Archive of Our Own

The summer had been brutal. Not just the heat, which pressed against the windows of their cramped shared house like a living thing, but the exhaustion. Baby Léo, now four months old, had decided that sleep was for the weak, and Morgane and Karadec were his unwilling hostages.

They fought constantly. About organic baby food versus the jarred stuff. About the brand of nappy cream. About whether Léo's onesie needed to be 100% certified organic cotton or if the 95% blend from the supermarket would suffice. Karadec, the new father, had become a zealot. He pureed his own vegetables. He researched the pH balance of baby wipes. And now, in a fit of domestic ambition that bordered on madness, he had decided to grow his own herbs and vegetables in the tiny, overgrown garden behind the house.

It was three in the afternoon. The sun was a hammer. Léo was finally asleep, his soft snores drifting from the nursery monitor on the kitchen counter. The older kids were at summer camp, all but Thea, who was sprawled on the living room sofa, scrolling through her phone with the magnificent indifference of a teenager.

Morgane should have been napping. Instead, she was standing at the kitchen window, a glass of water forgotten in her hand, staring.

He hadn't noticed her. He was too focused, too lost in his self-appointed mission. Karadec had stripped down to a tight, grey sleeveless ribbed top that hugged his chest like a second skin and revealed arms that looked like they belonged on a much younger man. His golden, tanned skin glimmered with a faint sheen of sweat, catching the sunlight with every movement. His jeans, old and worn and tight in all the right places, sat low on his hips, revealing the toned muscles of his back every time he bent to pull a weed or lift the axe.

He was chopping wood. Chopping wood. In their tiny suburban garden. The absurdity of it would have made her laugh if she hadn't been so busy swallowing.

The axe came down on a stubborn log, and a low groan escaped his lips—a sound of effort, of strain, that went straight to a place Morgane had been trying very hard to ignore for months.

Stop it, she told herself. You smell like baby spit-up and exhaustion. Your hair is in a greasy bun. You're wearing leopard-print biker shorts that have seen better days and a loose top with a suspicious stain on the collar. You are not in any condition to be thirsting over your reluctant housemate.

But then he straightened, pushing his baseball cap back on his head—backwards, because of course he wore it backwards, like a man half his age—and she saw the faint trail of sweat tracing a path down his temple, along his jaw, and disappearing into the edge of his new moustache.

The moustache she had mocked mercilessly.

The moustache she secretly found to be the sexiest thing she'd ever seen, especially paired with the salt-and-pepper stubble of his short beard.

She bit her lip. Hard.

Thea's voice cut through her trance like a knife. "You're doing it again."

Morgane jumped, nearly dropping her water glass. Thea was leaning in the kitchen doorway, her phone held up as if she'd been recording. Her smirk was immense.

"Doing what?" Morgane asked, too quickly.

"Thirsting." Thea gestured towards the window with her chin. "Over Captain Stick-Up-His-Ass. It's embarrassing, Mum. You're practically drooling on the windowsill."

"I am not—" Morgane started, but Thea was already laughing, a delighted, teenage cackle.

"You are! You're standing there, biting your lip, holding a glass of water you haven't drunk from in five minutes. Your pupils are dilated. You have a 'I want to climb him like a tree' expression."

"I do not have that expression!"

"You literally just licked your lips. Twice." Thea was having the time of her life. "It's so primal. You're like a lioness watching a particularly juicy gazelle. Can't keep it in your pants, can you?"

Morgane turned away from the window, fixing her daughter with a glare that had no heat. "You're enjoying this far too much."

"Because it's hilarious. You hate him. You fight about carrot puree. And yet..." Thea nodded towards the window where another low grunt of effort drifted through the glass. "There goes Mum, completely feral."

"I am not feral."

"You just growled a little bit. I heard it."

Morgane threw her hands up. "Fine. Yes. He's... objectively attractive. In a grouchy, organic-obsessed, log-chopping kind of way. That doesn't mean anything."

"It means you want to ride him into the sunset," Thea said cheerfully.

"Thea!"

"What? I'm fourteen, not blind." She pocketed her phone and stood, stretching dramatically. "I'm going to Chloe's room to borrow her charger. You have approximately ten minutes before I come back. Use them wisely." She paused at the door, shooting one last, wicked grin over her shoulder. "Or don't. Watching you suffer is also entertaining."

And then she was gone, the front door clicking shut behind her.

Morgane stood in the kitchen, heart pounding, mortified, and—she had to admit it—achingly, desperately turned on.

She looked at herself in the small mirror by the back door. The reflection was not kind. Tired eyes. Messy bun. A top that had definitely seen better days.

But then she looked past her reflection, out the window, at Karadec. He was now hauling a bag of soil across the garden, the muscles in his back rippling under the tight grey fabric. Sweat had darkened a V between his shoulder blades.

On impulse, she grabbed the hem of her loose top and tied it in a knot at her ribs, exposing a strip of her midriff. It wasn't much, but it was something. She fluffed her hair, tucked a stray piece behind her ear, and pushed open the back door.

The heat outside was a physical wall. She settled onto the tanning bed—a cheap plastic lounger she'd bought years ago—and stretched out, angling her body towards him but pretending to be absorbed in her phone. The sun was warm on her bare legs. She adjusted her leopard shorts, making sure they rode up just a little.

Nothing. Karadec didn't even glance her way. He was facing the opposite direction, his backwards cap bobbing as he dug a hole for what looked like a tomato plant. His focus was absolute.

She cleared her throat. Softly. Then louder.

He adjusted his grip on the trowel, but didn't turn.

Fine. She sat up, making a show of applying sunscreen to her arms, her legs, the exposed strip of her stomach. She used slow, deliberate strokes, letting her hands linger.

Still nothing.

