My apartment’s garbage disposal broke right before finals week. The building super was useless, so I called the emergency number on the fridge. At 9 p.m. there’s a knock and it’s Jake, 52, flannel shirt open over a thermal, work boots, salt-and-pepper beard, forearms like he lifts houses for fun. Smells like sawdust and coffee.

He’s under the sink for maybe ten minutes, tools clanking, asking me to hand him stuff. I’m in tiny sleep shorts and an old band tee, no bra, trying not to stare at the way his shirt rides up showing a strip of hairy stomach. When he finishes he stands, wipes his hands on a rag, and says, “That’ll be $180… or we can work something out.” He says it half-joking, eyes locked on mine to see if I flinch.

I don’t flinch.

Two minutes later he’s got me sitting on the counter right next to the sink he just fixed, legs spread, shorts yanked to the side. He drops to his knees on my kitchen floor and eats me slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every lick, beard scratching my thighs, two thick fingers curled inside me until I’m gripping his hair and coming so hard my toes curl.

He stands, unbuttons his flannel all the way, and he’s thick everywhere: chest hair, strong arms, a little softness around the middle that makes me want him more. Jeans down just enough and his cock is heavy, uncut, already dripping. He pulls a condom from his wallet (laughs when I tease him about being prepared), rolls it on, lifts me slightly by the hips and slides in slow. We both groan.

He fucks me right there on my tiny kitchen counter: deep, steady strokes, one hand braced beside my head, the other rubbing slow circles on my clit. It’s quiet except for our breathing and the wet sound of him moving in me. I come again, softer this time, legs shaking around his waist. He follows right after, burying his face in my neck, holding me tight while he finishes.

Afterward he helps me down, kisses my forehead, throws the condom away like a gentleman, and actually writes “PAID IN FULL” on the invoice with a little winking face. Hands me his flannel because I’m shivering and says, “Anything else breaks, you call me direct. Not the super.”

I wore that flannel to bed. Still smells like him.

He texted this morning: “Coffee tomorrow? I know a diner that doesn’t care about age gaps.”
I already said yes.