He bit the top of my ear, then nuzzled the spot, as if to apologize. “I’m gonna ruin you,” he promised.
God, I wanted that.
He stepped back, giving himself room. I heard him unbuckle his belt—slow, deliberate, each clink of metal loud enough to make me shiver. The sound alone was almost enough to tip me over the edge a second time.
I craned my neck to watch as he pulled his shirt off in a single fluid motion. His torso was even more impressive without the barrier—shoulders like a plow horse, arms slabbed with muscle, chest dusted with dark hair and a scatter of old scars that told stories I’d never have the guts to ask about. His abs weren’t just defined; they looked carved, the grooves catching in the shadow as he moved.
He undid his jeans and let them fall, then kicked off his boots. His cock was already out, hard and heavy, so thick it made my heart stutter.
He must have seen the way I looked at it, because he grinned. “You sure you want this?”
“I need it,” I said, voice gone hoarse.
He nodded, like he’d just received final orders from a superior, and went to the stove. For a second I thought he was going to stop—maybe have a change of heart, maybe decide I wasn’t worth the risk—but then he came back with a bottle of cooking oil, the label still sticky from the last time I used it to fry potatoes.
He dribbled oil onto his palm, then worked it between his hands, warming it. The smell of canola filled the air, sharp and almost sweet. He knelt behind me, then spread my legs a little wider.
He pressed one slick finger against my hole, circling, teasing. The sensation was electric, a jolt of cold and heat at once. He didn’t rush it, just kept working the rim, easing the tip in, letting me adjust.
“You good?” he asked, voice just a little softer.
I nodded, grinding back against his hand.
He slid the finger in, slow and steady, and the stretch was better than I’d dreamed. He worked it in and out, scissoring gently, then added a second finger, twisting just enough to make me gasp.
He took his time, stretching me open, getting me ready. Every so often, he’d bend forward and kiss the small of my back, or drag his tongue along my spine, making me shiver.
When he thought I was ready, he pulled his fingers out, then lined his cock up against me.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, barely able to get the word out.
He pushed in, just the tip at first, and the stretch was incredible—almost too much, but not quite. He held still, giving me time to adjust, his hands braced on either side of my hips, his body trembling with restraint.
“You’re tight,” he said, voice strangled.
“You’re huge,” I answered.
He laughed, the sound dark and wild. “You like it?”
I nodded, forehead against the table, hands digging grooves into the wood.
He pushed deeper, slow at first, working his way in inch by inch. When he bottomed out, I felt it all the way to my teeth. The sensation was so intense I couldn’t breathe for a second.
He stayed there, letting me get used to the fullness, one hand stroking down my back, the other tangled in my hair.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmured.
I started to move, rocking back against him, desperate for more friction. He took the cue and began to thrust, slow and deep, his hips slamming into my ass with each stroke.
The table creaked beneath us, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls. The chicks in their box went quiet, as if even they knew this was a moment to witness in silence.
He leaned over, chest pressed to my back, mouth at my ear. “You’re perfect,” he said again, and this time I believed it.
He kept fucking me, pace picking up, every thrust sending sparks through my whole body. The air filled with the scent of sex and oil and sweat, a cocktail that made me dizzy and needy and alive.
He reached around and grabbed my cock, stroking it in rhythm with his thrusts. I was already so close that it only took a few pumps before I was coming again, harder than the first time, the force of it almost knocking me off the table.