Annoyance, hot and sharp, prickled under her skin. She was not used to being ignored. Especially not by him. Not when he usually looked at her with those tender, careful eyes that made her feel like she was something precious, something he was trying very hard not to touch.

She stood, abandoning the lounger, and drifted closer under the pretense of checking the rosemary bush. She was now within arm's reach of him. Close enough to smell him.

Pinewood. Sawdust. Something clean and sharp and utterly, devastatingly male.

He finally glanced at her. Just a quick flick of his eyes, a sideways glance that took in her tied-up top and her bare legs and the flush on her cheeks. And then—a smile. Not the careful, controlled expression he wore around her. A real smile. Honest. Unshielded.

It lasted only a second before he looked back at his plants, but in that second, Morgane felt something in her chest crack open.

Say something, she willed him. Look at me again. Touch me. Something.

But he just kept working, his movements steady, his attention fixed on the soil. He was being careful. Too careful. He was maintaining the fragile, exhausting balance they'd built over months of forced proximity and stolen, exhausted moments.

Frustration bubbled up, hot and shameful. She was throwing herself at him in her least attractive state, and he was politely, infuriatingly, looking the other way.

She turned and stalked back inside, letting the screen door slap behind her.

The kitchen was empty. Thea's shoes were gone from the mat. The baby monitor showed Léo still asleep, his little chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.

Morgane gripped the edge of the kitchen table and let out a groan—low, frustrated, the sound of a grumpy child who hadn't gotten their way. Her head fell forward. Her knuckles were white on the wood.

Pathetic, she thought. Absolutely pathetic. You're a grown woman. A mother. A genius. And you're pouting because a man didn't watch you put on sunscreen.

She pushed off the table and poured herself a tall glass of water, drinking it in long, greedy gulps, trying to cool the fire under her skin.

She didn't hear him come in.

The first sign was the shift in the air—the temperature dropping, the pressure changing. Then the soft thud of work gloves hitting the counter. The creak of the floorboards.

She turned.

He was standing by the sink, his back to her, running water over his hands. The grey sleeveless top was damp with sweat, clinging to the broad planes of his back. His biceps, still glistening, flexed as he scrubbed the dirt from his fingers.

He hadn't noticed her watching. Or maybe he had. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost lazy.

She turned back to the counter, gulping her water again, trying to seem casual. Her heart was a wild drum in her chest.

Behind her, the water stopped. She heard him dry his hands, the soft rasp of the towel. Then footsteps. He was moving towards her, not directly, but along the counter, reaching past her for the water pitcher.

His arm brushed her shoulder. Barely. A whisper of contact.

But his body—his chest, his hips—hovered just behind her. Not touching. Just... there. A wall of warmth. A cage of presence.

Morgane closed her eyes. His smell invaded her nostrils—pine and sun-warmed skin and something darker, muskier. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily. A slow, shameful heat bloomed between her legs.

She was wet. Just from his smell.

Get it together, she snarled at herself. He doesn't know. He can't know.

He moved back, settling against the opposite counter, the water pitcher now in his hand. She kept her back to him, her knuckles white on her empty glass.

But he was looking at her. She could feel his gaze on the back of her neck, on the curve of her spine visible between the tied ends of her top.

"Morgane."

His voice was low. Quiet. A private sound meant only for her.

She turned, just her head, just enough to see him.

He was leaning against the counter, one long leg crossed over the other, his arms folded over his broad chest. The grey sleeveless top did nothing to hide the definition of his muscles—the swell of his biceps, the hard plane of his pectorals. A thin trail of sweat traced the line of his collarbone, disappearing into the fabric.

His moustache, his stupid, perfect moustache, curved into a small, knowing smile.

"Is the tanning bed comfortable?" he asked. "You were out there for quite a while. Getting your vitamin D."

She nodded, not trusting her voice. Her throat was dry. She turned away, pouring herself another glass of water, and drank it like she was dying of thirst.

Maybe she was.

Behind her, she heard him shift. The creak of the floor. The whisper of fabric.

Then he was there. At her back. Not touching. But close. So close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. So close that if she leaned back half an inch, she would be pressed against his chest.

She stopped breathing.

His hand landed on hers. Warm. Calloused. Gentle. He lowered the glass from her lips, setting it on the counter with a soft click.

She still didn't turn. She couldn't. If she turned, she would be lost.

His other hand came up. She felt the lightest brush of his fingers at the nape of her neck, gathering her hair, lifting it, moving it to the other side. The cool air hit her exposed skin, and she shivered violently.

He leaned in. His lips were a whisper away from her neck, not touching, just there, his breath warm against her sensitive skin.

"I don't think you need to tan," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "It would hide your freckles."

Her breath caught. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips.

"It would be a pity," he continued, his mouth hovering closer, "to lose these tiny universes on your skin."

She felt his nose brush the curve of her shoulder. A ghost of a touch.

"A big pity," he breathed.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

"I'm glad our son has your skin," he said, and his lips finally made contact—just a whisper, just a feather-light press against the tendon of her neck.

Her eyes squeezed shut.

"I wish he had yours," she managed, her voice barely audible.

"Every day he looks more like you," he said against her skin, and she felt the words like a brand.

"I think he looks more like you," he continued, his lips trailing along the curve of her shoulder, not kissing, just tasting the air, the salt of her skin, "and I cannot stop looking at him."

She made a sound—something between a sigh and a whimper—and without thinking, she leaned back. Just slightly. Just enough.

Her back met his chest. Her hips met his hips. Her body pressed against his, and she felt him—all of him, the heat, the hardness, the restraint that was vibrating like a plucked string.

He sucked in a breath. A sharp, pained sound. She felt his hands, which had been hovering at her sides, finally land on her waist. His fingers spread wide, possessive, burning through the thin fabric of her shorts.

"I couldn't stop looking at you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Out there. In the garden. I couldn't..."

