"That's it," he murmured against me. "Let me taste you."
His mouth worked me expertly, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on my clit that had me gasping his name. When he added two fingers inside me, curling to hit that perfect spot, I shattered with a cry that echoed through the kitchen.
Before I could catch my breath, he was pulling me off the counter, spinning me around to face it.
"Hands on the counter," he said, his voice rough with need. "Bend over for me."
I obeyed, gripping the edge, my legs trembling. Behind me, I heard his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. Then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"You're so wet for me," he groaned, sliding in slowly. "So perfect."
The angle was deeper than anything we'd done before, and I moaned as he filled me completely.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, one hand gripping my hip while the other guided my fingers down between my legs. "Circle your clit. Show me how you like it."
My fingers found the swollen nub, still sensitive from his mouth, and I began moving in tight circles while he thrust into me from behind. The dual sensation—his cock hitting deep inside while my own fingers worked my clit—had me climbing toward release again embarrassingly fast.
"That's it," he encouraged, his thrusts getting harder, more urgent. "I can feel you getting tighter. Come for me again."
His free hand slid up my back, pressing me down slightly, changing the angle just enough that I saw stars. My fingers moved faster, chasing the building pressure.
"Bart—I'm—"
"Come. Now."
I came apart with a sharp cry, my inner walls clenching around him rhythmically. He groaned, thrusting hard twice more before finding his own release, his fingers digging into my hips.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both shaking, his chest pressed against my back, our breathing ragged.
"Kitchen sex," I finally managed. "That's new."
"Good new?" He pressed a kiss to my shoulder.
"Very good new."
By the time we finally decorated the cookies—after cleaning ourselves up and laughing at the state we were in—it was past midnight. We packaged them in tins, both of us exhausted and sticky and satisfied.
"Never again," Bart said, surveying the destroyed kitchen.
"Liar. You had fun."
"I had you coming on my tongue and my cock in my kitchen. The baking was tolerable."
Heat flooded my face. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
I started gathering dishes, but he caught my wrist. "Leave it. We'll deal with it tomorrow."
"Your kitchen is destroyed."
"Don't care." He pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Come to bed before you fall asleep on your feet."
We made our way upstairs to his bedroom, flour dusting his hair and both of us still smelling sweet, too tired and happy to care about the mess we'd made.
DREW WOULDN'T STOPtrying to contact me.
My phone buzzed constantly with notifications I didn’t want to address. Comments on my Christmas Wishes posts:Looking good babe, we should reconnect.Direct messages I deleted without reading. Calls that went straight to voicemail.
