He came to fix my sink… and ended up destroying me (in the best possible way)

It had been a long week — work stress, bad dates, and to top it all off, my kitchen sink decided to start leaking like a little bitch. My usual maintenance guy ghosted me, so I texted a friend who recommended someone. “He’s good,” she said. “A bit quiet, but he gets the job done.” She wasn’t lying.

When I opened the door, I wasn’t ready for what I saw.

He was tall — like, duck-under-the-doorframe tall. Late 20s maybe. Wore a gray fitted T-shirt that clung to a body built like he did more than fix sinks. His arms were thick and veiny, his chest hard under the cotton, and his jeans hung low enough to show the sharp V of his hips.

He smiled, a little crooked. “You called about a leak?” Oh baby. Not the only one leaking in this apartment.

I tried to play it cool, directing him toward the kitchen. I watched as he crouched under the sink, his shirt lifting just enough to expose a delicious strip of lower back and that perfect curve above his waistband. I leaned against the counter, pretending to scroll on my phone, but all I could think about was what he might be hiding in those jeans.

It was getting harder to pretend I wasn’t turned on. Especially when he looked up at me from the floor and asked, “Can I get a towel?” I handed him one — but our fingers brushed, and the air between us shifted.

He stood slowly, eyes locked on mine. “You okay?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said, barely above a whisper. “You?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. I could smell sweat and soap. My breath caught when his hand brushed my hip — light, testing, curious.

“I could use a break,” he murmured.

Before I knew it, I was against the wall, lips crashing together like we’d been waiting for this all week. His kiss was demanding, tongue teasing mine, hands roaming fast. My shirt came off, followed by my bra — and he stared like I was something he’d been craving.

I pulled his shirt over his head, and fuck, he was carved. Broad chest, abs, strong arms — all of it mine to touch. I tugged at his jeans, and when they dropped, my mouth literally fell open.

He was massive.

Thick, long, hard — even with my hand wrapped around him, there was still more. I looked up at him with a grin. “No wonder you’re quiet,” I teased. “Carrying this around all day must be exhausting.”

He laughed — but then I was on my knees, lips wrapped around his shaft, doing my best to take as much as I could. He groaned deep, one hand in my hair, the other gripping the counter. I loved the way he whispered my name — low, shaky, barely in control.

But I needed him inside me.

We stumbled to the bedroom, clothes half-on, kisses messy and desperate. He laid me on the bed, slid his fingers between my thighs, and groaned when he felt how wet I was.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Please,” I breathed.

The stretch was intense. Every inch pushed me open wider than I thought I could take. I gasped, grabbing his arms, legs wrapping around his waist. He moved slow, letting me adjust, kissing my neck, whispering filth in my ear.

Then he started to thrust.

Deep, steady, full. He filled me completely — I could feel him in places I didn’t know existed. I was moaning like a pornstar, clawing at his back, begging for more. He pinned my wrists above my head, driving into me like he owned me, and I came so hard I saw white.

We kept going. Changed positions. He bent me over. Rode me from behind. I came again. And again.

By the time he finished, my sheets were soaked. My thighs trembled. My voice was gone.

He kissed me once on the forehead and said, “Call me if anything else breaks.”

And you better believe… I will.