was iron, holding her in place as he pounded into her. The kitchen echoed with the sound of their bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, her choked sobs of pleasure, his guttural grunts.

“You take my cock so fucking good,” he rasped, leaning over her, his chest hot against her back. “Could feel you clenching around me the second I walked in. Knew you needed this. Needed to be filled up, fucked proper.”

His words were filthy, degrading, and they lit a fire in her belly. He reached around, his calloused fingers finding her clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles that matched the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. The dual assault was overwhelming. The coil of tension in her lower abdomen wound tighter and tighter, a live wire about to snap.

“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, the admission torn from her. “Leo, I’m gonna…”

“Do it,” he commanded, his voice rough in her ear. “Come all over my cock. Show me how much you love your husband’s electrician wrecking this perfect little pussy.”

The crude permission was all she needed. The orgasm detonated, a silent, searing explosion that wiped her mind clean. Her internal muscles clamped down on him in violent, relentless waves, her vision whiting out at the edges. Her cries were muffled by the cold granite beneath her cheek.

Feeling her convulse around him, he let out a choked roar. His thrusts became erratic, frantic. He pistoned into her one last, deep time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his own release crashed over him. She felt the hot, wet pulse of him filling her, a possessive, final claim.

They stayed like that for a long moment, slumped over the counter, both breathing like they’d run a marathon. The smell of their sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of lemon polish.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of her. The loss of him felt immense. She heard him adjusting his clothes. She stayed bent over, unable to move, her body humming, her mind blissfully, terribly empty.

He turned her around, his touch surprisingly gentle now. He cupped her face, his thumb wiping a tear she didn’t know she’d shed from her cheek. He looked into her dazed eyes, a smug, satisfied smile on his face.

“The light’s fixed,” he said, his voice back to that low rumble.