Leaking for the Handyman

Chapter7-Two Cups

The orgasm ripped through me so hard my vision whited out. I clenched around him, pulsing, sobbing his name. Cream spilled out around his c**k with every thrust. He kept f*****g me through it, drawing it out until I was shaking and oversensitive.

Then he rolled us in one smooth motion so I was on top, straddling him, his c**k still buried deep.

Ride me. Show me how much you need it. f**k yourself on my c**k.

I planted my hands on his inked chest and started to move. Slow at first, rolling my hips, feeling every ridge of metal drag inside me. His hands gripped my waist hard enough to bruise. I leaned forward so my heavy breasts hung in his face. He captured a n****e and sucked while I rode him faster, harder, chasing the next release.

That’s it. Use my c**k. It’s yours. f**k yourself on it. Let me see that cream drip down my balls. Tell me who owns this p***y.

You do… you own it… your c**k is mine… please…

I bounced on him shamelessly, the wet sound obscene, milk dripping onto his tattoos. He spanked my already-sore ass, the sharp sting making me clench around him. Filthy praise spilled from his mouth—how tight I was, how pretty I looked taking him, how he was going to keep me full of his c*m, how no one else would ever touch this p***y again.

Another orgasm built. I ground down hard, rubbing my c**t against him, and shattered with a broken cry. I collapsed onto his chest. He groaned, hips losing rhythm, thrusts turning desperate.

Come inside me, I whispered.

His eyes flared.

You sure?

Yes. Please. I want to feel it.

He came with a rough, broken sound, burying his face in my neck as he emptied himself inside me. I held him. Felt his heart pounding against my chest.

We stayed like that for a long time. Panting. Trembling. Both of us slick with sweat and milk and c*m. His arms wrapped around me, one hand stroking slowly down my spine.

You’re mine now, Penelope. No more running. No more pushing me away. This is real.

I closed my eyes and listened to his heartbeat under my ear. My body ached in the best possible ways—throat sore, ass burning, p***y throbbing and full of him. I felt claimed. Ruined. Safe.

And still so f*****g hungry.

I know.

Ronan’s hand slid down to cup my sore ass, possessive even in the afterglow. I felt him start to harden inside me once more.

Round three. And this time you’re going to thank me for every stroke.

I shivered and tightened around him, already wet again, cream and c*m mixing inside me.

Yes.

He kept his word.

Somewhere past midnight he carried me into the bathroom.

The light was harsh. My reflection in the mirror was unrecognisable—flushed, marked, lips swollen, breasts heavy and red from his mouth, ass still bright from his hand. He turned on the shower, tested the water, then pulled me under the spray with him.

He washed me slowly at first, soaping my sore body with careful hands. But the moment his fingers slipped between my legs and found me still wet and creamy, the care vanished. He spun me around, pressed my chest to the cold tile, and pushed back inside me in one hard thrust.

I cried out. The water poured over us. He f****d me against the wall, one hand on my hip, the other reaching around to rub my c**t while he whispered filthy things against my ear—how good I took him, how this p***y was ruined for anyone else, how he was going to keep me full of his c*m until I could not walk straight.

I came again with a broken scream, clenching around him so hard he groaned and followed, flooding me one last time under the hot water.

When he finally pulled out, I could barely stand. He washed me again, gentler this time, then dried us both and carried me back to bed. I curled against his inked chest, his arm locked around my waist, his mouth pressed to the top of my head.

I looked at him, suddenly overwhelmed by everything I had felt while waiting for him.

What if this changes everything?

It already has.

His hand slid into mine.

And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like a woman waiting for her life to begin again.

I felt alive.

That night I stopped trying to be the woman who had everything under control.

I let myself want.

I let myself be wanted.

And when he pulled me against him, I stopped thinking about my failed marriage, my loneliness, my scars, and every reason I had ever given myself for not deserving happiness.

For once, I simply let myself feel.

You’re not getting rid of me, Penelope. Not after this. Not ever.

I closed my eyes and felt the truth of it settle into my bones.

I did not want to get rid of him.

