“You feel even bigger like this,” I tell him.
“You look so fucking beautiful sitting on my cock.” His hands grip my hips, his eyes fixed on where we're joined.
I start to move, lifting myself up and sliding back down. His hands roam from my hips to my waist to my breasts, squeezing and kneading as I ride him.
Ethan cups my breasts in his large palms. “I've been dreaming about these tits since the first time I saw you in that swimsuit.”
He sits up suddenly, his mouth finding mine, and the change in angle makes me gasp into the kiss. “Ethan.”
“I’ve got you, baby. Come for me.”
I move faster, chasing the pressure building inside me. My breasts bounce with each movement, and his eyes are glued to them, his expression one of pure satisfaction. His hands grip my ass, helping me move and taking some of the strain off his injured knee.
He pinches my nipple, and I cry out. “Yes, Oh God, yes.”
I come with a shrill cry, and Ethan follows seconds later with a groan, his hips jerking as he fills me up. I collapse against his chest, utterly spent.
We lie there until our breathing slowly returns to normal. My stomach growls loudly, breaking the spell.
Ethan laughs, his chest rumbling beneath my cheek. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Let's make breakfast.”
I groan and roll off him, careful not to jostle his knee. “I need to change first.”
“No. You're perfect just like this.”
“Ethan, I can't cook breakfast naked,” I say with a laugh, though I’m pleased that he doesn’t want me out of his sight.
He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs his shirt from where it landed last night. “Wear this.”
I pull it over my head, and it falls to my mid-thighs, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips. I have to roll them up three times before my hands are free.
“You look good in my clothes,” he says, his eyes traveling down my body with obvious appreciation.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look like mine.” He stands carefully, testing his weight on his injured leg before grabbing his cane from where it's leaning against the nightstand. He pulls on his boxers and gestures toward the door. “Come on. I'll make you pancakes.”
We move to my kitchen, and I perch on a stool at the counter while Ethan takes over. He finds ingredients in my cabinets and fridge, and mixes the batter. He keeps most of his weight on his good leg, using the counter for balance when needed.
“I didn't know you could cook,” I say, watching him work.
“I can’t, but pancakes are easy.” He pours batter into the pan, and it sizzles. “My mom taught me when I was a kid.”
“Your mom seems wonderful. She was so warm when I met her at the building.”
“She liked you.” He flips the pancake. “She texted me after, asking all kinds of questions about the pretty physical therapist.”
I laugh, but my cheeks heat at the thought. “I loved how positive she was about your recovery.”
“That's Mom. She's positive about everything.” He plates the pancake and pours more batter. “It used to drive me crazy, especially after Dad's diagnosis. She just kept saying everything would work out and that we'd find a way. I wanted to shake her and tell her to be realistic about what we were facing.”
“How old were you when he was diagnosed?”
“Twelve.” He stares at the pan, his jaw tight. “Old enough to understand what it meant. Young enough to think I could somehow fix it if I just tried hard enough.”