His grip tightened. A low, strangled sound escaped his throat.

Then his hands slid up her ribcage, slow and deliberate, dragging the tied fabric of her top, exposing more skin. He turned her, not roughly but inexorably, until she was facing him, her back against the counter, his body caging her in.

She looked up at him. His eyes were dark. His jaw was tight. The moustache she had mocked framed lips that were parted, breath coming fast.

And then he kissed her.

It was not gentle. It was not careful. It was the kiss of a man who had been holding himself back for months, who had been sleeping in the same house as her, watching her with their son, wanting her with an intensity that terrified him.

His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against hers, his hands fisting in her tied-up top, pulling her closer. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair, knocking his cap to the floor.

He tasted like salt and sun and something dark, something she had been craving without knowing it.

He lifted her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs, pressing his body against hers. The kiss deepened, became almost bruising, and she felt his hands slide down her sides, under her tied top, over her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts.

She gasped.

He pulled back, just enough to look at her. His chest was heaving. His moustache was askew, damp from her mouth. His eyes were wild.

"Morgane," he said, her name a prayer and a curse.

"Karadec," she breathed back.

And then he kissed her again, and the counter, the kitchen, the sleeping baby upstairs—all of it dissolved into the heat of his body and the taste of his mouth and the quiet, devastating knowledge that nothing would ever be the same.

His mouth was relentless. It consumed her,
devoured her, left no room for thought or
hesitation. His tongue swept against hers, tasting of the water he'd just drunk and something darker, more primal. His hands were everywhere-her waist, her ribs, the bare skin of her thighs where her shorts had ridden up.

Morgane wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him closer, feeling the hard length of him press against the core of her through the thin fabric of her shorts and his jeans. A sound escaped her-a whimper, a plea and he swallowed it, his teeth grazing her lower lip.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were nearly black, pupils blown wide, his chest heaving beneath the damp grey top. A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple down hisdisappearing into the edge of his moustache.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice raw, "how long I've wanted to do that."

"Then why didn't you?" she breathed, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

His jaw tightened.

"Because I was trying to be a good man."

"Screw that," she said, and pulled him back down.

This time, she took control.

Her hands slid from his hair down his shoulders, over the damp fabric of his top, feeling the hard swell of his muscles.

She tugged at the hem, pulling it up, and he broke the kiss just long enough to rip it over his head and toss it aside.

Her breath caught.

She had seen him shirtless before, in passing, when he'd come in from a run or when she'd accidentally walked in on him changing. But never like this.

Never with him looming over her, his skin golden and slick with sweat, his chest carved like something from a classical statue, the dark trail of hair below his navel disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

He was beautiful.

Unfairly, impossibly beautiful.

Her hands found his chest, her palms flattening against the hard planes, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingers.

She traced the lines of his pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp V of his hips.

He watched her touch him, his breath coming in shallow bursts. When her fingers brushed the waistband of his jeans, he caught her wrists.

"Not yet," he said, his voice strained.

"Why not?"

"Because I want to look at you first."

He reached for the knot of her top, the one she had tied so carefully for his benefit. His fingers were less careful.

He tugged, and the fabric fell away, revealing her bare stomach, the underside of her breasts still hidden by the loose drape of the shirt. He pushed the fabric up, slowly, his knuckles grazing her skin, until her breasts were exposed to the warm kitchen air.

She wasn't wearing a bra. She rarely did at home. His eyes darkened.

He lowered his head, and she felt his mouth-hot, open, hungry-close around one nipple. She gasped, her back arching, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

His tongue circled, then flicked, then sucked, and she was drowning in sensation, her hips grinding against him involuntarily.

He switched to the other breast, his hand kneading the first, and she heard herself moan--a low, desperate sound that echoed off the kitchen tiles.

"Karadec," she gasped.

He lifted his head, his lips wet, his eyes blazing. "What?"

"I need-" She couldn't finish.

She didn't have the words. He seemed to understand.

His hands went to the waistband of her leopard shorts, and he pulled them down her hips, her thighs, taking her underwear with them in one rough motion. She lifted her hips to help him, and then she was bare on the counter, the cool surface shocking against her heated skin.

He stepped back. Just for a moment. Just long enouah to look at her-sprawled on the kitchen counter, her legs spread, her skin flushed and glistening.

"You're beautiful," he said, and the words were so simple, so sincere, that her eyes stung.

Then he was between her thighs again, but this time he didn't kiss her mouth.

He dropped to his knees.

"Karadec- " she started, but the protest died in her throat as his mouth found her.

His tongue was a revelation.

Hot, flat, wide, he licked her from root to tip, and she cried out, her hips bucking off the counter.

He held her down with strong hands on her thighs, his fingers pressing into her flesh, and he did it again.

And again.

Each stroke was deliberate, torturous, designed to drive her out of her mind.

She fisted her hands in his hair, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

The sensation was too much, not enough, everything.

He found her clit with the tip of his tongue, circling slowly, and she sobbed.

Her head fell back against the cabinet, her eyes screwed shut, her whole world narrowed to the hot, wet, relentless pressure of his mouth.

"You taste," he murmured against her, the vibration of his voice sending a shockwave through her, "like summer."

She couldn't answer. She could barely breathe.

He slid one finger inside her, then two, curling them, finding a spot that made her see stars.”Mon dieu”she cried as the pleasure was overwhelming her. 

His tongue never stopped its work, circling and flicking and sucking, and she was climbing, climbing, the coil in her belly tightening to the point of pain.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice muffled. She forced her eyes open.

Looked down at him- on his knees, between her thighs, his moustache wet, his eyes burning with a hunger that matched her own.

"Come for me," he said.

Not a request. A demand.
And she did.

The orgasm tore through her like a wildfire, silent and devastating, her body convulsing, her mouth open in a soundless scream. She was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her breasts were sore, her abdomen was fussy and her brain was dizzy. He was so so so so absolutely good at this. 

