Two days later the text came at 6:17 p.m.
Kai's at a team study session until 9. Gate code is the same. Don't park in the driveway.
Jett read it once, deleted the thread, and was on the road in under four minutes.
The house looked quieter in the early evening light. No Civic in the drive. Porch light off. He punched the code, stepped inside, and shut the door without a sound.
Marisol was already waiting in the hallway.
She still wore the same black leggings from practice and a thin gray tank top that clung to the sweat she hadn't fully washed off. Her hair was down. Her eyes were dark and restless.
"Upstairs is empty," she said. No greeting. "He's gone. But he could come back early. We have maybe an hour. Maybe less."
Jett set his keys on the entry table. "You're shaking."
"I know." She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward the short hallway that led past the kitchen. "I couldn't stop thinking about your hand under the table. Every time I sat down for the last two days I felt it. I can't— I need this over with before I do something worse in front of him."
The laundry room was narrow, fluorescent lights already on, dryer humming on a low cycle. The air smelled of detergent and warm cotton. Marisol shoved the door shut behind them and twisted the lock.
The second the bolt clicked she was on him.
Her mouth crashed against his, open and desperate. Teeth scraped. Her hands shoved under his shirt, nails dragging up his stomach. Jett backed her into the folding counter, the edge of it pressing into the small of her back. She made a broken sound into his mouth and ground her hips forward.
"Clothes off," she ordered against his lips. "Fast."
He stripped her tank over her head in one pull. No bra. Her breasts were full, nipples already tight from the cool air and the heat racing under her skin. He took one in his mouth while she yanked at his shorts. The wet heat of her tongue against his own when she pulled him back up to kiss her again tasted like mint and panic.
Her leggings and underwear came down together. She kicked them aside and reached for him, wrapping her fingers around his cock the moment it sprang free. She stroked once, hard, and then turned, bending over the counter with her forearms braced and her ass pushed back.
"No more talking. Just—"
Jett stepped in behind her, one hand on her hip, the other guiding himself between her thighs. She was soaked. The head of his cock slid through the slickness once, twice, and then he pushed in with a single deep thrust that forced a sharp cry out of her.
She bit down on her own forearm to muffle it.
He didn't give her time to adjust. The angle was perfect—deep, immediate, the kind of friction that made her walls flutter and clench around him on every stroke. The dryer vibrated against the wall, covering some of the wet sounds of their bodies. Jett kept one hand splayed across her lower back, the other reaching around to find her clit. He rubbed in tight circles while he fucked her, the rhythm hard and relentless.
Marisol's head dropped forward. "Fuck— Jett— slower, he'll hear—"
"You said we had an hour." His voice stayed low, controlled, even as he drove into her harder. "You're the one who couldn't wait."
She pushed back to meet every thrust, contradicting her own words. The wet slap of skin filled the small room. Her fingers scrabbled at the smooth countertop for purchase. When he pinched her clit between two fingers she came with a full-body shudder, thighs shaking, a broken moan trapped against her arm.
He didn't stop.
He pulled out only long enough to spin her around, lift her onto the edge of the counter, and push back inside. Her legs locked around his waist. The new angle let him go deeper. Her forehead dropped against his shoulder as he fucked her through the aftershocks, each thrust dragging another soft, helpless sound out of her throat.
"Look at me," he said.
She did. Her eyes were glassy, pupils blown, the careful coach completely gone. Only the woman remained—guilt-ridden, addicted, already chasing the next peak.
"This is what you needed," he told her, voice steady while his hips kept moving. "Not under the table. Not across from your son. Right here where you can make noise."
She nodded once, frantic, and pulled his mouth back to hers. The kiss was messy. She bit his lower lip hard enough to sting. Her nails dug into his shoulders. When the second orgasm hit her it was quieter but longer—her body clamping down in rhythmic waves that pulled him right to the edge.
Jett held off. He wanted her to feel every second of it.
He set a slower, heavier pace, grinding deep on every stroke so the base of his cock rubbed against her oversensitive clit. Marisol's breath came in short, punched-out gasps. Sweat slicked the valley between her breasts. The tank top was long gone; the only clothing left on either of them was his open shirt and the socks she still wore.
"I hate that I texted you," she whispered against his mouth. "I hate that I unlocked the gate. I hate that I'm going to do it again."
"I know."
He reached between them and circled her clit with his thumb again. Her head fell back. A low, continuous sound rolled out of her as the third climax built. This one wrecked her. Her legs shook so hard he had to hold her up. Her inner walls fluttered and then locked down tight around him.
Only then did Jett let go.
He buried himself to the hilt and came hard, pulse after pulse, filling her while she clung to him and trembled. For several long seconds the only sounds were their breathing and the steady hum of the dryer.
He stayed inside her while the aftershocks faded.
Marisol's forehead rested against his. Her eyes were closed. A single tear tracked down one cheek; she wiped it away with the back of her hand like it offended her.
"He's going to find out," she said quietly. "One day he's going to walk in or notice something and it's going to destroy him."
Jett brushed a damp strand of hair from her face. "Not today."
She laughed once, broken and almost soundless. "Not today."
He eased out of her. The wet sound made her flinch. Come immediately began to slip down her inner thigh. She stared at it for a moment, then reached for a clean towel from the stack on the shelf and cleaned herself with quick, efficient motions that didn't hide the slight tremor in her hands.
They dressed in silence. She pulled the leggings back on without underwear. The gray tank followed. Jett fixed his shorts and shirt. The room still smelled like sex and detergent.
Marisol unlocked the door and checked the hallway. Empty.
She turned back to him, voice low. "You need to leave before seven-thirty. Just in case."
Jett nodded. He stepped close one last time, close enough that their chests almost touched, and spoke against her ear.
"Next time you text me, make sure the dryer is already running."
Her breath caught. She didn't answer. She only pressed her palm flat against his stomach for a second—possessive, resigned—then pushed him gently toward the door.
He left the same way he had arrived: quiet, unhurried, the picture of a teammate who'd stopped by for a quick word about training.
Outside, the evening air felt cooler against his skin. He walked to the car without looking back.
Inside the laundry room the dryer cycle ended with a soft beep. Marisol stood alone under the fluorescent lights, legs still unsteady, the faint ache between them already reminding her that one hour had not been enough.
She wiped the counter once more, turned off the light, and walked back into the quiet house.
Kai would be home in less than ninety minutes.
She had just enough ti
me to shower, change, and pretend nothing had happened.
She already knew she would fail at the last part.