“Yes,” I moaned. “Yes, I love it.”
“Tell me what you are.”
“Yours,” I gasped. “I’m yours, Prime.”
“Damn right.” Both hands gripped my hips now, holding me while he pounded into me. “My Goddess who lets me fuck her raw in a kitchen at three in the morning.”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes, Prime, yes?—”
“You gonna come for me again?”
“Yes, I’m close, I’m?—”
“Come. Come all over my dick.”
I came with a scream, my legs giving out, only his grip keeping me upright.
He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, filling me with more cum, groaning my name like a prayer.
We collapsed together, both of us shaking, both of us wrecked.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re incredible.”
He pulled out slowly and I felt his cum—so much of it—drip down my thighs.
“Stay right there,” he ordered.
I heard him moving behind me, then felt something cold. I looked over my shoulder to see him with his phone, taking a picture of my ass, his cum dripping out of me.
“Prime!”
“Mine,” he said simply, showing me the photo. “I want to remember this. Remember the first time I claimed you.”
He set his phone down and pulled me upright, spinning me around. He kissed me hard, deep, his hands possessive on my body.
“Now,” he said, his eyes still hungry. “Where else can I fuck you in this place?”
We christened every surface in that diner over the next few hours.
He bent me over the prep table, fucking me while I tried to roll out dough, his cum dripping onto the floor.
He sat me on the industrial sink, my legs over his shoulders while he pounded into me, the faucet dripping cold water on my overheated skin.
We fucked in the office chair, me riding him, his hands on my ass, guiding me up and down on his dick until we both came again.
Against the walk-in freezer door, the cold metal against my back while he lifted me, holding me up with just his strength and his dick inside me.
On one of the booth tables in the dining area, him laying me out like I was his meal, eating my pussy until I came on his tongue before flipping me over and fucking me from behind again.
In between, we actually baked. Him following my instructions, learning how to cut the rolls, place them in pans.His hands covered in flour and butter, his body still mostly naked, looking like some kind of nasty domestic fantasy.
He’d steal kisses while we waited for dough to rise. Pull me against him and grind his dick—already hard again—against my ass. Whisper filthy things in my ear about what he was going to do to me next.
By 4:30 AM, we had four dozen perfect cinnamon rolls cooling on racks, and I was frantically checking the clock.
“We need to go,” I said, panic creeping into my voice. “Prep crew gets here at six. I need to be gone before anyone shows up.”
“Relax, we got time.” But he was already pulling his jeans back on, moving quickly.
