"That's funny," he said, chuckling against my shoulder. "You make it seem like I'd electively leave your pussy paradise."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
Jackson nodded, grunting when he rocked inside me again. He forced his arms under my back, holding me tight. "I'm not trying to be one of those guys who says it's better without the rubber but fuck me, you are fucking perfect right now. I don't want this to end."
"It doesn't have to," I whispered, my fingers scrabbling over his back, desperate to hold on to him as my body dissolved like sugar over high heat. Something about his grip on me, the way he gathered me up like I was fragile but fucked me like I was unbreakable, it tripped me into the immediate orgasm zone.
"Come on, beautiful," he murmured as the first wave of spasms rolled through me. I felt his teeth on my neck, my shoulder. Kisses all over. His cock moving in me, my muscles rippling around him. Clinging to him. His body went stiff as he sank into me again, his cock twitching and jerking as he emptied himself in me. "I've got you. Just let go."
And he did. He had me and the cavern in my heart, too.
14
Crumb
n. The soft inner part of a loaf of bread or cake.
Jackson
"How do you bake here?"I asked. Wearing only my boxers and the lazy grin of a guy who just had incredible sex, I stretched out my arms, almost certain I'd be able to touch two walls from the center of Annette's apartment. I couldn't but I wasn't far off. "It's…it's tiny."
Annette's home was just like her: small, pink, and hemmed in with some awkward ceiling angles. And there were flamingos everywhere. Embroidered on little pillows, printed on mugs, painted in watercolor. The short, silky robe she was wearing.
"It's not that bad," she argued, twisting her hair up into a bun. "It works for me."
The kitchen and living room were separated by nothing more than a big footstep, and the dining room was a corner. Her queen-sized bed was tucked into an alcove to create the illusion of privacy. As much as I liked her, it wasn't big enough for the two of us. Or, more specifically, it wasn't big enough for me. That, and I kept knocking my head on the sloped ceiling.
"Your stove, it's tiny. The oven, too." I motioned toward the miniature appliances, the ones I'd expect to find in a child's play house. "How do you bake here? It must've taken you hours to bake all those muffins."
"Not really." She shrugged and moved toward the refrigerator. Also child-sized. "How about…hmm. Let's see what we have in here."
She opened the door and peered in while she stroked the top of her foot against the back of her calf. This common movement was sensual and intimate, and it had me crossing the room in two steps to wrap my arms around her waist.
"Hello there." She dragged her nails down my forearm. Loved that sensation. "You just can't leave me alone around refrigerators, can you?"
Kissing her neck, I murmured, "So what?"
"Just an observation," Annette replied with a laugh. She bent at the waist, forcing her backside against my cock. Without conscious thought, my hands shifted to her waist and my hips rocked forward. "Fridges really turn you on, huh?"
"It has nothing to do with the appliances," I said, a low growl rumbling in my throat. "All about you."
She didn't say anything for a long moment and I forced myself to be still, even as I craved her friction. Then, "I have cheese, rye bread, too. I made it the other night so it's not the freshest but it's good. I know I shouldn't keep it chilled but it's been so warm recently. It would've turned stale and moldy in a hot minute if I didn't refrigerate it. I also have a Sussex pond pudding with apples but that recipe didn't turn out anything like I anticipated."
I didn't know what Sussex pond pudding was and I wasn't about to ask. "Rye bread it is," I said.
"I have beer, too," she offered. "Grab some, will you?"
Our arms loaded down with bread, its accompaniments, and beer, we returned to her bedroom. The blankets and pillows were in a heap on the floor and the top sheet clung to a single corner but we nestled in with our snacks, no care for the linens.
Annette handed me a slice of bread topped with a hunk of cheddar, a dollop of sweet, spicy mustard. It looked like art. Everything she did was beautiful, thoughtfully precise. For the first time in my life, I wanted to stop what I was doing and photograph the food I was about to eat because sharing this with everyone seemed necessary. I wanted to say, "My lady made this. She made it from scratch. Isn't she something?"
And it didn't escape my notice that she served me before fixing her own slice. That was Annette's way.
"Is that okay?" she asked, pointing toward the bread. The bread I'd been staring at for a solid minute while I fantasized about Instagram captions. "I can make you a slice without mustard."
I leaned over, kissed her temple. "It's great," I said. "It's the prettiest piece of bread I've ever seen."
"Thank you for that but it's not particularly pretty," she said. "I didn't score the dough correctly and the bake was a bit uneven. I think the loaf was too big for my oven so the heat didn't distribute effectively."
