The house felt different without Charles and Jane.
Quiet, yes—but not peaceful. More like a ticking bomb.
Charles had decided to take Jane on a three-day private trip to the countryside—a quiet getaway with fishing, trekking, and nothing but time to reconnect. Jane had lit up at the idea, hugging him tight before they packed their duffel bags and headed out, promising to come back with "new memories and sunburns."
But before leaving, Charles made a last-minute decision—one that neither Arthur nor Rosie was thrilled about.
He invited his sister's teenage son, Ryan, to stay at the house.
"He's a good kid," Charles had said, tossing the boy's backpack into the guest room. "Spends too much time on screens. You two can entertain him."
Arthur and Rosie exchanged a look that said everything: this wasn't going to end well.
—
It didn't.
Ryan was clingy, loud, and seemed immune to subtle cues. He followed Arthur like a lost puppy, asked Rosie the most ridiculous questions, and worst of all—he never left the common areas.
Private moments? Gone.
Spontaneous touches? Risky.
Sneaking kisses? Out of the question.
Rosie was losing it by day two.
"This is hell," she whispered to Arthur as they sat on opposite ends of the couch while Ryan watched some loud anime. "Actual hell."
Arthur ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I swear to God, if he asks me to play another round of Uno, I'm throwing the deck into the fireplace."
But they weren't saints.
Tension has a way of warping into something filthier.
Arthur started brushing his fingers against Rosie's hand whenever she passed him a glass. Rosie began licking her spoon slower while making eye contact with him across the table. Every forbidden touch, every stolen glance in front of Ryan only turned them on more.
"I think we've developed a new kink," Rosie said one night, brushing her knee against Arthur's under the dinner table.
"I hate how much I like it," he muttered, adjusting himself discreetly.
—
Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the hills, Charles and Jane were having the time of their lives.
Their tent was pitched beside a small stream, and the only sounds around were the rustle of leaves and the lazy ripple of water. They'd gone fishing that morning—well, attempted to.
Charles stood waist-deep in the water, shirtless, rod in hand, and entirely too distracted by Jane's laughter behind him.
"You're not even trying," she called from the bank.
He turned. "Maybe because I'm more interested in what's waiting on shore."
She raised a brow. "Oh really?"
He dropped the rod, sloshed through the water, and reached her in seconds. His hands slid up her thighs, water droplets trailing along her skin.
"Right here?" she asked breathlessly, glancing around.
"No one's coming," he said, voice husky. "Let me have you."
Jane gasped as he lifted her onto a flat rock by the shore. Her shorts were tugged down. His mouth was on her inner thigh. Then higher. Her fingers tangled in his hair, legs trembling, moans swallowed by the sound of the stream.
When he entered her moments later—wet, raw, and desperate—she dug her nails into his back and cried out into his mouth.
They didn't care about anything but the way they moved, the water slapping against his hips as he fucked her hard against the rock.
—
Back at the mansion, Rosie nearly lost it.
She wore one of Arthur's old shirts and no bra, pretending it was laundry day. Arthur bit his cheek every time she leaned forward on the couch. And when she 'accidentally' dropped her phone under the table and bent over in front of him?
He left the room.
Later that night, Rosie cornered him in the kitchen.
"This is torture," she hissed, pressing into him.
His hands were already on her hips. "Then let's be quiet. Sneaky. Right now."
But Ryan's voice called again from the hallway.
"I can't find the charger!"
Arthur sighed and stepped away, blue-balled and ready to explode.
—
By the third day, Arthur was on edge.
Ryan had parked himself on the living room beanbag, eyes glued to anime, completely unaware of the chaotic storm he'd ignited just by existing in the same house as Arthur and Rosie.
Rosie passed by again, towel wrapped around her chest post-shower, wet strands of hair dripping onto her collarbone. Arthur nearly dropped the juice glass in his hand.
"You're evil," he muttered, jaw clenched.
She smiled sweetly. "I'm bored."
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the pantry, pressing her into the wall, inches from her lips. "I swear, Rosie, if I don't get to taste you soon—"
"Then what?" she teased, breathing hard. "You'll lose it?"
His hand ran down her thigh. "Already have."
They were seconds away from giving in—lips brushing, hearts racing—when they heard Ryan's voice again.
"Hey, Rosie? Did you see my charger?"
Arthur groaned. Rosie bit her lip and slipped away from him with a mischievous wink.
"I'm going to lose my mind," Arthur whispered to himself.
—
Far from the chaos, Jane and Charles lay sprawled in the grass near the edge of the lake, their bodies tangled under the last golden light of sunset. Their final day had been nothing short of indulgent—slow kisses under trees, wild sex in the field, and whispered secrets inside their tent.
"You think they're surviving without us?" Jane asked, tracing a finger over Charles's chest.
Charles chuckled. "If Arthur doesn't punch someone or fuck Rosie in public, I'll be impressed."
She laughed. "They've always had that… edge."
"I'm just glad we had this time," he said, pulling her close. "Needed to feel like us again."
Jane kissed him softly. "We still are. More than ever."
—
That night, as Charles and Jane packed up to return, Rosie sat curled up on the couch beside Arthur, her legs tucked beneath her. Ryan had gone to bed early after Arthur 'accidentally' suggested a double-dose of NyQuil for his cold.
Silence wrapped the room.
Rosie slowly turned toward Arthur. "They'll be back tomorrow."
"I know," he said, voice low.
Her eyes locked with his. "Come to my room."
He didn't speak—just stood and held out his hand. No more teasing. No more pretending.
And when their bedroom door shut behind them, it wasn't about lust anymore.
It was desperation.
Hands grabbing, mouths crashing, clothes ripped off with silent urgency—finally alone, finally free. The kink of being watched had burned into a deeper fire, but now, it was just them.
Skin against skin.
Soft gasps.
Long moans muffled into pillows.
They didn't need to say anything.
The silence said it all.
And somewhere far away, on their last night beneath the stars, Jane whispered into Charles's ear, "They're falling for each other, you know?"
Charles smiled, pulling her tighter. "Took them long enough."