condom onto my length, and fuck her the way she should be fucked. But she reaches out, strokes her fingers lightly along my balls, mouthing the words again: Come on me.
Fuck, I can’t help it. The fact that someone like her is begging me to do something so dirty right here in her kitchen is too much.
I do it. I let go all over her tits.
After, she looks up at me, grinning, her expression triumphant.
“Shit, Autumn, I’m so sorry.” I scramble to the sink and wet a towel with warm water, all the while feeling guilty as sin.
When I turn around, she’s standing. As I wipe the towel over her breasts, she looks up at me, her mouth parted slightly. “Sorry for what?" she whispers.
I trace the towel slowly over her skin. "Sorry for… that."
"Are you?" she asks, her voice breathy. The way she speaks makes my cock jump again. "Because I'm not."
"Hell, Autumn." I don't know what to think about this woman. She's smart and funny and full of sass… and thirty seconds ago, she was kneeling in her kitchen while I came on her tits. "I just came all over you. That's not how I pictured things happening with you."
"Oh?" She wraps a hand around my cock. "Wow, you're still hard."
"Yeah. It's because of you."
“I’m sure,” she says, laughing. “Thanks for saying that.”
She thinks it’s because I’m young that I’m just rock hard all the time for any chick. I can see it in her eyes. How do I tell her that’s not the fucking story, that she’s absolutely the hottest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on?
“Don’t believe me?” I ask, running my palm over her breast. Her nipple is hard as a rock against me. I lean down to cover it with my mouth, swirling my tongue round and round until she’s moaning, little sounds that are primal, that make me want to bury my cock in her pussy right now. When I finally take my mouth away to look at her, I press my hard-on against her leg. "This is all because of you."
“I’m so wet,” she says, and when I reach between her legs I discover that’s a fucking understatement. She’s soaked, her pussy lips swollen to my touch.
"Your pussy is so ready for me," I say.
"Yes," she says. Then again: "Yes."
I’ve held out long enough. I grab a condom, unrolling it onto my length before coming back to her, pushing her against the kitchen counter where she’s standing, and bringing my mouth down on hers. “Why don’t I take you upstairs?”
"Just fuck me," she says. "Fuck me now, Luke."
I turn her around, the way she told me she wanted it, reaching for her hands and placing them on the counter while I trail mine over her arms and down her back until I reach her hips. "This is a gorgeous ass," I tell her, teasing her with my fingers until she’s moaning my name softly again.
When I pull her hips toward me, guiding my cock inside her, she exhales, making this long sound under her breath like this is everything she’s been waiting for. I fuck her, slowly at first, with long languid strokes, almost afraid I'm going to break her if I fuck her the way I want to. But then she encourages me when I grab the length of her hair, twisting it around my hand as I drive deeply into her. "Like that," she says, whimpering. "Yes.”
"Is that what you like?" I whisper, thrusting inside her. "This is what you've been wanting?"
"Yes," she moans. "Like that. Exactly like that."
I thrust deeply inside her until my balls are pressed up against her pussy, my hands firmly on her breasts, stroking her nipples. I order her to touch her clit, and she braces herself on the counter with one hand as she reaches between her legs, stroking herself, and I know she wants to come. I know she wants to, but I’m selfish and I want to stay inside her. I can’t help it.
"Oh my God, Luke," she moans.
"This is what you wanted?" I ask, fucking her harder. "I've been cooking dinner for you and you've been thinking about me bending you over in your own kitchen and taking you from behind?"
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, yes."
I slap her ass cheek, listening to the crack against her flesh. "This pussy is so tight," I say. "So fucking tight and unsatisfied. Until now."
"Shit, Luke," she says. Her muscles clench down around my cock, but I'm not ready for her to come. I want her to hold off. I want to deny her. I want to fuck her until she's crying, begging for sweet release.
This is not the kind of sex I have, not with the boring-as-hell college chicks I fuck, the ones content to lie on their backs or bounce on top of my cock, oohing and ahhing because they think it’s sexy. Autumn is sexy. She’s bent over, struggling to hang on to her last shred of composure, struggling to not come completely undone, her pussy swollen around me, and I fucking love it. I can’t get enough of it.
"Do not fucking come," I say, my voice gruff. "Do you understand me? You don't come until I say you can come."
"Oh God," she moans, her tone ragged. "I can't. I don't know if I can wait."