He stayed with her, his mouth gentle now, drawing out every last shudder, until she was limp and trembling on the counter.

He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her.

She tasted herself on his lips, and the shock of it sent a fresh wave of heat through her.

"Your turn," she whispered, reaching for his jeans.

He caught her hands again, but this time he didn't stop her. He guided her fingers to his belt, watched her fumble with the buckle, his breath coming in harsh pants. She got it open, then the button, then the zipper, and his jeans fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside, and then he was naked--all golden skin and hard muscle and the thick, straining length of him, dark and flushed and wet at the tip.

Her mouth watered just because of the sight of him. She was already salivating and her core clenched at the revaluation in his pants. She remembers it was big and she remembers walking into him at the shower, but now, looking at it in all its glory… 

She reached for him, wrapping her hand around him, and he groaned--a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her chest. He was hot in her palm, silky and steel, and she stroked him slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure. His hands covered hers, stilling the movement. "If you keep doing that…" he said, his voice ragged,his eyes closed. He lets her touch him for another second before he gently removes her hand from him. 

He grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the counter, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. He ran his palms up her legs, his thumbs tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

She was incredibly wet he observed as he lowered his head to kiss her thighs once more saying “what will happen now….”, offering another kiss, “we will not be able to suppress in our memory” and the smug satisfaction in his voice made her clench around nothing.

"You didn’t let me-" she started whining, but his mouth was on hers again, swallowing her words, her protests, her pride.

“I need to feel you” he muttered against her jaw, his fingers caressing the soft skin of her thighs before spreading her more open. "Right now, There’s nothing in the world that matters more."

She laughed--a sharp, desperate sound--and then his fingers found her, sliding through the wet heat of her, and the laughter died in a choked moan as she reached for him and grabbed him in her palm.

"Mon dieu" she hissed, her hips bucking against his hand while she truly felt his weight on her hand.

He watched her face as he touched her, his gaze intense, almost clinical, cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every flutter of her eyelids. He was learning her. Mapping her reactions up close Committing her pleasure to memory. Lost between her thighs he wasn’t able to truly notice her face or the rest of her body reacting to him, whereas now….

"You're so responsive, so ready for me" he murmured his voice low, his thumb circling that bundle of nerves, and her back arched off the counter. 

“your voice is killing me..” she panted, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders where her other hand was massaging his red aching rim. Truly, his low voice wasa making her shiver. She always did, especially with that authoriative tone. Yet, she'd never admit that. 

He kissed her again, swallowing her trembles, and slid two fingers inside her again. 

She cried out against his mouth, her nails digging into his chest. He moved slowly at first, deliberately, curling his fingers just right, just there, and she saw stars.

 "I need-“ she cried.

"I know what you need," he said, and his voice was dark, authoritative, the voice he used in interrogation rooms, the voice that made susp confess and made her weak in the knees.

He added another thick finger before he continued “but I want to prepare you, so you don’t feel pain” he said looking down at her with an expression of such raw, naked hunger that her spent body stirred again. She moaned so loudly at the feeling of 3 thick and long fingers curled and rubbing on that soft spot on her walls.

He was very thick and hard and already glistening at the tip, and the sight of him, combined with the memory of what he'd just done with his mouth, made her thighs clench around his fingers.

With a swift motion he cradled her neck his fingers in the back of her head, caressing her as he slowly put her in place, exactly as he needed her. He lined up himself and he looked into her eyes, staring into her soul as he slowly, excruciatingly tenderly, he entered her. Can she possibly fall even more in love with him?

The sensation was overwhelming: the stretch, the fullness, the sheer, shocking intimacy of it.

He was bigger than she'd imagined, thicker, and he filled her completely, seated to the hilt in one long, slow thrust.

They both moaned. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. He stayed there for a moment, buried inside her, letting her adjust, letting himself feel her.He pushed inside her again in one long, slow stroke.

The sensation was electric-a stretch and a fill that made her throw her head back, her mouth opening on a silent scream.

How did she forget about this last time?! Her whole body was alive.

He paused when he was fully inside, his forehead dropping to hers, both of them trembling.

"Merde," he whispered. "You feel..”

She didn't let him finish. She moved her hips, rolling them in a tight circle, and he groaned, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. Then he began to move. It was not gentle.

He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and then slammed back in. The counter rattled. A dish slid off the edge and shattered on the floor. Neither of them noticed.

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her forward against the counter top, his hands gripping her hips so hard she knew there would be bruises.

The angle was deep, overwhelming, and she could feel herself already climbing towards a third peak.

"Mon dieu," she keened, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against the smooth surface. She was panting moaning trembling.  

Then he reached around and found her clit with his fingers, rubbing in tight circles that matched the pounding of his hips. 

Yet it was all so tender, he found her hand on the table and mingled her fingers with his own, caressing her palm with his thumb. Reassuring her, feeling her, filling this moment with infinite tenderness. 

With one hand bracing her spine, the other gripping her thigh, spreading her wider before returning to her hand. She was whispering, moaning, shivering.

"Quiet," he reminded her with a soft kiss, his voice a strained growl.

She bit her lip, tasting blood. Every nerve in her body was singing, coiling, building towards something catastrophic. Her nails raked down his back. She needed skin. She needed him.

As if he read her mind he lowered himself, covering her body with his own. Bending over her, without crushing her with his weight, he kept her close by circling her waist with his steady arm while he removed his other hand from her hand and started caressing her hair. This was so soft that it made her heart ache. 

She took control of the movements, as she began to dance on him. So, he moved his head to start kissing her shoulders, her neck, her breasts, tasting her, savouring her, worshipping her. She softly scratched his back with her nails before one of her hands softly caressed it’s way into his soft tiny curls, massaging his scalp. He raised his head and their eyes met and he smiled so tenderly that she felt so loved. 

