Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump.

The dryer was off again. Front leg, right side—always the same. My husband fixes it, I swear it breaks again on purpose. Total mystery how it keeps happening. Definitely not me accidentally nudging it out of alignment every time I do laundry.

It’s just… that corner dips just right. Just enough to lean into. Just enough to feel the hum where it counts.

The laundry room smelled like fresh linen and spring breeze dryer sheets—crisp, domestic, faintly sterile. A full basket of warm clothes waited on top of the washer, with the empty one behind me, ready for folded casualties.

Shirt. Towel. A pair of my husband’s “lucky” boxers with the waistband hanging on for dear life. I folded, sorted, stood barefoot in old cotton shorts and a stretched-out sweatshirt with no bra underneath. Because Saturday. Because motherhood. Because why not.

The dryer buzzed beneath me, sending soft pulses up my thighs. I hummed The Lazy Song under my breath and stared out the small window at the pinkish-orange sunrise breaking across the backyard. For a second, the stillness held me. For a second, I felt like a woman again, not just a mom-shaped utility.

My fingers snagged something light.

I pulled it free, and a lacy black band snapped out like a slingshot. My eyebrows lifted.

What the hell is that doing in here?

I hadn’t worn those in…

Oh. Right. That PTA meeting. I'd needed clean underwear in a rush and grabbed the first thing in reach. Poor thing probably thought it was being taken out for one last hurrah. The most action those panties had seen in years was under fluorescent lights, discussing math scores.

Before I knew it, his arms wrapped around me from behind—steady, strong. He pressed his body into mine, gently leaning us both forward. The corner of the dryer nudged into me with just the right kind of precision.

I gasped into a laugh. “Good morning, babe.”

“Mhmm,” he rumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Is that it? Mhmm?”

“You smell like flowers.”

“That’s because I am flowers. And maybe because of the dryer sheets.”

He kissed the top of my head, then shifted to lean against the washer. His eyes drifted over me, slow and shameless, lips tugging into that familiar grin.

“What?” I asked, pretending not to enjoy it. My cheeks warmed—probably just the heat from the laundry, obviously.

“Just looking at what’s mine.”

“Shut up.” I snorted like a damn schoolgirl. “You gonna help me fold or just stand there being ridiculous?”

“I prefer…” He stretched, arms overhead, the waistband of his flannel pants dipping just enough to reveal that inviting, trimmed trail. “Bending to folding.”

“Oh, you think you’re clever?” I rolled my eyes and grabbed the lace from the top of the dryer, tossing it in his direction.

He caught it easily, holding the thong up between us. His eyes flicked over the fabric, then through it, locking onto mine like he was seeing straight through me.

“You remember the last time I wore those?” I asked, biting my lip as I folded another shirt.

“How could I forget?” He stepped in closer, one finger hooking under my waistband. “We got our second kid because of it.”

Before I could reply, he slid his hand into my shorts from behind.

My sigh melted into him. His lips brushed my ear, his fingers weaving through my messy curls. I wanted this. God, I needed this. Desperate and aching in a way that had nothing to do with the dryer and everything to do with the man pressed against my back.

“We can’t…” The words caught halfway out as his other hand palmed my breast through my sweatshirt. “They’ll be up soon.”

“It’s the weekend,” he murmured, voice a low rasp against my skin. “They sleep in.”

“They’re little monsters,” I breathed.

His teeth sank into my neck—soft, deliberate. My hand flew to my mouth, catching the sound that almost escaped. The door creaked. I watched as his foot slid forward and kicked it closed with a heavy thud.

We froze.

The washer hummed. The dryer thumped. We waited.

No footsteps. No baby cries. No tiny voices shouting for cereal.

Just us.

I turned to him, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Okay. If we’re gonna do this—do it now.”

As if he’d been waiting for that very line, his hands locked around my waist. In one fluid motion—my legs wrapping around him on instinct—he lifted me onto the edge of the dryer. The corner hit just right, and the vibration traveled up through my thighs, sparking at the center of me.

My needy pussy clenched in anticipation.

