3. Carter
Carter
I ’ve never worked this hard on a bathroom in my entire life.
Sweat drips down my back, dust sticks to my skin, my arms ache from swinging the hammer and hauling drywall.
Doesn’t matter.
Because every swing, every nail, every cut is one step closer to fucking my wife the way she’s been begging for since she decided to torture me.
Because that’s what this is, torture.
I slam another piece of tile into place, my jaw tight, as I try to focus. Her laugh drifts down the hall, light and wicked, followed by the sound of bare feet padding across the floor.
“Carter?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, baby?”
Catalina appears in the doorway, completely fucking naked, hair a mess, bow loose in her hand like she just pulled it out to make me crazy. She leans against the frame, all soft curves and smug smile, like she knows I’m about two seconds from snapping.
“Need anything?” she asks, tilting her head as she bites her lower lip.
“Yeah,” I growl, setting the trowel down hard enough to make the bucket rattle. “Need you to put some damn clothes on before I lose my mind.”
She grins, stepping into the room. “But I told you, no fucking until the bathroom was finished.”
I wipe my hand across my face, muttering a curse. “You’re making it really hard to hold up my end of the deal.”
“That’s the idea.” She perches on the edge of the new tub, crossing her legs. “Work faster, cowboy.”
I tell myself to focus. Cut the tile, spread the mortar, keep my head down. But she’s still there, perched on the edge of the tub like some goddess sent to ruin me, skin glowing with a smirk fixed on her face.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she purrs, swinging one leg idly. “You look very… capable with your hands.”
My grip tightens on the trowel. “Catalina.”
“Mhm?” Her voice is all innocence, but her eyes flash mischief.
“You keep sitting there like that, and I’m not finishing a damn thing.”
She laughs as she slides off the tub. Her bare feet pad across the tile as she trails a hand across the fresh grout like she’s testing me, then steps close enough that her scent hits me.
I don’t look up, I can’t. Fuck me, my wife is the only woman who can make me nervous.
“You’re sweating,” she purrs. “Want me to cool you off?”
I drag in a breath through my teeth. “Baby…”
Her fingers trace down my spine with a featherlight touch, following the line of sweat until I shudder. She leans in, her breath hot against my ear. “You could bend me over this tub right now, and I’d let you.”
The trowel clatters against the bucket as my hand slips. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. “Bathroom first,” I grit out.
“Good boy,” she whispers, patting my shoulder. She saunters out of the room, hips swaying, humming some EDM beat under her breath like she didn’t just wreck my entire sanity.
I watch her go, cursing under my breath, every muscle in my body taut with need.
Ten minutes pass by, and she’s back to kill me some more.
This time she’s carrying a glass of water, sipping it like she’s dying of thirst. Except she’s not thirsty, she’s showing off. The way her lips wrap around the rim, the slight moan she makes as water slides down her throat, a droplet of water escaping to run down between her tits.
I snap my eyes back to the tile. “You trying to kill me?”
“Me?” Her voice goes all high-pitched innocence. “I’m just hydrating. You should try it sometime.”
She tips the glass again slowly, and I swear I hear her swallow to torment me. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sighs dramatically. “God, I’m so hot. Maybe I should… take a shower.”
“You’re not stepping foot in that tub until I’m done,” I growl, setting a tile harder than I mean to.
She grins, sauntering over, with the water glass dangling from her fingers. “Who said anything about using the tub?”
I drop the trowel.
She’s lucky I don’t drop her straight over my shoulder and march into our bedroom.
“Catalina—”
She crouches down in front of me, completely naked, her knees brushing the dust on the floor. Her lips part in a wicked little smile, chestnut eyes glittering.
“You’re so sweaty,” she whispers, reaching out to trace my abs with one finger, slow and taunting. “All this hard work… just for me. Do you know how bad I want you to ruin me right now, Carter?”
My head falls back, a curse ripping out of me.
As quick as she came, she stands, setting the empty glass on the vanity like she hasn’t just unraveled me. “Well,” she chirps, turning toward the door, “better get back to work.”
I lunge forward, catching her wrist before she escapes, and she gasps, spinning back to me with wide eyes.
“Bathroom first,” I grind out, voice rough enough to scrape. “Then you.”
Her grin is pure sin. “Guess you better hurry then, cowboy.”
She slips free and disappears down the hall, humming again, leaving me hard as a rock and one breath away from losing every ounce of control.
I slam my hands against the floor, sucking in air like it’ll help. It doesn’t.
Bathroom first. Then her.
It’s quiet again, too quiet.
Which means she’s plotting.
I lay tile, set grout, and line up edges with precision. My mind repeates the words to keep myself focused.
Bathroom first, then her. Bathroom first, then her.
“Carter…” Her voice is syrupy sweet. “Can you help me with something?”
Fuck me.
I sigh, sitting back on my heels. “What now, baby?”
She’s standing in the doorway, wearing one of my old flannels… and nothing else. It hangs open, gaping down the middle, brushing the tops of her thighs.
“Could you button this for me?” she asks, biting her lip. “My fingers just… slipped.”
My head drops forward, a curse muffled in my chest. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I push to my feet, stalk over, and grab the edges of the flannel. My knuckles brush her skin as I work the buttons, and every inch of her is soft, warm, and perfect. I reach the middle button, and I can’t breathe. I get to the last button, and I want to rip it back open with my teeth.
“There,” I say breathlessly.
She looks up at me through her lashes. “Thanks, baby.”
I turn on my heel and grab the hammer like my life depends on it.
Minutes pass—maybe hours.
I fucking lost track.
The bathroom is almost finished, with the vanity installed, the tub caulked, and the mirror ready to hang, when she strolls back in with a bowl of strawberries.
She eats one slowly, her juicy lips wrapped around it, juice dripping down her chin. “Mmm,” she moans, “Want one?”
I don’t look up. “No.”
“You sure?” She leans over the vanity, pushing the bowl under my nose, flannel slipping just enough to show the swell of her breast. “They’re so sweet.”
My grip tightens on the drill until the plastic creaks.
She smirks, popping another strawberry in her mouth, and skips out, humming again.
The sun dips low and shadows stretch across the house. The bathroom is nearly finished. My body aches, my cock is straining against my jeans, and my patience is nonexistent.
Catalina hasn’t let up all day.
Naked strolls, water glasses, flannel “accidents,” strawberries — she’s guiding my gradual descent into madness with that wicked little smile.
God help her, the second I tighten the last screw, I’m going to make sure she regrets every second she spent teasing me.