Not anymore.

I was his.

And my body already ached for the next time he would prove it.

With that thought I drifted off to sleep.

By the time the first grey light of morning slipped through the curtains, I was boneless and marked and full of him. Ronan lay lazy beside me, one heavy arm locked around my waist, his mouth pressed to the back of my shoulder.

I woke before him.

For several seconds I didn’t know where I was.

Then I felt the warmth beside me.

I turned my head.

He was asleep.

His face looked completely different in the morning.

Younger.

Softer.

Nothing like the confident, intense man who had stood in my doorway the night before and ordered me to my knees.

I watched him breathe.

And something unfamiliar settled inside my chest.

Peace.

I hadn’t felt it in a long time.

I carefully slipped out of bed.

Clara was still asleep.

I checked the baby monitor before walking into the kitchen.

I made coffee.

Two cups.

I stopped.

I had automatically made one for him.

A strange smile touched my lips.

He came into the kitchen a few minutes later.

His hair was messy.

His shirt was wrinkled.

He looked at me.

Then at the two cups.

You made me coffee?

I guess I did.

He smiled, slow and a little sleepy.

That’s dangerous.

Why?

Because I could get used to this.

The words landed differently than I expected.

I looked away.

Don’t.

His smile disappeared.

Don’t what?

Make it sound like this is something it isn’t.

He walked closer, bare feet quiet on the old floorboards.

What do you think this is?

I don’t know.

Then don’t decide for both of us.

I stared at him.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching me with that same steady intensity from the night before, only softer now.

I’m not asking you to marry me.

I know.

I’m not asking you to forget your past.

I know.

I’m asking you to stop assuming that because you’re afraid, this can’t be real.

My throat tightened.

You’re younger than me.

I know.

I’m a mother.

I know.

My life is complicated.

So is mine.

You could find someone easier.

He stepped closer.

Maybe I don’t want easy.

I looked at him.

He reached for my hand, fingers warm and rough against mine.

Maybe I want you.

My eyes stung.

I hated how easily he could make me feel exposed.

Why?

His brows drew together.

Why what?

Why me?

He looked at me for a long moment, like he was choosing the words carefully.

Because when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m wasting my time pretending to want someone else.

My breath caught.

You barely know me.

Then let me.

The baby monitor crackled.

Clara stirred.

I pulled my hand away and hurried toward the nursery.

He followed.

I picked Clara up when she began to fuss, settling her against my shoulder. She was warm and soft and still half-asleep, her tiny fist curled against my collarbone.

Ronan stood beside me.

She’s beautiful.

She is.

Clara opened her eyes.

Then, unexpectedly, she reached toward him.

He froze.

I laughed softly, the sound quiet so I wouldn’t startle her.

She likes you.

He looked almost nervous.

What am I supposed to do?

Hold her.

He carefully took Clara from my arms.

The sight nearly broke me.

This wasn’t what I had expected.

I had expected heat.

I had expected hunger.

I had expected a night I would spend regretting in the morning.

I had not expected this.

Him standing in the nursery with my daughter in his arms.

Him looking at her like she mattered.

Like we mattered.

He looked at me over Clara’s tiny head.

I think she’s got me.

I smiled.

Maybe.

But inside, something had already shifted.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t wondering whether I could want him.

I was wondering whether I could let him stay.

And that was far more frightening.

Wanting him had been easy.

The way my body answered his. The way I had begged. The way I had come apart under his hands and mouth and c**k. That had been simple, even when it felt dangerous.

Trusting him would be the hard part.

I watched him adjust Clara against his chest with surprising gentleness. His large hand supported her head. His tattoos looked almost soft in the morning light. He rocked her without seeming to notice he was doing it.

You’re good with her, I said quietly.

He glanced at me.

I’m trying not to drop her.

You’re not going to drop her.

He gave a small, almost self-conscious smile.

Still feels like I might.

Clara made a soft sound and settled more fully against him. Her eyes drifted closed again. Ronan looked down at her like she was something fragile and important and entirely unexpected.

I leaned against the doorframe and just watched them.