Unconsciously she grinded harder on him, circling her hips in a way that she felt him even deeper if it was possible, rubbing harder on that soft bundle of nerves inside her that had her saw white. She moaned so loudly that he had to shut her mouth with his big hand. As if to warn her to keep quiet in order not to wake up the baby, he raised himself off of her. She complained instantly yet…

The sight of him in the dim light stole her breath.

His chest was slick with sweat, the muscles defined and gleaming.

A trail of dark hair disappeared into his abdomen. He was a god.

A grumpy, organic-obsessed, completely infuriating god.

She hated to admit she had a massive crush on him but with him driving her so close to yet another climax, she was unable to deny it any more. 

He stepped back into her, and this time, when he entered, she wrapped her legs high around his waist, her heels locking at the base of his spine.

The angle changed, deeper, and she cried out, a sharp, high sound that he swallowed with his mouth.

His tongue was in her mouth, his hands were on her breasts, his thumb was circling her nipple, and he was moving, a relentless, pounding rhythm that was pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

"I'm close," she gasped against his lips.

"Not yet," he commanded, and he slowed.

Tormented. He withdrew almost completely, then slid back in with agonizing deliberation.

Again. Again. Each stroke was a question, a demand, a prayer.

She was trembling so hard and clenching around him that he knew she was already coming. He kept the rhythm until she was hissing, crying panting, smacking her hands on the table so desperate from the pleasure. She was feeling it so intensely that everything buzzed. She came so forcefully she barely didn’t scream her lungs out.

Feeling her squeeze so intensely his slow thrusts he couldn’t help but set a desperate rhythm of two people who had been denying themselves for too long.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was the culmination of months of denial, of forced proximity, of stolen glances and aching want. He didn’t just make her ride her orgasm he was leading her to a new one.

Each thrust was deep, deliberate, possessive. He drove into her like he was claiming her, marking her, making her his. He extended her orgasm so she met him thrust for thrust, her hips rising to meet his, her hands roaming over his sweat-slick back, his shoulders, the muscles that bunched and flexed with every movement.

She had never experienced such pleasure back to back so it was new found territory for her. She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him, open-mouthed and messy, tasting herself on his tongue.

"Harder," she gasped against his lips.

So in a swift motion he rolled her and her back was now facing his chest. He entered her again and this angle had her seeing stars. She was gripping the counter until her knuckles turned white and in her top toes. He caressed her ass that was now against his own skin and he lowered his eyes and to his surprise he found a “fuck la police” tattoo. His voice was hoarse when he asked “fuck la police?”.

Chocking she answered “Don’t I?” And he laughed quietly before he grabbed her breasts and started massaging them and before he rolled them in his big palms. “You know that the one thing you’ve never been subtle about is this right?” She said with a smirk in her voice.

”What?” He answered with a rugged confused voice as the intense rhythm and the feeling of her full breasts was driving him all the more close to his climax.

“I’m just saying you were always a big fan of the girls. I caught you staring a lot.” She said between moans. 

“Oh” he said before he added “it’s a pleasure to meet them up close and personally finally.” As he punched her nipples and rolled the breasts before he moved south, slowly lowering his hand to her abdomen. He found the aching  numb and with a full palm he rubbed circles while thrusting very deeply in her. With one hand he was rolling her breast and with the other he was teasing her. 

She turned around her neck and started kissing him while his hands dropped to her waist. The kiss was so deep and so sensual and it drove them both crazy, making him move even faster and harder. “Putain merde Kara! I will… I will” she panted.  He felt her clenching impossibly so and before he noticed, he felt her squirting. The feeling finally led him to his own climax while he grabbed her breasts as anchors. He came in a way he never had before. Never so intense. 

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the slowing beat of their hearts, the soft whisper of the curtains in the summer breeze.

Then he lifted his head, looking down at her. His moustache was askew. His hair was a disaster. His eyes were soft, almost wondering.

"Morgane," he said, her name a quiet miracle. She traced the line of his jaw, the damp curve of his cheek.

"Karadec."

He kissed her again, soft this time, a promise rather than a demand.

Then he rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, tucking her against his chest. He caressed her hair absentmindedly while she rolled the pads of her fingers on his chest.

The quiet and comfort of this moment was so perfect as they laid tangled on the kitchen table, the cool wood pressing into Morgane's back, Karadec's weight a warm, grounding pressure on top of her. Their breathing was slowly returning to normal, the frantic rhythm of their pulse giving way to a softer, more languid beat. His face was buried in her neck, his moustache damp against her skin, his heart thudding against her chest.

The clock on the wall ticked. Loudly.

Morgane's eyes fluttered open. The afternoon light had shifted, growing longer, more golden. How long had they been here? Minutes? An hour?

"Thea," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "She could be back any minute."

Karadec lifted his head. His eyes were still dark, still hazy with satisfaction, but clarity was returning. He glanced at the clock, then at the kitchen door, and a flicker of alarm crossed his features.

In one swift, fluid motion, he pushed himself upright, pulling her with him. Before she could protest, he had his hands under her thighs, lifting her off the table. Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically, her arms circling his neck, her bare breasts pressed against his chest. He was still naked, she was still naked, and the feel of his skin against hers as he carried her out of the kitchen was almost unbearably intimate.

He didn't say a word. He just walked, steady and sure, up the stairs, down the hall, past the sleeping baby's room, and into the bathroom.

The shower was already running—had he turned it on while she was lost in the aftermath? She didn't know. She didn't care.

He set her down gently on the cool tile, then stepped under the spray, testing the temperature before reaching back to pull her in.

The water was warm, almost hot, cascading over them both. He reached for the soap—a simple, unscented bar—and lathered his hands.

