Chapter Four
751 Words
Home Hardware smelled like fresh sawdust and industrial cleaner, a tangy mix that burned Owen's nose the moment he stepped inside. The lighting was too bright, buzzing faintly overhead. It reminded him of his office. Of spreadsheets. Of being trapped.
Leia was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing from display to display with a frantic energy that made Owen want to crawl out of his skin.
"Look at all the choices!" she gushed, waving an arm toward the vast, soul-crushing wall of paint swatches.
Owen forced a smile. "Wow."
Leia didn't catch the deadness in his voice. She was already pulling swatches by the handful, holding them up against the beige wall to "see the undertones," whatever the hell that meant.
"This one's called 'Morning Dew,'" she said, holding up a pale green.
"Looks like mint toothpaste," Owen said.
Leia laughed too loudly, like he’d been aiming for humor.
"“You’re so bad,” she giggled. “No, but seriously—cool tone or warm tone? Because it changes everything. Because if we go cool, we'll have to rethink the accent wall..."
She kept talking, her voice rising and falling like an auctioneer on cocaine. Owen nodded dutifully, his mind drifting.
He wondered if anyone had ever died of boredom in a Home Hardware before. Maybe he could be the first.
Leia shoved another swatch under his nose. "What about this one? 'Sea Foam Whisper.'"
"Looks like mold," Owen said.
Leia gave him a playful slap on the arm. "You are no help today!"
She wasn't wrong. He was giving the bare minimum. Husband mode: activated. Smile, grunt, agree, dissolve.
"Maybe if you pick out a roller and some brushes," Leia said brightly, "you'll feel more involved."
There it was. Freedom disguised as an errand.
Owen grabbed the out, nodding solemnly. "Rollers and brushes. Got it."
He escaped down the nearest aisle, heart pounding like he’d just broken out of prison.
The hardware section was blissfully empty. Silent. Rows of tools gleamed under the harsh lights, orderly and indifferent.
And that’s when he saw her.
Leaning over a display of paint samples, turning one over in her hands—
A woman. Maybe thirty-five. Stunning without trying. Dark hair twisted up messily, jeans hugging her hips, a simple white T-shirt that somehow looked elegant on her.
She smiled at the paint in her hands, a private, secret smile, and Owen felt something uncoil low in his stomach.
Without meaning to, he smiled back.
She caught him watching, and their eyes met for half a second longer than polite.
He pictured grabbing a fistful of her dark hair, yanking her down onto her knees without a word.
His c**k shoving between her soft lips, forcing its way into her mouth, deeper, until she gagged around him.
He imagined the sloppy, wet sounds—the desperate gurgle as she tried to breathe. The desperate gurgling of obedience straining to please as she tried to keep up, drool dripping down her chin, staining her T-shirt.
He’d hold her there, steady and merciless, savoring the tightness of her throat around him.
The way her fingers would scrabble weakly against his thighs, not to push him away, but to hold on.
Her eyes would glisten with tears, beautifully wrecked.
He could almost hear the strained gasps, the slurp of her struggling to please him, no words, no questions, no demands—just a beautiful, messy offering.
His hand tight in her hair, her mouth stuffed full, her throat trembling to take everything he gave her.
Silent. Obedient. His.
Owen exhaled slowly, feeling his pulse hammer against his ribs.
The woman glanced back at her paint samples, oblivious to the hellfire she’d accidentally lit inside him.
And then—
"There you are!" Leia's voice cut through the aisle like a gunshot.
Owen flinched.
Leia trotted up, arms full of swatches and a plastic pail filled with sample cans.
"I found the perfect shade!" she said breathlessly. "I need you to hold these while I double-check the trim colors."
She dumped the load into his arms without waiting for a reply.
Owen stood there, swatches slipping from his fingers, feeling the weight of her endless needs crushing down again.
He glanced back toward the woman.
She was already gone—like a hallucination that had the decency to vanish.
He tuned back into Leia's voice just in time to hear her ask, "Do you think we should do an eggshell finish or a satin?"
"Whatever you want," Owen said.
- Writer
