His hands anchored to my hips so I could brace my hands on his arms as I planted my feet on the cushions, fully aware that my crotch was totally in his face.
As soon as I was up, his hands slipped to my ass, lifting up, and yanking forward, making me lose my feet. My knees fell into the tops of the back cushions, crushing against the wood behind them.
But the pain was short and drowned in pleasure as his tongue started working circles around my clit.
He ate me like he was, indeed, famished.
Until my hands slammed so hard into the wall that I was afraid I cracked the Sheetrock.
Just right at that moment, his fingers slipped inside and tapped against my top wall.
And the orgasm slammed through my system, making me shamelessly rock against his mouth as he milked it for all it was worth.
I sat there for a moment after, my hands braced against the wall.
Until his head turned, and he bit hard into my inner thigh.
"Now, I had my snack. I want my dinner," he told me as I dropped down. "Nope," he said, snatching my clothes from my hand when I reached for them. "You don't need those."
"I don't?" I asked as he leaned forward to get his plate off the table.
"Nope," he told me, twirling pasta with one hand and reaching for the remote with the other, flicking to my guide, then selecting something.
"Seriously?" I asked, reaching for my own plate, always a bit overly comfortable with my own nudity, so eating naked wasn't really bothering me. If a man was cool having his face in your snatch, he really didn't care if your normally mostly-flat belly rolled a small bit when you sat down.
"Keep expecting it to be less funny as I get older, but it's still fuckin' good."
And just like that, 'Scotty Doesn't Know' started being lip-synced by freaking Matt Damon, of all people.
So that was that.
We sat there and watched Eurotrip while eating chicken Alfredo.
"Christ," he said after his plate was clean - and after picking all the chicken off my plate. His hand was settled on his belly. And I had this weird urge to pull up his shirt and see if his epic abs were gone, if men like him - with bodies of gods - got things like food babies. "What can I do to make you cook for me more?"
"Orgasms. I will always accept orgasms as payment."
"Well, I got you covered there," he declared, reaching for me, throwing me onto my back, and making good on his words. Four more times over.
Only after that, after we were both spent and jelly-limbed, did he get up, go off to the bathroom, and let me find my clothes again. As he found his own.
Not five minutes later, there was some very distinct jingling in the hall, like Jamie was purposely jiggling her keys around to let us know she was out there. And it was another minute or two of pretending to try different keys - when I knew she knew which one was mine because it had a bottle of poison key topper on it - before she finally pushed the door open.
"I guess that is my cue," Sugar said, snagging my chin, and yanking me in by it for a kiss. "Tomorrow night?"
"I'll trade you baked macaroni for three solid orgasms."
"I'll raise you one more for something chocolatey for dessert."
"It's a deal," I agreed, my body already humming at the idea.
"Jamie, nice meeting you. See you around, bud," he said, reaching down to scratch Hannibal's ears before heading out.
"On my couch?" Jamie sighed, shaking her head. "I'm taking your bed tonight. And you need to carpet clean that fucker before I sleep on it again."
I smiled at that, feeling light, happy.
"It's worth the extra work."
"Babe," Jamie said, tone suddenly serious.
"What?" I asked, moving to stand, collecting our plates, and bringing them to the sink.
"Talk to me."
"I am talking to you."
"Talk to me about Sugar." I stiffened at that, turning on the water, watching the liquid cheese slide off the plates.
"There's nothing to talk about. He's a good lay."
"Babe," Jamie said again, sounding closer. Not a second later, I realized I was right when she was beside the sink, reaching over to shut off the water. "Don't lie to me. I know something is up here. And I know that is new for you. So you're probably denying it instead of facing it up. Let's face it up together."
"I just... I don't get it," I admitted, reaching for the bottle of wine he opened and pouring a cup that nearly went to the brim.
"What don't you get?" she asked, reaching for the beer she had abandoned earlier.
"Why this feels different."
"Maybe, Peyton, because it is different."
"But why?" I asked, my tone pleading, my soul feeling it, the need for answers.