Then he began to wash her. Her white pearly skin glowed under the water as if it was bathed in glitter. She was a goddess and he couldn’t believe she was just his. Her red fiery hair was cascading in soft waves. She looked so impossibly beautiful that she stole his breath. He softly caressed her face. 

It was the most tender thing anyone had ever done for her.

He started with her shoulders, his soapy hands gliding over her skin with a reverence that made her chest ache. He worked his way down her arms, lifting each one to kiss her fingertips before soaping her palms. He washed her breasts with a gentle, circular motion, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, not with intent, but with a soft, accidental tenderness that made her shiver.

He knelt before her to wash her stomach, her hips, her thighs. He lifted each foot, soaping her arches, her ankles, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, looking up at her, and she saw something raw and vulnerable in his eyes.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the water.

She nodded, unable to speak.

He washed her there, too. Gently. Thoroughly. His fingers were reverent, not seeking to arouse but to cleanse, to care for her in the most fundamental way.

When he was done, he stood and reached for the shampoo. He poured a small amount into his palm and then his hands were in her hair, working the suds through the tangled mess, massaging her scalp with firm, soothing pressure. Her eyes closed. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.

"Feel good?" he murmured.

"Mmm," was all she could manage.

He rinsed her hair, tilting her head back under the spray, using his fingers to comb through the wet strands. Then he reached for the conditioner, repeating the process with the same meticulous care.

"You are so beautiful Morgane" he said in the midst of it all. His voice was so sincere that it made her heart jump in her chest.

"Stunning." He continued as he was massaging with shower gel her shoulders.

"You just say that because I am naked" she couldn't help herself but joke.

He softly turned her around to face him again and he tenderly pinched her chin to make her look up, straight into his eyes. "No. I would never." He said almost offended. "You are always beautiful, with or without your clothes. You are always the most beautiful person in any room you step in. Both inside and out." He said looking straight into her eyes.

She blushed and he tenderly caressed her face. "Your eyes sparkle like none else's. Your big, deep, blue eyes." He said as he smiled at her. "I am in awe of you and your incredible brain." he said softly.

"Even when I drive you crazy?" she said biting her lip with nerves.

"Always. Also, no matter how far i ran away from you, I always ran back to you" he said as he circled her waist. "You have this magic spell over me. I never wanted to become a father and I was ready to step in when I thought Leo was not mine, all because of you." he said smiling at her.

"Well, I for one, I am thrilled that he has your stare. Full of tenderness." she said as he was carefully massagining her waist.

"I can only hope that he will grow up to be as compassionate as you." She said softly. "Ideally as tall and fit like you too. Damn Kara, you keep it tight for a man of your age!" she laughed.

He laughed too and then proceeded to massage her shoulders.

Only when she was clean, truly, completely clean, did he step back. "Your turn," he said with a smile in his voice.

She opened her eyes. The water was streaming down his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, the dark hair on his chest. He looked like something out of her dream.

She took the soap from his hands and returned the favor.

She washed his shoulders, his back, the hard planes of his chest. She knelt to wash his legs, the muscles of his calves, the arches of his feet. When she reached for him—for the part of him that had been inside her, that was already beginning to stir again under her touch—he caught her wrist.

"Not now," he said, his voice strained. "Later."

She looked up at him, questioning.

"We need to talk first," he said. "And you need to eat."

As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly.

He laughed, a real, startled laugh and pulled her to her feet. They rinsed off together, the water washing away the last traces of sweat and salt and the afternoon's frantic passion. He turned off the shower and wrapped her in the largest, fluffiest towel he could find, then dried himself with another.

They stood side by side, drying each other's hair, like two children playing house. It was absurd. It was perfect.

Downstairs, Morgane had changed into her soft silk short pajamas, the ones she usually only wore when she was feeling particularly indulgent. The fabric was cool against her clean skin. Karadec had pulled on a fresh pair of soft pants  and a loose linen shirt, unbuttoned, his chest still bare beneath. He was so free, as if a burden was off of his chest. He let go.

He was in the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the fridge, when she heard the back door open.

She padded to the doorway and leaned against the frame, watching him.

He was in the garden. The late afternoon sun gilded his bare shoulders as he knelt among the herbs, his hands carefully, almost lovingly, pulling small, perfect baby carrots from the dark soil. He held them up to the light, examining them, brushing off the dirt.

He looked like a painting. A pastoral, ridiculous, incredibly sexy painting.

He glanced up and saw her in the doorway. A faint flush crept up his neck.

"These are ready," he said, holding up the carrots. "For the salad."

"Of course they are," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. "You were right. About the garden. About the organic everything. About all of it."

He stood, brushing the dirt from his knees, and walked towards her. "Did you just admit I was right?"

"I said you were right about the garden," she corrected, stepping aside to let him pass. "Don't push it."

Inside, he began to wash the vegetables, his movements efficient and practiced. The silence between them was different now,not awkward, but charged. There was so much to say, and neither of them knew how to start.

"So," he said, not looking at her, "that happened."

"It did," she agreed, hopping onto the counter—a different counter, the one near the sink, where she could watch him.

He glanced at her, then away, his jaw working. "I'm not... good at this."

"At what?"

"At... whatever comes after." He turned off the tap and dried his hands, still avoiding her eyes. "I've spent so long making sure nothing happened between us. And now that it has..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

Morgane watched him, her heart softening. He was shy. This man, who had just taken her apart on the kitchen table, who had washed her hair with such tenderness, was standing in front of her looking like a nervous teenager.

"Karadec," she said gently.

He finally looked at her. His eyes were wary, uncertain.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: "That this will fail. That we'll ruin what we have. That I'll lose you..not just as... this, but as my partner. As Léo's mother. As the person who makes this house feel like a home."

Her chest ached. She slid off the counter and walked to him, taking his hands in hers.

