“You skipped...” The rest of the sentence doesn’t make it.
“Did I?”
I feel the smile as he presses his lips to my other thigh. His tongue along the crease where my leg meets my hip, his breath against me without touching, and there will be a reckoning.
“You know what you’re doing,” I tell him, and my voice is rough now, the Tuesday lecture long gone. “You know exactly what you’re doing and I want you to know that I see it and I’m keeping score.”
He takes me in his mouth, his lips working the head slow, his hand gripping the base. He takes me deeper and finds the rhythm that turns my brain off, the specific thing he does with his mouth that reduces every sentence I’ve ever constructed to individual vowels. My fingers twist in his hair. My thighs tense.
He pulls off. Kisses my hip.
“Oh, come on.” I bang my fists on the counter. I am a grown man banging his fists and I am fully within my rights.
“You were going to tell me about a pasta recipe earlier. You got interrupted.”
“You want me to talk about pasta? Right now? My dick is in your hand and you want a pasta lecture?”
“I want to hear about the pecorino ratio.” He strokes me once. Slow. “Talk.”
I exhale. “It’s a cacio e pepe variation. Nonna’s. You toast the pepper first in a dry pan.”
“Are you sure you want to be talking about Nonna right now?”
“No. Of course I don’t but you asked me about the pasta recipe!” I open my eyes and glare at him. “You are doing this on purpose.”
He raises his eyebrow at my then swirls his tongue over me and the dry pan is gone. He takes me deep and holds me there and my hips push up and my hand grips his hair and the pasta is gone, every thought is gone, all of it replaced by the fact that this man’s mouth is on me and he is taking his time and I cannot form a complete thought.
The shaking starts in my thighs. My breathing is sharp and broken. I can feel myself climbing, the wave building, and hishand tightens in sync with his mouth and I’m almost there and he pulls off.
The sound I make could qualify as anguish.
“Turn around.”
I stare at him. Chest heaving. The room blurring at the edges. Then I turn for him. My face head drops and my shoulders are trembling and the commentary that’s been running all night just stops. My back is his. My body is waiting.
“Don’t move.” He touches my hands against the counter, and kisses the back of my neck.
I don’t move a muscle in the longest three minutes of my life. I hear his footsteps come back to the kitchen. I hear the click of the bottle, and then he places it next to me on the counter. I feel the heat of his chest against my back, his lips on my shoulder. The one he works on three times a week.
Then I feel his finger presses into me and my body opens. I can’t control the sound I make. He takes his time, opening me open with one, then two fingers. Twisting, finding the angle, and my hips push back against his hand without my permission. He curls and finds the spot and I shake without meaning to. He does it again and my hands fist on the counter and I don’t say a word. Because I don’t have the words for what he is making me feel.
He works me open until I’m in pieces and my whole body is slick and I am ready for him. He steps up closer and pushes his cock in slowly. My hand finds his on the edge of the counter. Our fingers lace together. Hold.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
He starts to move. Warm and full and everywhere. I meet him on every stroke, pushing back, and the words come back in fragments. “Right there” and “harder” and “don’t stop” and then, quieter, almost lost, “This is so good.” Four words. The truth underneath everything I’ve been saying, the truth I don’t dress up because it doesn’t need dressing.
His forehead presses between my shoulder blades. His hand tightens around mine. The pace builds. Deeper. My breathing gone sharp and fractured. My whole body clenches around him and the sound that comes out of me is raw and open and I don’t try to make it prettier than it is.
“Zay.” My voice breaking. “I’m close.”
“Touch yourself. Make yourself come. Let me feel it.” His mouth against my back. His hips driving deep while my hand works my cock. I come with his name in my mouth, my body pulling him in, shaking, and he holds me through it until I’m trembling and pulling my hand away. He follows three strokes later, the sound of it pressed into my skin, and the warmth of him fills me and I hold still and let it.
We breathe. His hand is still holding mine. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the playlist on my phone. His forehead still between my shoulder blades. His pulse slowing against my back.
He slips out and I turn around and look at him.
“Seven out of ten.”