Reaching up, I pinch her nipple between my fingers causing her to cry out, a mixture of a yelp and a moan. "You are going to wait," I tell her, my tone firm.
My voice is a hell of a lot firmer than it should be for someone who has his cock buried up to the hilt in the sweetest pussy he's ever felt, someone who's absolutely on the verge of coming and can barely hold back.
"Yes," she says, her hand moving more quickly between her legs as I fuck her deeply. "Please."
That word. Please.
"Please, what?" I ask.
"Please let me come."
"Shit." I can't hold off, when she says that. She clenches hard around me like a vise, and I swear her pussy must have been made to fit my cock. "Come for me, sweetheart."
When she comes, it's wild. I have to cover her mouth to mute her, burying myself balls deep inside her as I let go of everything, filling her up. She bites down on my finger, her muscles clenching around my cock again and again. She goes weak and I have to hold her tightly against me for I don't know how long, until I finally open my eyes.
I hadn't even realized they were closed.
My hands are wrapped around the top of her chest, my face buried in her neck. Our breathing is still ragged, and I stand there listening to it and holding her, wondering why the hell I don’t feel the impulse I usually do, the one where every part of me is screaming “run like hell!” to get away from the chick in my bed.
Instead, I’m standing here, not wanting to let go. She moves against me, and I catch a whiff of her scent laced with perfume – something warm that suits her – and it makes me want to stay here.
“Hey,” I say, my arms around her more tightly. I feel like the biggest scum of the earth for fucking her in the middle of the kitchen the way I just did. “Are you okay?”
16
Autumn
“Are you okay?” His breath on my neck sends a shiver up my spine, and I press my ass against him.
Am I okay? The fact that he asks that makes me giggle.
Hell-fucking-yes I’m okay.
I just broke a two-year drought by having the filthiest sex I’ve ever had in my kitchen with a man a decade younger than me.
And he’s asking if I’m okay.
Damn it, I’m probably not okay at all. I’m out of my mind.
He slips out of me, his back turned as he disposes of the condom. I feel the sudden need to look him in the eye, to know whether he really just wants to get the hell out of my house, but he speaks with his back still turned to me.
“You’re laughing,” he says, stating the obvious.
“You’re the one who asked if I was okay.” I cross my arms over my breasts, the evening air cold.
Luke walks to me, sliding his arms around me, looking at me with an intensity in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “And?” he asks. “There’s something funny about that?”
“I’m very okay,” I assure him, laughing. I’m giddy, drunk with the afterglow of orgasm and sex and doing something wild and out of character. Okay isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe i
t.
Fucking spectacular might be a more appropriate term.
“You’re thinking about something,” Luke says, pulling me against him. The heat from his naked body radiates against mine, and I shiver, but it’s definitely not because of the cold.
“I’m thinking about the fact that we’re standing in my kitchen naked.”
“This isn’t usually how you stand in your kitchen?” he asks playfully, sliding his hand over my ass cheek. “That’s a shame. You definitely have the body for it.”
“Yeah, right.” Now that my lust for him no longer totally clouds my brain, overriding my ability to think rationally and coherently, I’m acutely aware that I’m standing here, pressed up against a guy who’s basically the epitome of physical perfection. And I’m completely self-conscious.
"Please don't tell me you think you're not hot," he says.
I laugh nervously, trying to push myself away from him, but he holds me closer. "Uh, yeah, I’m not delusional,” I say. “I’ve had a kid.”
"Yeah, I seem to recall that fact," he says.
“I have a mom body,” I say, pushing him back as I gather my clothes from the floor and slip my shirt back on. Meanwhile, Luke just stands there, stark naked, watching as I reach for my jeans.
"Leave those off," Luke says, his voice thick.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard what I said. Don't put any more clothes on."
"I'm not staying naked," I protest. "Don't you want to get dressed?"
He raises one eyebrow. "Is that a legitimate question?" he asks, with a laugh. "Because, uh, the answer is obviously fuck no, I don't want to get dressed."
The way he says it, like it’s self-evident, takes me by surprise and I stare at him. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh," he says, crossing the space between us and reaching underneath my chin to tilt my head up to look at him. "Did you really think you were getting rid of me that easily?"
"I didn’t –“ The truth is, I hadn't thought about him staying. I hadn’t pegged him as the kind of guy who’d be interested in staying. I hadn’t thought through much of this at all.
