Page 30 of Pucking My Biggest Fan

So I do. I get her shirt over her head and her bra off with two fingers. Then I stop for a second — one second — because I want to look. She lets me, chin up, flushed to her sternum, gorgeous and unhidden in a bright kitchen. “You have no idea,” I tell her, “how you look right now.”

“Show me.”

I put my mouth on her breast and she arches into it, fingers in my hair. The sound she makes now isn’t surprised at all. I take my time — one breast, the other, the soft underside — until her nails dig in, her breath goes ragged, and my name stops sounding like a name. Then her jeans come open under my hands. She kicks them somewhere. My hand slides into her underwear and she is soaked, and the noise I make about it is not dignified.

“That’s for you,” she says, unsteady. “Been an ongoing situation—”

She stops being able to talk, because I’ve dropped to my knees on my own kitchen floor and pulled her underwear down and put her leg over my shoulder. “Gus—”

“Hold the counter.”

She holds the counter. I take her apart with my mouth like I’ve got all night, because I do. Long, slow passes over her clit until her thighs shake. Two fingers curled inside her, her hips riding my hand with less and less patience. She’s loud now. She’s finally, gloriously loud — my name, half-sentences, one full profanity I have never once heard her use in this house. I work her through it, slower when she tenses, deeper when she pulls my hair, learning her in real time. When she comes, her head goes back and her whole hand white-knuckles against my scalp. I hold her up through every second of it, mouth on her until she pushes my forehead away. Then she slides down the cabinet to my level, flushed and wrecked and grinning like a thief.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay. Your kitchen has one redeeming feature.”

“Floor’s clean, too. I have staff.”

“She’s excellent.” She kisses me, tastes herself, hums like it’s information worth having. Then she plants a hand on my chest, pushes me back onto my heels, and goes for my belt.

“June—”

“My turn. Sit still.” She gets the belt open, then the fly, then her hand around my cock, and it’s my turn to lose language. She strokes me slow, watching my face like she’s learning the controls, and whatever she finds there makes her mouth curve. “There he is.”

Then her mouth is on me, and I stop being a person with plans. She takes me in slow, one hand wrapped where her mouth isn’t, no hurry anywhere in her. I sit on my own kitchen floor with my head back against the island, her name coming out of me in pieces. She hums around me and I feel it everywhere. When my hand finds her hair, she pulls off just long enough to say, “You can hold on. You can’t steer,” and goes back down. I hold on and do not steer, and somewhere in the next two minutes I hit the edge of what a man can watch.

“June.” I catch her jaw, gently, thumb at the corner of her mouth. “Come here. Come up here.”

“I wasn’t done.”

“First time I’m inside you is not going to be with my pants at my ankles on this floor.”

“Strong disagree,” she says. “First time is going to be right here, in this kitchen, where everything in this house happens. Look at me.” I look at her. Flour on her cheek, hair a mess, eyes absolutely certain. “Right here, Gus.”

I kick the pants off. I lift her onto the counter, and she wraps her legs around me and lines me up herself, and we both watch. Then I push into her, slow, and she takes me with a long exhale that ends in a laugh — one note of it, disbelieving, delighted. I know exactly how she feels. I hold still, buried in her, her forehead against mine, both of us breathing like the end of a shift.

“Okay?” I ask.

“Move, or I’m calling Deanna to report you.”

So I move. Slow first, long strokes that pull the breath out of her, her heels digging into my back, the counter edge in my hands. She’s tight and hot and already fluttering. Every time I bottom out she makes a small punched-out sound I would trade the rest of my hearing to keep. I keep it slow until slow stops being enough for her — until her heels dig in harder and her hips chase me and she growls, actually growls, “Gus. I swear—”

“You swear what?” I stop moving entirely, seated deep, and watch her eyes come open. “Use your words, June. You’re so good at reports.”

“I will reorganize your sock drawer by resentment.”

“There she is,” I say, and give her what she’s asking for.

Not slow. She meets me stroke for stroke, both arms around my neck, and the kitchen fills up with us. Skin and breath and her voice climbing, the cabinet doors knocking time like the world’s worst metronome. Neither of us laughs at it. We’re past laughing. “Harder,” she says against my ear, so I give her harder, and she stops making sentences entirely, and I’m not far behind her on that.

“Touch yourself,” I tell her. “I want to feel it when you go.”

Her hand slides between us. It doesn’t take long — she’s close, and I can feel her tightening around me, hear it in the pitch of her. When she breaks, she takes me with her. I empty into her with her name in my teeth, one hand fisted in her hair, the other holding her like something I have no intention of putting down.

The kitchen goes quiet a piece at a time. Her heartbeat against my chest. My face in her neck. Somewhere on the floor, a can of tomatoes rolls to a stop.

“So,” she says finally, breathless, into my shoulder. “The pantry’s still not done.”

I start laughing and can’t stop, and she’s laughing too, wrapped around me on the counter where we eat breakfast. Both of us a mess. The step stool on its side like a casualty. I pull back enough to see her face and push the hair out of it.