“Moaning like a fucking whore,” I whispered to myself. “Is this what I do to you?”
“Yeah,” he panted. “Take my ass. Fill it.”
To the mental images of seeing my come dripping out of him, I surrendered and forced my cock all the way in. No barriers. Just us. And the feeling was indescribable.
I snaked my arms around him and pressed my lips to his neck. I didn’t wanna hear a single word, and I had nothing to say. The sensations were everything. They consumed me and demanded every bit of my attention. Deep, slow thrusts. So that I could feel every inch of him that I took—over and over. I roamed his chest with my hands, I scratched my fingers over his nipples, I sank my teeth into his neck, I tasted him there, and I just gave in to the moment completely.
“I’m close,” he gritted. “I’m not even—fuck—I’m not touching myself.”
I had to see it. I slid one of my hands up to his throat and put him in a light chokehold, and then I kissed his shoulder and peered down his body. His cock strained and glistened, and there was a steady flow of pre-come seeping out from him.
His chest started heaving rapidly.
“Let go, baby.” I kept kissing his flesh, and I kept fucking him as deeply as I could. Part of me envied him. I’d seen what some pressure to the prostate could do to others, and Blake seemed particularly sensitive—and not just his prostate. It was drugging to watch. “Clench down on me.”
He gasped as I tightened my hold on his throat.
I fucked him a little harder, and that did it. He tensed up, choked on a groan, and started coming.
I groaned too. I screwed my eyes shut and fucked him, harder and faster, pushing past every convulsing feeling of him clamping down around me.
It didn’t take me long to follow. The pressure within built up until I exploded, and I slammed him up against the wall, shoved my cock all the way in, and fucked my release into him.
Sure, this was “just fun.”
“I feel much better when I’m in charge of the music.”
I felt my forehead crease with confusion. “It’s my playlist you’re playing.”
“Yeah, but I’m holding the remote. Don’t shatter my illusion.”
I grinned and shook my head, and I continued with my task. Blake had woken up with a hankering for pie, and I didn’t know how to make regular pie. My crumble, on the other hand, from Nana’s recipes, was out of this world, and it was kinda like pie. It was also a good time to make extras to bring to the Quad. I already had six waiting in the freezer.
Blake insisted on helping out, and he’d been weirdly sweet since he realized I was doing this mainly for him.
I wasn’t sure I should’ve been so transparent about it, because I was still slipping. Every fucking day, without getting a grip. Just slipping. At the same time, I couldn’t bother hiding or lying. It wasn’t in my nature. It was why I was so fucking careful in the beginning, sometimes even frustratingly slow to make a move.
Once I was in, I kept going unless there were clear boundaries.
This was just about sex. Just “fun.” And here I was, making crumble.
“Are these okay?” He paused with the knife.
I inspected the apple slices and nodded. “Just throw them in the skillet with a stick of butter.”
In the meantime, I filled a pot with raspberries and put it on the stove. All it needed was a cup of sugar and a splash of vanilla. Not wanting it to take forever, partly because I was looking forward to a quiet evening on the porch, I multitasked my ass off. Cinnamon and sugar into the apple mix once they were sizzling, six pie tins lined up on the bar, more brown sugar for the dough, a squeeze of lime into the raspberry mix, and—after tasting it—a bit more cinnamon for the apples.
“This is strangely pornographic,” Blake noted. “The only thing I can bake are biscuits.”
I loved biscuits, though. “There’s no only about biscuits. I dated a guy from Tampa once, and when he invited me down there to meet his family, I’m pretty sure I gained ten pounds in just biscuits. Soph makes them sometimes too. Fuckin’ love ’em.”
Blake rubbed the back of his neck and smirked slightly. “Hunh. I suddenly feel the need to cook for you. A man’s gotta assert himself.”
I didn’t know why, but I wasn’t gonna turn down Southern home cookin’.
“Give me a time and place, and I’ll be there.” I pointed at the crock with ladles and shit next to the stove. “Hand me the spatula, will you?”
He brought it over and got behind me while I finished mixing the dough.
“Tomorrow, then.” He pressed a kiss to my neck, his scruff tickling and sending a shiver down my spine. “Can I ask how you came out to your family?”