"We don't have to figure it all out tonight," she said. "We don't have to be anything we're not ready to be. We just... take it slow. See where this goes. No pressure. No labels. Just... us."

He looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her face. A slow, tentative smile curved his lips, the one beneath the moustache she now admitted she loved.

"Slow," he repeated.

"Slow," she confirmed. "One day at a time. One conversation at a time."

His eyes sparkled, actually sparkled, with a hope he was trying to suppress. "And one... not-slow moment at a time?"

She laughed. "Those too. Probably more of those, if I'm being honest."

He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, and she rested her head on his chest. They stood like that for a long, peaceful moment.

Then she pulled back, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I'm starving. What's for dinner?"

He released her, turning back to the counter. "Salad. With the carrots you just complimented."

She reached around him and plucked a baby carrot from the colander. It was small and orange and perfect, still damp from its wash. She held it up, examining it.

"These really are beautiful," she admitted.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she brought it to her lips.

She didn't bite it. She traced the tip along her lower lip, first one way, then the other, her eyes locked on his. Then she opened her mouth, just slightly, and slid the carrot inside, inch by inch, her tongue wrapping around it before she bit down with a soft, audible crunch.

Karadec froze.

She chewed slowly, watching him, her expression innocent. "What?" she asked, her voice a little too sweet.

He swallowed. Hard.

She reached for another carrot. This time, she didn't even pretend to inspect it. She brought it to her mouth and licked the length of it, from tip to base, her tongue flat and wide, her eyes never leaving his.

"Morgane," he said, his voice warning.

"Hmm?" She bit the tip off, chewing thoughtfully.

"We said slow."

"I'm eating a vegetable. Slowly." She smiled, all teeth. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to appreciate your organic produce?"

His jaw was tight. His hands were gripping the edge of the counter.

She took another carrot—the third—and held it between her teeth, offering it to him. He didn't move. She raised an eyebrow, a challenge.

He took a step towards her.

He caught her wrist, but his grip was weak, his resolve already crumbling. "Morgane-“ a caution. 

She stepped back, still holding the carrot in her mouth. He followed like a puppy. She stepped back again, towards the pantry door, her hips swaying. He followed, his eyes dark, his focus absolute.

Her back hit the pantry door. She reached behind her, turned the knob, and pushed it open, stepping inside. He followed her into the narrow, dim space, the shelves lined with jars and cans, the air smelling of dry goods and spices.

She spit the carrot into her hand and dropped it onto a shelf. Then she reached for him, pulling him by the open edges of his linen shirt.

"Slow," she whispered against his lips, "is overrated."

He kissed her then, hard and desperate, his hands sliding under her silk pajama top, finding her bare skin. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers working the buttons of his jeans.

He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and pressed her back against the shelves. Cans rattled. A bag of flour shifted, dusting them both in white.

He fumbled behind her, found the doorknob, and pulled it shut, the latch clicking into place. They were sealed in darkness, save for the thin strip of light under the door.

He didn't bother with the rest of their clothes. He just pushed her silk shorts aside and entered her in one deep, smooth stroke. She cried out, her head falling back against the shelves, and he caught her mouth with his, swallowing the sound.

The pantry was hot, close, the air thick with the scent of spices and their own rising heat. Each thrust was deeper than the last, the shelves rattling in protest, jars clinking together in a percussive rhythm.

"Quiet," he breathed against her ear, but his own control was fraying, his breath ragged, his movements becoming more urgent.

She bit his shoulder to keep from screaming, her nails raking down his back. The angle was perfect, the darkness heightening every sensation—the slide of his skin against hers, the grip of his hands on her hips, the way he filled her completely.

The washing machine, an old but reliable top- loader, was humming through its spin cycle, vibrating gently against the far wall. He set her down on the machine's lid. The vibration immediately traveled up her thighs, through her core, a low, constant thrum that made her gasp. "Oh." she breathed.

Karadec's eyes darkened. The combination of the machine's vibration and his thrusts were driving her insane. How does he have such stamina?! He’s in his 50s! She thought to herself before remembering all the women chasing him and acting like buzzing bees around him while he’s not the smoothest or the biggest flirt. 

The sudden fullness made her cry out. He covered her mouth with his hand, not cruelly, just enough to muffle the sound. His other hand gripped her hip, holding her steady as he began to move again. The washing machine was in its final spin cycle, the drum rotating with a steady, rhythmic force. The vibration was constant, a low hum that seemed to seep into her bones, amplifying every sensation.Each of his thrusts was punctuated by the machine's shudder, and the dual stimulation his depth, the relentless buzz-sent her spiraling faster than she'd ever gone before.

"God," she gasped against his palm. "Kara! Kara.. I..I…” hips slamming into her, the machine rattling beneath them.

He was rougher this time, filthier, all pretense of restraint abandoned.

His mouth found her neck, biting, sucking, marking her in a way that would be impossible to hide.

She didn't care. She couldn't care.

The vibration was building inside her, a deep, coiling pressure that was almost painful in its intensity. "I'm going to-" she started.

"Not yet," he growled, but his own control was fraying, his rhythm becoming erratic.

He shifted his angle, driving deeper, and the machine chose that moment to hit its most intense cycle.

The combined sensation was too much.

She came undone with a muffled scream against his hand, her body clenching around him in violen pulsing waves.

The vibration of the machine carried her through it, prolonging the peak, drawing it out until she was boneless, trembling, barely conscious.

He followed a heartbeat later, his release hot and deep, a guttural sound torn from his chest as he buried his face in her hair.

They stayed there for a moment, frozen, the washing machine beginning its final slow-down, the hum fading to silence. Breathing the same hot, panting air. The pantry was a mess. Flour dusted their hair. A jar of tomato sauce had tipped over, rolling slowly across the floor.

Karadec let out a breathless laugh. "Slow," he said, his voice shaky. "We were supposed to take it slow."

