“Jesus Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand.” He begins to thrust in a quick, steady rhythm and I’m already halfway there. “If my dirty little slut wants to come, she’d better do it before the oven timer goes off or she won’t come at all. Now… ride my fingers and take what you need before it’s too late.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. We only had twenty minutes, which means we’re almost out of time before the buzzer goes off and we have to finish making dinner. But I’m nothing if not persistent. So I do exactly what he suggested and I ride his hand in tandem with him, while he finger fucks me until I’m exploding with yet another mind blowing orgasm.
I turn my head to catch a glimpse of his face as he pulls his fingers from my throbbing center. I immediately mourn the loss. My heart skips a beat at the sight of his hair hanging low in his face like this worked him up as much as it did me. His brow lifts as he stares back at me. That smile lights my soul on fire. He really is so beautiful. When I’m with him, I feel beautiful too and it occurs to me, I’ve never really felt that with anyone until him.
It’s in this very vulnerable moment, I realize… I’m falling in love with him.
Then a loud, obnoxious beep emanates from the kitchen, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Perfect timing,” he grins, nodding toward the kitchen.
46
Ryker
I’ve never tasted something so delicious. My mouth is still half full when a groan escapes my lips. Who knew chicken would taste so good, covered in crushed up Doritos? I don’t know if it’s possible to orgasm from eating food, but this could probably do it. “Where did you find the recipe?”
“I actually came up with it myself. One day, I was trying to think of ways to make chicken not taste so much like–well–chicken. So I started grabbing ingredients from the pantry. Took a few tries to get it right, but I got there eventually.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I tell her. “I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do when you put your mind to it.” She blushes at the compliment. She accepts them better than she used to, but still has a ways to go towards accepting them at face value.
A long buzzing sound comes from the kitchen, pausing our conversation.
“Shit. That’s my phone. Be right back.”
I continue eating, alternating between crispy orange bites of chicken and forkfuls of mashed potatoes until my plate is almostcompletely empty. She keeps this up and I’ll never be able to let her go, although it might be too late for that.
When she pads back to the table and sits, instead of continuing to eat, she pushes the plate away like she’s finished.
Bullshit.
“Do I have to remind you what happens when you don’t eat?”
She lets out a long sigh. “I did eat. I’ve just had enough. I’m not hungry anymore…Daddy.” I don’t miss the sarcastic undertone in her words. I remember a time when she was convinced she didn’t need anyonedaddyingher. Turns out that’s exactly what she needed.
“Eat more,” I demand, leveling her with a look that says she shouldn’t test me. This isnota negotiation. Smartly, she pulls the plate back to her and slowly finishes her plate. “Good girl.”
“That was Axel calling me back,” she starts, breaking the silence. “Mom’s birthday is coming up and I want to do something for her. Maybe take her out to dinner. But I don’t think it should all be on me to do it.”
“Alright, so why the sudden change in mood? Does he not want to do it?”
“His exact words were ‘she hasn’t acknowledged our birthdays in a long time, why should we acknowledge her?’” She sighs and looks up at me with those sad emerald eyes I love so much and I can see the struggle in them.
I don’t respond. She needs the space to process and navigate whatever she’s feeling right now.
“I think he’s right and it sucks that our own mother doesn’t even tell us ‘happy birthday’ anymore.” The hesitation in her voice tells me there’s more.
“But?”
“If I don’t do this, whether or not she does it for her own children, it won’t matter. She’ll never let me hear the end of it. I’ve never missed her birthday and–” she pauses to let out a longbreath as her head dips in frustration. “And I worry about her. She’ll think I don’t love her. That no one loves her. If she has a mental breakdown and stops taking her meds, there’s no telling what could happen… it’ll be my fault.”
“How would it beyourfault?”
She regards me for a moment, before her eyes meet mine. “Because it’salwaysmy fault.”
47
Arabella
