Sunday Dinner Secrets

Big Mama's house smells like heaven on Sundays.

Collard greens simmering with smoked turkey. Mac and cheese with the crispy top just how everyone likes it. Candied yams that'll make you slap somebody. And her famous peach cobbler cooling on the counter.

I've been married to DeShawn for eight years. Every Sunday, same routine—his grandmother's house in Decatur, the whole family packed into that little brick ranch, eating until we can't move.

But this Sunday is different.

Marcus is here.

DeShawn's cousin from Chicago. I've heard about him for years but never met him—he's been overseas, military, stationed in Germany for the past decade.

Now he's back.

And Lord have mercy, nobody told me he looked like that.

Six-three, shoulders wide enough to block a doorway, skin like polished mahogany. When he smiled at me during introductions, I felt it somewhere I shouldn't.

"So you're the one who finally locked down my little cousin," he said, his voice a low rumble. "DeShawn always did have good taste."

I couldn't even respond. Just smiled and busied myself with the sweet tea.

"Tasha, baby, can you go check on the greens?"

Big Mama's request sends me to the back kitchen—the one off the laundry room where she does the real cooking. The front kitchen is for show. This one is where the magic happens.

I'm stirring the pot when I hear footsteps behind me.

"Need some help?"

Marcus. Of course.

"I've got it," I say, not turning around.

"You sure?" He moves closer. I can feel the heat of him. "Looks like a lot for one person."

"I've been doing this for eight years."

"Eight years." He's right behind me now. "That's a long time to be doing everything yourself."

I finally turn. He's inches away, looking down at me with eyes that see too much.

"What are you doing, Marcus?"

"I don't know yet." His hand reaches up, brushes a curl from my forehead. "But I've been watching you all afternoon, Tasha. The way you move around this kitchen like you own it. The way that dress hugs every curve."

"I'm married. To your cousin."

"I know." His thumb traces my jawline. "But I also know that look you've got. The one that says you haven't been touched right in a long time."

I should walk away.

Should go back to the living room where DeShawn is watching the game with his uncles, completely oblivious. Should remember my vows, my family, everything I'm supposed to be.

But Marcus is right.

DeShawn and I haven't been right for years. We coexist. We function. But the last time he looked at me the way Marcus is looking at me now? I can't even remember.

"This is crazy," I whisper.

"Probably." He steps closer, backing me against the counter. His body presses against mine, and I feel everything. "Tell me to stop and I will."

I don't tell him to stop.

His mouth claims mine.

Not gentle, not hesitant—hungry. Like he's been starving and I'm the first meal he's seen in years. His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and I gasp into his mouth when I feel how hard he is already.

"Marcus—the family—"

"Can't see us back here." He's hiking up my dress, fingers finding the edge of my panties. "Just need to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me, Tasha?"

I nod, biting my lip.

"Good girl."

His fingers slide inside me and I have to grab his shoulders to stay standing.

"Damn." His voice is reverent. "Soaking wet already. This what eight years of neglect does to a woman?"

"Don't—don't talk about him—"

"I won't." Another finger, stretching me. "I'll just show you what you've been missing."

He works me with his hand, thumb circling my clit while his fingers curl inside. I'm trying so hard to stay quiet, but little whimpers keep escaping.

"That's it," he murmurs against my ear. "Let go for me."

I come with my face buried in his chest, muffling my cry against his shirt.

"Turn around."

I'm still shaking from the orgasm, but I obey. My hands grip the counter as he lifts my dress over my hips, pulls my panties down.

"Been thinking about this ass all day." His hands knead my cheeks, spreading them. "Thick in all the right places."

I hear his zipper. Feel him position himself.

"Marcus, wait—"

But he doesn't wait. He pushes inside me in one long stroke, and I have to bite my hand to keep from screaming.

He's big.

Bigger than DeShawn, bigger than anyone I've had. And the way he moves—slow, deep, deliberate—it's like he's trying to rearrange my insides.

"So tight," he groans. "Pussy gripping me like it don't want to let go."

"Harder," I hear myself beg. "Please—"

He gives me harder.

The sounds of our bodies meeting fill the small kitchen. The greens are still simmering on the stove. In the living room, I can hear the TV, the family laughing. And here I am, getting fucked by my husband's cousin against Big Mama's counter.

It should feel wrong.

It feels incredible.

"TASHA! THE GREENS READY?"

Big Mama's voice from the front of the house. Marcus doesn't stop moving.

"A-Almost!" I manage to call back.

"Don't you burn my greens, now!"

"No ma'am!"

Marcus laughs low in my ear, still stroking. "Better check those greens, Tasha."

He reaches around, one hand stirring the pot while the other finds my clit. Multi-tasking while he fucks me senseless.

"I hate you," I gasp.

"No you don't." He pinches my clit and I almost collapse. "You love this."

I come again, harder than before.

This time he follows, pulling out at the last second, spilling on my thighs. I'm shaking, gripping the counter, trying to remember how to breathe.

"Tissue's by the door," he says calmly, tucking himself back in.

I clean up quickly, fix my dress. When I turn around, he looks perfectly composed—like he didn't just fuck me stupid in his grandmother's kitchen.

"The greens look good," he says with a smile.

"I hate you," I repeat.

"You said that already." He winks, then heads back to the living room.

Dinner is surreal.

I sit next to DeShawn, eating food that tastes like nothing, hyperaware of Marcus across the table. Every time our eyes meet, he smirks slightly. DeShawn is oblivious, talking about the game, about work, about nothing that matters.

Under the table, my phone buzzes.

A text from an unknown number: Next Sunday. Same time. Same place.

I should delete it. Should block the number and pretend this never happened.

Instead, I save the contact as "Kitchen Help" and text back: Don't be late.

Big Mama announces peach cobbler.

I get up to help serve, and as I pass Marcus, his hand brushes the small of my back—a touch so light no one else could notice.

"Good cobbler," he says innocently.

"Family recipe," I reply.

DeShawn beams at us. "Good to see you two getting along. Marcus can be an acquired taste."

If only he knew.

The drive home is quiet.

"You okay?" DeShawn asks. "You were kind of quiet at dinner."

"Just tired," I lie. "Long day."

"Well, relax. We've got next Sunday to do it all over again."

Next Sunday.

Marcus.

Big Mama's back kitchen.

I smile and lean against the window.

"I can't wait."