Morgane lifted her head, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. "I'm sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "Did I break your resolve?"

He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. "You broke everything," he said softly. "In the best possible way."

They untangled themselves slowly, retrieving fallen items, straightening shelves.

Then they heard it. The front door. Opening. "Thea," Morgane hissed.

What followed was a masterclass in rapid, silent recovery.

Karadec panicking he was tucking himself back into his jeans with shaking hands. Morgane slid off the washing machine, her legs unsteady, and yanked her silk shorts into place.

She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, pinched her cheeks for color, and tried to look like she hadn't just been thoroughly ravished on a household appliance.

"Go," she whispered, pushing him towards the pantry door.

"I'll keep her busy. You go out the back and come in through the garden."

He nodded, pressed a quick, hard kiss to her lips, and slipped out of the pantry just as Thea's voice echoed from the front hall.

"Mum? I'm back!”

Thea rounded the corner into the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of Morgane leaning against the pantry doorframe, looking slightly flushed.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" Morgane said, too brightly. "Just.. organizing the pantry. It was a mess." Thea's eyes narrowed. She was fourteen, not stupid.

"Why is the washing machine beeping?"

"Finished its cycle. I'll empty it later." Morgane grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, drinking it in long, conspicuous gulps.

"How was The movie ?" Thea's gaze swept the kitchen.

The table was clear--thank God, Morgane had the presence of mind to wipe it down earlier.

The chairs were pushed in. Everything looked normal.

Before Thea could investigate, the back door opened and Karadec walked in, looking remarkably composed.

His linen shirt was buttoned now, his hair damp but neat. He was carrying a small handful of fresh herbs from the garden.

"Bonsoir," he said, his voice steady. "I thought I'd make a salad to go with dinner."

Thea looked from him to Morgane, then back again.

A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.

"Right," she said. "A salad."

Dinner was a study in forced normalcy. Karadec moved around the kitchen with his usual efficiency, chopping vegetables, tossing the s heating a quiche he'd made the day before.

"So, super poulet anytning interesting happen while I was gone?"

"Leo slept for three hours," Morgane offered.

"It was a miracle."

"Mmm." Thea's gaze dropped to Morgane's neck.

"Mum, you have a... bug bite. Right there." She pointed to the dark mark just below Morgane's collarbone.

Morgane's hand flew to the spot. Her cheeks flamed.

"Must have been a mosquito."

"In February?" She said with a knowing tone.

Karadec, at the stove, cleared his throat loudly.

"Thea, could you set the table?" Thea slid off her stool, but she was grinning now, a delighted, evil grin. She grabbed the plates and began laying them out with exaggerated care, humming under her breath.

From the nursery, a cry pierced the air.

Léo was awake.

"'Il get him," Karadec said, too quickly, and fled the kitchen.

The moment he was gone, Thea turned on Morgane. "You diiiiiiiidn't." She said with teasing exaggeration.

"Didn't what?" Morgane pretended to not get what she meant.

"Keep it in your pants!" Thea whisper-shouted, her eyes alight with scandalized glee.

"You actually- on the-while I was-“ She gestured wildly making fun of her.

Then it clicked. "The washing machine, Mum? Really? Ewwwwww" she made exaggerated disgusted noises.

Morgane buried her face in her hands. "I hate you."

"You love me. And you obviously love him." Thea was cackling now, quiet but unrestrained.

"I told you. I said 'ten minutes' and you couldn't ever manage that. You're feral. Absolutely feral." She laughed so hard.

"I am not discussing this with my eighteen-year-old daughter." she said pinching her waist and making her squeek.

"You don't have to discuss it. I have eyes. And ears maman".

Morgane groaned.

Karadec returned with Léo in his arms, the baby's cries subsiding into hiccupping whimpers. He looked at Morgane's crimson face and Thea's triumphant smirk, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Thea," he said, his voice calm but edged, "dinner is ready."

She sat down, still smirking, as Karadec placed the quiche on the table and began serving. Léo, now content, sat in his high chair, banging a spoon.

Thea took a bite of her salad, chewed thoughtfully before saying conspiciously: "So Super Poulet, you didn'ta answer before, was your day productive?" biting off a laugh.

He paused, a forkful of quiche halfway to his mouth. "Very productive."

 "Lots of... heavy lifting?" The answered right back now laughing.

"Thea," Morgane warned.

"What? I'm just making conversation." Thea's eyes sparkled.

"You look like you got a good workout. Both of you." She said biting off again her laughter.

Karadec set down his fork and fixed Thea with a look that had made grown suspects confess.

"Eat your vegetables, they are homegrown." He said in a matter-of-fact way.

She ate her vegetables, but her smile never faded.

Later, after the dishes were done and Thea had retreated to her room, still giggling, Karadec found Morgane in the nursery. Léo was asleep peacefully. 

"She knows," Morgane said.

"Ofcourse she knows!" Karadec corrected. "She's been sending me memes about washing machines for the last twenty minutes."

Morgane snorted.
"I'm sorry. She's impossible."

"She's your daughter."

He knelt beside the crib, his shoulder brushing hers.
"And she's not wrong. We were... not subtle."

"We were nothing," Morgane said firmly. "We're taking it slow, remember?"

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Slow." He repeated with barely disguised disbelief. 

"Slower than that." she said when she noticed how he was looking at her.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. "We'll try," he said softly. "But you make it very difficult to resist." He admitted.

"I am Miss-making-your-life-difficult-since-2019" she said proudly.

Then she slowly approached him, raised herself on her tiptoes and kiss his cheek holding hs other cheek with her hand. 

"Go dust off and let me finish here with Leo. You are too dangerous to be around me” he said before he tenderly kissed her hand.

She shivered, a delicious anticipation curling in her belly. "I can live with that."

And for the first time in months, the house didn't feel like a battleground. It felt like home.