NTR: The live-in-husband gets a perverted heart system

The afternoon dragged by slow and grey. Tom’s head still throbbed, duller now than it had been that morning before the recovery stat but present enough to remind him with every movement that he’d cracked it open on marble just a day ago.

[Rest, Host. The Next Mission Won’t Drop Properly Until Your Recovery Stat Catches Up.]

The system had told him when Tom begun panicking about his next possible mission of going oral with Davina.

He’d tried to rest like the system had suggested. But lying flat only made the hunger louder, gnawing and insistent, impossible to ignore once the adrenaline of the morning had worn off.

A housekeeper had come by with a tray at some point - some rich, buttery pasta dish, the kind of thing that photographed well on a designer’s dinner table - and left it on the nightstand without a word, without asking him a single question about what he might actually want.

Tom looked at it and didn’t touch it. It was Sienna’s favorite. It was always Sienna’s favorite, whatever landed on his plate, because nobody in this entire house had ever once asked Tom Harlow what he liked to eat. He was fed like livestock, given whatever was already being made for someone else.

[Hungry, Host?] The system’s voice was pure amusement. [Go Test That New Charm Stat On The Chef. Make Her Cook You Something You Actually Want For Once.]

"How? I can’t just walk in there and demand food. She takes her orders from Sienna same as everyone else." Tom thought back, tired.

[Then Don’t Demand. Go To The Kitchen, Host. Let Me Show You How This Works.]

He got up. His head swam for a second before it settled, and he made his way down the back stairs on bare, unsteady feet, following the smell of something simmering.

The kitchen was warm and bright, all steel and white tile, and the chef stood at the stove with her back to him, stirring something that smelled like garlic and butter.

She was young, early thirties maybe, and the loose kitchen uniform did almost nothing to hide what was underneath it. It clung wrong in all the right places - stretched taut across a set of hips that flared wide and full from a narrow waist, the fabric pulling snug over an ass round and heavy enough that it swayed with every small shift of her weight at the stove.

Her top strained where it crossed her chest, buttons doing more work than they were built for, and even from behind Tom could trace the curve of her - the dip of her waist, the swell above it, the thick, soft thighs the uniform’s hem barely covered.

She was built generous everywhere a woman could be built generous, the kind of shape that no amount of shapeless kitchen cotton could disguise, and Tom felt his mouth go dry just standing in the doorway looking at her.

Then the system dinged with a notification:

[SIDE MISSION: LUCKY BASTARD.]

[OBJECTIVE: Spank The Chef’s Ass. Tell Her It’s Soft, And That Whoever Gets To Keep It Is A Lucky Bastard.]

[REWARD: $5,000. +2 Charm. +5 Recovery.]

Tom froze in the doorway. His head shook sharply.

"Absolutely not."

[No Deadline On This One, Host. No Penalty Either. This One’s Just For You To Learn.] A pause before the system continued smugly:

[But $5,000 Is $5,000. And If She Likes You, She Might Just Cook You A Meal Specially Made For You. When’s The Last Time That Happened In This House?]

Never. That was the answer, and the system knew it same as he did.

Tom stood in the doorway a moment longer, weighing five thousand dollars and a plate of food that might actually be his against every instinct telling him this was insane, that he was about to walk up behind a woman he’d never spoken to and put his hands somewhere they had no business being.

But he thought of the pasta cooling on his nightstand, of a month of eating whatever scraps Sienna’s household deigned to give him, and made himself move.

He crossed the kitchen quiet, came up behind her, and raised his hand.

But it came down light. Barely a tap, more suggestion than contact.

The chef didn’t even turn around. She shifted her weight slightly, like something had brushed her by accident, a fly landing and lifting off, and kept stirring the pot like nothing had happened at all.

[A Fly, Host? That’s What You’ve Become? Something So Unnoticeable She Didn’t Even Bother To Check?] The system’s laughter rang loud and delighted in his skull.

[Okay, Let Me Make This Easier For You. Grab Her Left Ass Cheek. Tell Her It’s Succulent, And Any Man Privileged Enough To Press It Is A Lucky Bastard.]

"That’s disgusting," Tom shot back, his cheeks burning even standing alone behind her. "That’s - that’s a perverted thing to say to a stranger."

[And What Has Being Polite Gotten You So Far, Host? Disrespect. Mistreatment. A Cold Plate Of Someone Else’s Favorite Food You Didn’t Even Want.] The system shot back.

Tom’s jaw tightened, because it was true, and hating that it was true didn’t make it less so.

He thought about the reward again. Five thousand dollars, on top of the five thousand from that morning. A meal that was actually his. The worst that could happen was a slap and an apology he was already prepared to give, shameless, groveling if it came to that - he’d survived worse than a slap in this house plenty of times already.

"Alright, alright, fine." he thought, half a prayer.

Then he reached out and grabbed.

He’d meant to keep it light, the same barely-there touch as before, but the second his palm made contact he understood immediately why the system had called it soft. It gave under his hand, full and warm even through the fabric, and his fingers curled in on instinct before he could stop them, grabbing more than he’d intended to.

The chef went rigid. She spun around fast, a spoon still in her hand, her eyes wide with the kind of shock that came right before fury.

Tom’s mouth went dry, every rehearsed line gone from his head.

He forced it out anyway, shaky, barely above a whisper. "It’s - it’s soft. Whoever gets to keep this is a lucky bastard."

The chef blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then something in her face loosened, the fury draining out of it into something softer, almost sad.

"Really?" she murmured, quiet, more to herself than to him. "Well. There’s no lucky bastard around here. Not for now."

Tom had no idea what to say to that. He stood frozen.

[Say Something, Host.]

He blinked, mind blank, and what came out instead was, "Could I - could I get some food?"

The chef’s face fell slightly, disappointment flickering through before she covered it. "Sure," she said, already turning back to the stove.

[Really, Host? You Had Her Right There And You Asked For A Sandwich? You’re Going To Waste All That Charm I Just Handed You?]

Tom’s face burned. He looked at her back, at the disappointment she was trying to hide by stirring a pot that didn’t need stirring anymore, and made himself speak before he could think better of it.

"After I eat, maybe we could talk properly. About your ass not having anyone to grab it." He said with all seriousness.

The chef turned back around slowly, and this time the smile that spread across her face was real, bright, delighted in a way that made Tom’s stomach flip.

"What’s your favorite meal?" she asked, already reaching for a fresh pan. "I’ll make it right now."

Tom told her, fast, relieved, and got out of the kitchen before he could ruin whatever he’d just done right.

[MISSION COMPLETE.]

[REWARD DEPOSITED. +2 CHARM IN EFFECT.]

[Maybe Now You’ll Loosen Up, Host.] The system sounded pleased with itself in a way that made Tom’s skin prickle.

[Put In The Effort. You’re Just Getting Started.]

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