We kissed like we’d been starving. Hot and hungry, no pretense. His hands slid beneath my sweater, rough palms skating over bare skin. This wasn’t soft, and it wasn’t slow. This was tension stacked over weeks. Maybe months. This was raw, forgotten hunger—permission to want, even now.

My fingers tugged at his waistband, dragging the flannel down just far enough. His cock sprang free, rising with a kind of hungry pride, blushed dark as if embarrassed by its own need. I wrapped my hand around it without hesitation.

He groaned—low, needy, perfect.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he rasped, eyes raking over me like he couldn’t choose where to land.

I laughed softly, tugging my shorts to the side, revealing my wet, unshaven slit without apology. “We don’t have time for foreplay.” I met his gaze, the heat between us burning steady. “Just fuck me.”

I pulled his cock toward me, daring him.

He let out a broken laugh. “That’s your fault.”

“My fault?” I raised a brow, breath hitching. “What is?”

“We had them because of you.”

“Motherfu—” My words dissolved into a gasp as he thrust into me, stretching me wide in one perfect stroke. My hand flew to the back of his neck, holding tight.

He moved slowly, deliberately, hips grinding forward like he had all the time in the world—which we definitely didn’t.

Pleasure bloomed with every stroke, the low hum of the dryer syncing with the throb deep inside me.

“I wasn’t the one—oh—” My knees dropped open wider as he drove deeper. “—who keeps pumping them into me.”

My laugh twisted into a moan.

He growled into my neck. “You loved it.”

Damn, he was right.

We moved with the thump of the dryer, sharp and breathless, every moan swallowed before it could betray us. My orgasm was building, simmering—but not fast enough.

Then—creak.

We froze. Eyes locked on the ceiling.

The floor settled above us. Tiny footsteps padded softly across the hallway.

Any second now, someone would call for French toast and shatter this pocket of stolen time.

“Flip me over,” I whispered.

No hesitation. He grabbed my leg, swung it over his shoulder while I guided the other down. Bent over the dryer, I planted my feet against the cold linoleum, hands braced.

He found me again, thrusting into the slick heat of my body. The weight of him pinned me forward—my clit grinding against the dryer’s edge. The cycle was winding down.

Not yet.

With frantic precision, I reached out and twisted the dial, restarting the dryer.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

His hands tightened—one at my hip, the other gripping my shoulder—driving me back onto him. I grabbed the nearest thing: my black thong. Shoving it between my teeth, I bit down, muffling the rising cry building inside me.

My thighs trembled from the effort, the strain—but then it hit. My orgasm tore through me like a snapped cord. My clit dragged against the shaking machine, sparks flaring behind my eyes.

I clung to the dryer, knuckles white, riding it out.

He leaned over me, chest pressed to my back, hips still thrusting. Deep. Urgent. Relentless.

His breath was hot at my ear, ragged.

Then—he groaned, and I felt him spill inside me. Thick pulses. Heat blooming in slow, consuming waves.

My feet lifted off the floor, the weight of him pinning me in place.

And for a moment, I felt like I was flying.

We stayed like that for a while, draped over the dryer, breath syncing, silence humming between us. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, and I let out a quiet laugh, euphoria still buzzing beneath my skin.

“Moooooom? Daaaaaad?”

The spell broke.

He chuckled. “I’ll go thwart your monster.”

“Our monsters,” I corrected, gently nudging my hips back against him.

He grunted. “Only when they’re behaving.”

He tucked himself away and slipped out of the laundry room, pulling the door shut behind him. “Who’s hungry?”

Giggling erupted from the hallway. Tiny feet pattered toward him.

I exhaled, still braced against the dryer. I could feel the lingering warmth of him inside me—our mess soaking into my shorts. Sticky. Tender. Intimate.

I peeled them off and did a quick cleanup before tossing them in the hamper. A fresh pair of black sweats—still warm from the dryer—hugged my legs as I slipped them on. I swapped my sweatshirt for a soft tank, then tugged my messy bun a little higher.

Down the hall, I heard the three of them debating whether dinosaurs could fly spaceships.

A slow smile crept across my lips, unbidden and bright.

Our world was loud. Cramped. Often sticky.

But it was ours.

Chaotic, yes.

But chaotic love.