Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
"You're an ass," I decided, hand shaking on the knife as I picked it up again, as he started working me again.
"Aye," he agreed, fingers curling, tapping against my top wall, making the pressure on my stomach get heavier, harder to try to ignore.
There wasn't much talking after that, just sounds - the thump of the knife on the cutting board, making mush of the tomatoes I was supposed to just be quartering, but I couldn't have cared less as my ragged breathing became pleading whimpers.
He didn't give me what I had been shamelessly demanding, though.
His cock.
No.
He just continued to torment me with his fingers, dragging an orgasm out of me faster than I could even prepare for it, making my hands slam down on the counter, crying out the pleasure.
"Gotta keep workin' if ya want this, duchess," he told me after I had come back down, having freed his cock, sliding it against my slick pussy, somehow rekindling the desire, proving yet again just how ravenous I was for him, how it didn't matter how many times I had him, I was always hungry for more.
My hands grabbed the cutting board, scooping the contents into a pot, adding the onions and garlic to the mix, letting it start to simmer. There would be things I needed to finish making it, things that required moving around the kitchen, but I was hoping he'd be inside me before I got to those parts.
"There ya go," he added, reaching down to snag my inner thigh, spreading it slightly, then I felt his cock press against the entrance to my body. "Good girl," he added when I reached for the spoon to mix even as his cock pressed inside me.
"Fuck," he growled, like he did every time since we talked tests and birth control and ditched the condoms. A first for me, something I had been too shy to tell him. I couldn't say where the urge came from, the idea of having someone raw inside me before never filling me with anything but distrust and uncertainty. But with him, all I had been was eager. To see what it was like. To have nothing between us.
I wiggled against him, unable to take it when he stayed stubbornly still inside me.
"Greedy pussy," he rumbled, hand pulling back then striking out, slapping my ass hard enough to smart, the pain only succeeding in making my walls clench hard around him.
His hands sank into my hips, using them to yank me back against him as he thrust forward, claiming every inch as he fucked me, hard, fast, relentless, not an inch of the slow sweetness we had shared the first time.
But there was a time and a place for lovemaking; this was not it.
By the time I felt the orgasm starting to crest, my hand was up above my head, braced on the cabinet over the stove, trying to hold on as he thrust harder, faster, as his breathing got as ragged as mine felt.
"Come," he demanded, hand moving between my thighs to stroke my clit.
And I fucking crashed, crying out his name as he hissed out mine, his cock surging inside me, filling me, a thought that made another wave move over me.
His teeth nipped into my shoulder after, bringing me out of my post-orgasm dreaminess.
"See?" he asked. "Wasn't doin' that better than not doin' that?" he asked, making a smile pull at my lips.
"Well, I can't fight that logic."
A little less than forty minutes later, we sat down to eat at a dining set that had appeared in my apartment out of nowhere one day while I was out with Peyton and Rey - all of us walking our dogs in what we decided was going to be a weekly practice so long as I was in town.
I hadn't told Adler this, but I had turned down a job two days ago when Geoff called, wanting to spend more time with Adler, deciding at the time not to overthink it, just go with it.
I didn't regret it either.
"This is my favorite."
"You said that to the French toast for breakfast yesterday."
"Meant it then too," he agreed, nodding.
While I was practically a competitive eater, I didn't much care where the food came from, usually sustaining myself on whatever restaurant or fast food joint was closest. But in Adler's case, he had a healthy appetite, but had no reaction whatsoever to food outside the house. It was only food that I cooked that he raved about, that he ate with relish.
And I understood it.
Because I understood him so much better.
He'd never had a home-cooked meal.
He'd shared a holiday dinner at Addy's family's house, even had dinner Addy made. But never a meal cooked solely with him in mind, for him to enjoy.
It was a gift he didn't take for granted.