And the sound he makes—low, involuntary, like it’s pulled straight from his chest—tells me everything I need to know.
I dip my hand into my sheer, black lace panties, the delicate fabric offering no real resistance. My fingers find the slick, hot core of my desire. I meet his gaze, a dark, heavy stare that pins me in place, and make him watch as I circle my fingers into my wetness. The moisture is thick, a testament to how much I want him. I always want him.
I mix my longing, my need and maybe even my love, into a sinful concoction that glitters on my fingertips.
A rough breath escapes him, a sound that is half-question, half-choked restraint. “You’re really going to make me watch this? Right here?”
The corner of my mouth lifts in a slow, provocative smile. The challenge is irresistible. I shake my head. “Can you? All that hard exterior, that iron-willed restraint you pride yourself on. Can you stay right there, leaning against the door, and not move? Not touch?”
I know the answer, but the game is what I crave. The tension in the kitchen is so thick I can almost taste it. Every muscle in his body is rigid, coiled tight, his eyes burning with a hunger that mirrors my own.
And since I enjoy a challenge that pushes us both to the breaking point, I move. With a languid, unhurried grace that is calculated to torture him, I bend over the smooth, cool granite of the kitchen island. I brace my hands on the solid surface, hiking my hips high. Then, I spread my legs, widening the stance just enough to give him a better, undeniable view of the place where my attention is focused.
The cool air shimmers with the intensity of his focus as I slide one, now two fingers, deep inside me. I rock my hips slightly, creating a slow, grinding friction that sends a helpless gasp from his throat. I can feel the heat radiating off his body from where he stands only a few feet away.
The guttural noise he makes next is the sound of a man who has reached his limit. The snap of his control is audible in the kitchen's silence as I hear his zipper. He’s done waiting. Done playing this agonizing game of restraint and temptation.
He storms over the short distance separating us. Before I can even register the shift in the atmosphere from electric anticipation to raw urgency, his large, capable hands are gripping my hips. There is no gentleness left in him, only a powerful, consuming need.
My Bear is deep inside me in the next heartbeat, a sudden, glorious invasion that steals the air from my lungs. He takes me instantly, relentlessly, his hips slamming into mine with a power that sends the kitchen island rattling. Taken from behind, filled completely, I cry out his name, the sound muffled against the cold stone surface of the counter.
The game is over, and the possession is absolute.
And as we clear the wreckage from what we’d just done in the kitchen—grits hard and cold in a crusty, abandoned pan, bacon strips scattered on the floor like greasy confetti—I notice a sleek black SUV pull up outside the window. It’s too expensive-looking, too anonymous to be anyone I know. My heart gives a nervous little thump.
“You might want to go get decent,” Eli says, his voice low and matter-of-fact as he zips his jeans back up.
He doesn’t elaborate on why I should change, but the silent promise of whatever is outside, combined with the general state of my current attire, is enough.
So I run off to the guest wing, which is more of a self-contained apartment than a wing, and pull on something that doesn’t scream, freshly fucked, moments ago, right on the granite countertop. I settle on a pair of comfortable but tailored dark jeans and a soft, cashmere sweater, compliments of Eli’s mother.
When I return to the living area, the back door is now closed, and the mysterious SUV is gone. In its place, leaning against the pale blue sofa, is a large, expensive-looking garment bag and an assortment of pristine shoe boxes from a designer I recognize. The boxes are stacked neatly, a silent, intriguing monument to luxury.
“What’s this?” I ask, frowning slightly in confusion but also vibrating with a delicious, almost childish curiosity.
Eli is leaning against the kitchen island, watching me with a satisfied smirk. “A necessity. I saw you in this dress before…everything. It was made for you. I hope it’s okay that I took the liberty, made an executive decision, and had it delivered.”
My breath hitches. I go straight to the black canvas garment bag and gingerly pull the zipper down. The soft sheen of silk-gold fabric spills out, dazzling under the recessed lights. It’s the evening dress, the showstopper, the one I’d been wearing just before the fight broke out in the high-end boutique.
I pull the material out fully. The color is deep and vibrant, a rich, molten gold I’d fallen instantly in love with.
“Eli! I can’t believe you remembered!” A genuine, incandescent smile spreads across my face. I’ve never met a man so thoughtful.
He steps closer, his hands settling at my hips, light but possessive. “How could I forget you in that dress?” He lets out a soft laugh. “I understand why my brother tried to hit on you. That color—” his gaze drags over me, slow and appreciative, “—it looks unreal against your skin. Like liquid sunshine.”
I feel a blush creeping up my neck. “It is pretty, isn’t it?” I admit, my voice softer now. “It’s my favorite color.” I reach up, placing my hands on his chest and then curling my fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him down to give him a slow, grateful kiss. “Thank you. I love it.”
He deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back just enough to look into my eyes, his expression serious, tender. “No, thank you,” he says, his thumb tracing the curve of my hipbone. “For allowing me to be your burden for the week. ”
I rest my forehead against his. “Thank you for being my Bear.”
Still My Lil Mama
Eli
It’s Saturday night. The quiet before everything matters.
The house is still in a way it hasn’t been all week. No meetings. No interruptions. Just focus and the weight of tomorrow pressing in. The pitch. The gala. The culmination of months of work and years of intention.