The intensity of the night before still lived in my body—the ache between my legs, the tenderness of my breasts, the faint sting across my ass where his hand had landed again and again. But this quiet moment felt heavier somehow. More dangerous than any of the filthy things he had done to me.

Because this was the part that could break me.

Not the s*x.

Not the claiming.

This.

A young man with ink on his skin and heat in his eyes holding my daughter like she already belonged in his arms.

He looked up and caught me watching.

What?

Nothing, I said.

It’s not nothing.

I shook my head slowly.

I’m just… not used to this.

To someone staying?

To someone looking at us like we matter.

His expression softened even further.

You do.

You barely know us.

I’m learning.

Clara shifted again. He adjusted without hesitation, one hand supporting her bottom, the other cradling her back. The ease of it made my chest tighten.

I should take her, I said. She’s probably hungry.

He carefully transferred her back into my arms. Our fingers brushed during the exchange. Neither of us pulled away quickly.

I’ll give you some privacy, he said.

You don’t have to leave the room.

I know. But I will anyway.

He stepped toward the door, then paused.

Penelope.

I looked at him.

I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.

The words settled between us, quiet and heavy.

I nodded once, not trusting my voice.

He left the nursery.

I sat in the rocking chair and fed Clara while the morning light grew stronger through the window. Milk let down easily. She latched and nursed with soft, contented sounds. I stared at the wall he had painted only days ago—the warm yellow that still smelled faintly of change—and tried to make sense of the storm inside me.

I had spent two weeks pushing him away.

I had spent one night letting him take everything.

And now, in the soft morning after, I was sitting here with my daughter in my arms and the knowledge that something irreversible had begun.

When Clara finished, I burped her gently and laid her back in the bassinet. She stayed asleep. I stood there a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of her tiny chest, before walking back toward the kitchen.

Ronan was at the counter, finishing the coffee I had made him. He looked up when I entered.

Everything okay?

She’s asleep again.

Good.

We stood there in the quiet kitchen, the air still charged but softer than the night before. The intensity had not disappeared. It had simply changed shape.

I could still feel him inside me—the memory of every thrust, every command, every time he had made me say who owned this body. My thighs pressed together at the thought. Heat flickered low in my belly again.

But underneath the heat was something quieter and more terrifying.

I could get used to this too, I thought.

The coffee.

The morning light.

The sight of him holding my daughter.

The way he looked at me like I was not too much.

Like I was enough.

Ronan set his cup down and crossed the small space between us. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body again.

You’re thinking too hard, he said.

Probably.

Then stop.

I can’t.

Why not?

Because if I stop thinking, I might start believing this is real.

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my cheek.

It is real.

You can’t know that yet.

I know how I feel when I’m with you.

And how is that?

Like I finally stopped running from something I didn’t even know I was chasing.

My eyes burned again. I blinked hard.

You should be careful saying things like that.

Why?

Because I might start believing you.

Good, he said quietly. Believe me.

He leaned in and kissed me—slow this time, almost gentle, but still carrying the same undercurrent of possession from the night before. I kissed him back, hands resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palms.

When we finally separated, he rested his forehead against mine.

I’m going to stay for a while this morning, he said. If that’s okay.

It’s okay.

I’ll make breakfast.

You don’t have to.

I want to.

I nodded.

He moved toward the fridge, already opening cabinets like he belonged in this kitchen. I watched him for a moment, the ink on his back shifting as he reached for a pan, the easy strength in his shoulders, the quiet way he had claimed space without demanding it.

Something deep in my chest tightened.

Wanting him had been easy.

Letting him stay—letting him become part of the ordinary hours, the coffee, the mornings, the quiet moments with Clara—that was the part that could destroy me if it went wrong.

I leaned against the counter and watched him move around my kitchen like he had every right to be there.

And for the first time, I let myself admit the truth I had been fighting since the moment he fixed the pipe.

I didn’t just want him in my bed.

I wanted him in my life.

And that was the most dangerous want of all.

Because if I let myself believe this could last…

I wasn’t sure I would survive losing it.