Kitchen lights hum. Sterile. Precise. I scan Jorgen through the peephole. Towering Viking. Sweat-soaked tank. Armpits dark with effort. Pulse quickens. No fever scan needed. I glove up. Mask on. Eight bolts slide. He hauls in crates. Reeks of diesel and man. Raw. Unfiltered. Our eyes lock. Fire ignites. The perfect wife? Gone. Mask shatters. Adrenaline floods veins. City drones outside—surveillance eyes everywhere. But here? My domain. I seize control. No victim. Predator. Heart hammers like war drums. Thighs clench. Heat builds. I drop the facade. Strong. Independent. Unleashed.
His breath hitches. I step close. Chest to chest. Feel his bulk. Two hundred pounds of brute. Mine to command. Hand dives into his pocket. Two fifties. Not payment. Tribute. Eyes command: Take me. He lunges. Wrong. I spin him. Slam against counter. Cabinets rattle. Power surges. Electric. I yank his belt. Snap. Pants pool. Cock springs. Thick. Veined. Capped. Ready. My skirt hikes. No panties needed. Core drips. I mount. Grip his shoulders. Nails dig. He groans. I ride. Hard. Fast. Hips piston. Claim every inch. Balls slap. Wet. Viscous. Thrusts brutal. Mine dictate rhythm. Sweat mixes. His. Mine. Grunts echo. Fists clench counter edge. I lean in. Bite neck. Taste salt. Power throbs. Deeper. Fiercer. Walls pulse. Grip him. Milk him. Explosion builds. Adrenaline peaks. City fades. Only conquest. I shatter first. Waves crash. He follows. Floods me. Hot. Thick. Victory.