Behind On Chores

Lexi watches the morning drag out like a bad joke. Dishes clatter into the machine while Liz hunches low, her jeans stretched tight, the seam riding up her crack like it can’t decide which side it wants more. Lexi’s pulse kicks; she knows she should look away, but the curve keeps her pinned. Later, Liz crawls across the rug on palms and knees, ass swaying with every sweep of the sponge, and the dull heat in Lexi’s gut flares into something sharper. She crosses her arms, nails digging crescents into her skin, deciding not to fight the hunger anymore. “Here’s the deal,” Lexi mutters, voice low and a little hoarse. “Finish what you’re doing or finish it later. Your choice—if you let me bury my face in that tight little ass.” Liz stiffens, cheeks flushed, breath caught on a half-spoken objection. Then her eyes flick toward the bedroom door like it’s an exit she just found. Lexi can see the calculation, the numbers lining up: freedom versus the bite of scandal. A beat passes. Liz’s smirk cracks first—nervous, daring—and her fingers work the button of her jeans without another word. The zipper sighs down like it knows exactly what’s coming next.