“You know,” he says, cupping my jaw in his hand and running his thumb over my bottom lip, “that’s the thing about younger men…”
My lips part, almost of their own accord, and I resist the urge to take his thumb in my mouth, the same way I took his cock in my mouth earlier. "What's that?"
"We can keep going. It's a perk," he says. "I'm not exactly done with you yet."
"Oh," I say stupidly. Apparently, that's another thing about a younger man. They leave you so drunk with lust that your IQ drops by half.
"Oh," he says. "I don't think I'm going to get tired of hearing that come out of your mouth." He bends down, slides his hand behind my knees, and just like that I'm swept off my feet. Literally.
He carries me upstairs without another word and deposits me firmly on the bed. When I slide my hands protectively over my stomach, embarrassed to be under his gaze, he moves them.
"Don’t do that," he says. "Don't cover yourself up. There's no reason for it."
"I have lots of reasons," I say. Like the fact that the man who is currently throwing one leg over me, straddling me, has abs that are so perfect, they look airbrushed on. Coupled with an ass that's hard as a rock. And if he has an extra ounce of fat anywhere on his body, I'm not sure I can tell.
"Such as? Let's hear those reasons," he says, glancing down meaningfully at his erection. “Because obviously, I have zero problems with your body."
"I have mom tummy going on," I say.
"Oh, yeah? Move your hands."
"No."
"Move your hands, Red," he says. "Right now."
When I move them, he takes the edges of my shirt and slides it over my head, and then looks at me carefully, his eyes running over me.
"Happy now?" I ask, my voice trembling. I feel more vulnerable than I have in ages. It's one thing to lose my inhibitions in the kitchen, but it's different now, lying here in my bed with him.
"I'm not sure," he says, pursing his lips. He cocks his head to the side. "I need to have a closer look."
He slides down, hovering just above my abdomen, applying kisses to my stomach, across the middle, the place where no amount of exercise seems to touch. "This part is definitely sexy," he whispers, pressing his hardness against my leg for added effect.
"You're just saying that because you want to get laid."
"I definitely want to get laid," he says, running his finger along my stomach, tracing the stretch marks that line the sides of my abdomen, the aftereffects of my pregnancy with Olivia, and it makes me cringe.
"Stop," I say softly.
"You're uncomfortable."
"Of course I am."
"Why?" he asks.
I laugh. "You wouldn't understand. You're perfect. There's nothing wrong with you."
"Nothing wrong with me," he repeats. Now it's his turn to laugh. "You're delusional."
"There isn't. Well, mental issues aside," I say, giggling when he narrows his eyes at me. "Physically, you're completely perfect."
He rolls his eyes. "So you don't think this shit is kind of awesome?" he asks, running his finger along a stretch mark.
"Seriously, it's a total turn-off," I say. "Please stop."
The expression on his face shifts, and he looks at me, genuinely puzzled. “Are women really bothered by those?"
"Are you seriously asking me that question?"
"They're fucking cool," he says. "Do you not get that?"
I laugh, the sound bitter. "No. I do not get that."
He slides his hand down over my abdomen, then farther, between my legs. My body immediately responds to him, shutting down the objections I have and rendering me mute. "They're like scars," he murmurs.
"Oh yeah, ‘cause everyone knows scars are fucking sexy."
Luke sits up abruptly, turning around so that his back is to me. "See that?" he asks.
All I can see is his back, a mass of rippling muscles that I can't help but run my hand over, my fingertips tracing a little path across him. "What am I supposed to be looking at here?"
"I have my own scars."
Then I notice it, the scar that runs along his back, at least six inches long. It's faded, barely noticeable to the eye, but I trace the length with my finger. "What happened?"
"It's an old scar," he tells me. "From a belt."
His words hit me with all of the impact of a freight train, and I feel like a complete tool, griping about my stupid stretch marks. "I – I'm sorry."
Luke shrugs. "I wasn't showing you to get your sympathy," he says. "It happened a long time ago. Water under the fucking bridge and all that. I'm just saying, we all have scars. Some are on the inside, some are on the outside. Those are a part of who you are, your life story – and part of Olivia's life story. So I think they're pretty fucking cool."
I swallow hard, struck by the weight of his words. "You're pretty wise for –"
He laughs. "For a jock?"
"That's not what I was going to say." I was going to say for a twenty-six-year-old, which is just as bad. And I guess that's his point. I study his face carefully, the way his jawline is set, his expression serious, and I wonder for a moment if I've