No Plumber? No Problem!

Max strolls past the bathroom and stops cold. There's Cory on all fours with a wrench in her hand and a smile that says she thinks this'll be a piece of cake. Pipes dripping, toolbox cracked open. She told the plumbers to pound sand and rolled her sleeves up anyway. Max raises an eyebrow. Not a bad view, but zero confidence. He mutters that she should call a pro, what if she turns a drip into a flood. Cory waves him off, tells him to scram, she’s got it handled. Max shrugs and walks. Ten seconds later, the pipe blows like it owes her money. Max spins back in and finds her soaked head to toe, shivering and cursing, lip quivering as she admits he was right. Water runs down her curves, clothes pasted to every inch. He steps close, peels the dripping shirt off her skin, grabs a towel and runs it over her bare shoulders, down her back. Heat kicks in fast—eyes lock, breath mixes, her nipples hard against the cool air and his palms. Fingers trace damp skin, and suddenly the towel’s on the floor. Max drops his shorts; Cory yanks him down with her onto the wet tile. She spreads on her back, he slides in, water still trickling around them. They fuck like the floor’s on fire—her thighs slick, his hips slamming, wet slaps echoing off the walls until she’s moaning loud enough for the neighbors.