“Harder, Gray, more..don’t stop, don’t ever—” Her hands scramble for purchase on the marble, knocking over a spatula and scattering flour dust onto her hair.
I lick it from her temple, and even that small act makes her mewl, makes her tighten up around me like a velvet vise.
I want to see her come, want to taste her wreckage and know I did this, that I made her let go after a life spent holding everything in. It’s not enough to just pound away; I want her shattered and wrecked and rebuilt again, glowing brighter in all the places she thought she was broken.
So I reach down, fingers stroking her clit in tandem with my thrusts, and the way her eyes roll back is holy.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” I tell her, and I mean it. “You’re mine, Reverie—say it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps, her entire body arching up, slick overflowing and making a mess of the counter. “I’m—oh god, I’m—” She can’t finish, too lost in the rising tide of her orgasm.
“Come for me,” I command, voice low and rough, and she does, unreserved and wild, her climax hitting so hard she nearly blacks out. Her pussy clamps down on my cock, milking me, and I can’t hold back any longer—I fuck her through it, relentless and shaking, until my own orgasm hits like a truck, my knot swelling and locking me inside her as I spill everything I have.
When she comes a second time, it's with a cry that echoes off the kitchen walls, her cum dripping freely, marking the marble as hers—as ours.
I follow soon after, thrusting hard and fast until my release crashing through me like a wave. Panting, I collapse over her, careful not to crush her. The kitchen smells of sex and sweetnessnow, a cozy, intimate blend that makes this moment feel like home.
It’s only when my knot begins to form at the base of my shaft do I force myself to pull out, massaging it while I fight for breath.
The first thing I see is the trembling aftermath in Reverie’s thighs, the way she barely manages to catch her breath, ribcage heaving under the cozy fall sweater, hair a wild honey-orange corona fanned out around her like some cartoon heroine after a botched experiment. She’s a mess in all the best ways, slick pooling under her on the marble.
I’m sure she’s not used to rough pounding sex but she took it like a champ.
I graze my thumb along her jaw, cradle her face, and in her eyes I see so much: the old hurt, the hope, the wild, reckless glee.
I want to kiss her again, but she’s still catching up to reality, and the way her eyes track mine tells me she’s probably trying to remember her own name, let alone mine. I let her come down slow, easing my weight off so I don’t crush her, still pulsing inside her as the knot keeps us joined, body heat entangled in a way no pheromone or hormone could ever untie.
She’s the first to speak, of course, because Reverie Bell is nothing if not a relentless generator of words.
“Is this—did we—in the kitchen—?” She dissolves into a laugh, arms flopping back over her head, hands limp as if she’s finally, for the first time, dropped everything she ever carried.
I nuzzle into her neck, breathing her in, letting the scent of her—vanilla and spun sugar and the faintest, freshest snow—scrub away any last trace of the world outside this kitchen.
“Yeah,” I tell her, “we did.” As if there’s any universe where what just happened could be mistaken for anything but an epic, cinematic, life-upending fuck.
She giggles for real, more giggle than breath, and I feel every ripple of it deep in my still-joined cock.
“I think you just broke my brain,” she says, eyes fluttering in that cartoon-dizzy way.
“Brains are overrated,” I reply, because if there’s one thing I want for her—other than to keep her right here forever—it’s to make her forget every second of her old, broken life.
She’s earned it.
I help her sit up, hand on her hip, fingers tracing the curve of her thigh, and she leans in for a kiss—hungry, greedy, as if she’s already missing the connection.I meet her halfway, but before our mouths even touch, her nostrils flare, and she goes rigid. The kitchen, which has been our private world, suddenly rushes back into focus, with all its warmth and light and—oh.
“THE COOKIES!” she shrieks, and it’s not so much a word as an emergency siren, a primal warning that the universe is out of balance.
I glance over my shoulder and see it instantly: the oven, a beacon of blue-black smoke, streaming out of the vent with increasing velocity, a chemical warfare of burnt sugar and char that’s rapidly overtaking the air.
The timer had gone off ages ago; we’d been too busy making a new Olympic sport to notice.
Reverie, naked from the waist down except for her thigh-high knit socks, launches off the marble with a speed I didn’t know was possible after two consecutive orgasms.
She stumbles, tries to pull her sweater down over her ass, then gives up and goes for the oven, hands flapping wildly. I want to help, but the sight of her—hair wild, cheeks flushed, bare legs streaked with my cum, eyes laser-focused on her mission like the fate of the world depends on these cookies—renders me briefly, blissfully paralyzed.
She yanks open the oven, a plume of smoke billowing out so thick we both start coughing.
Reverie’s eyes start to water, but she’s undeterred; she grabs a pair of oven mitts—pumpkin-patterned, obviously—and pulls the tray out, slamming it onto the stovetop. The cookies are black around the edges, bubbling in the centers, a few so carbonized that they might be classified as volcanic rock.
