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“You only come for me,” he demands, setting the gears of my climax in motion. “I want you to come – just for me,” he orders in a breathless tone, and I’m a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. “Can you do that – can you do that for me?” His desperate plea tugs at the edges of my womb like the catch of a wick.
“Yes,” I breathe heavily, grabbing his hair and pulling him closer, holding him in place as he explores my pussy with his fingers and his mouth, burning brighter and hotter, moving along my spine, and causing every muscle in my body to twitch. I come for him, shuddering and shaking. I tip my head back and lean into it as it rips through me.
His fingers remain inside me, pressing against my front wall while I start to come down from the high, and my vision clears, the room coming back into focus. I lean down to kiss him, tasting myself on his tongue. He lifts me off the piano and I wrap my arms around his neck lazily, my body limp. We stare at each other for a heartbeat and he kisses me – the slow and steady kind that makes you weak in the knees before he sets me down on the rug in front of the fire.
He rips open a condom and slides it on, his thighs pushing mine apart, my knees settled against his ribcage. He grabs hold of his shaft and lines it up to my entrance, the tip grazing against my still-sensitive clit. He pushes in quickly, fucking me hard, to the cadence of the pounding rain against the window, his name escaping my lips and being captured by the bricks of the fireplace, in the paint strokes of the artwork, and the ivory keys of the piano, transforming this room from hollow… to something that resembles life.
17
Get your Own
Evangeline
I lean over the kitchen island and dip my chopsticks into Darren’s kung pao chicken. He bats me away playfully, but not before I’m able to abscond with a piece of his chicken.
“You have your own,” he scolds. His hair falls into his face, teasing the tops of his brows.
The early morning light filters through the window, and somehow, eating leftover Chinese food for breakfast tastes better than it did when it was delivered hot and fresh last night.
“But yours is better,” I reply before plopping the piece of chicken in my mouth.
“What’s wrong with yours?” he asks, poking at my container with his chopstick.
“It’s not spicy,” I say, making a sad face while looking inside my carton.
“Why didn’t you order something spicy?” he asks, putting a protective arm around his meal.
“Because then I wouldn’t be able to steal yours.” I try to grab another piece of his chicken, following him around the counter.
“Get your own,” he teases and bats me away again, moving to the other side of the island to put distance between us, a boyish smirk tugging at his lips. It feels like we’re just two careless young adults enjoying a meal without any of the loss or disappointment of life.
This kitchen has been a neutral space, where we can just be ourselves, and Darren lets his guard down. It reminds me of the kitchen in the house I grew up in, when my grandfather was alive, and my grandmother was well. It’s not as grand as this kitchen, but it still has the ability to pull truths in a way no other room can, no matter its size or the quality of the craftsmanship.
The room becomes quiet and somber as Darren peers across the island, a rare look of remorse on his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, barely audible, but it sits heavy on his lips, and my heart stops for a beat because I wasn’t expecting that.
I don’t want to hear it – I don’t want to be reminded of how this started, or think about where it’s going, because it causes the guilt to sit low and heavy inside me. His ‘sorry’ drifts over the cartons scattered on top of the island, and I pretend not to hear it as I push them out of the way, using one of the bar stools to climb up onto the island. Darren watches with a curious eye as I stalk towards him on all fours like a predator, my knee-high socks making it easy to slide along the marble.
He swallows hard, the apology forgotten, replaced by the tug of desire. When I reach him, I sit back on my heels and smile, my eyes dropping to the container in his hand.
“Do you want a piece of my chicken?” he asks with a wicked smile on his handsome face.
He’s the careless kind of handsome, with long black lashes that women would kill for – the wicked kind of handsome that makes you forget what a pretentious asshole he is.
I sit on the island like a dog begging for a treat. “Yes,” I answer.
He dips his chopsticks into the carton, but before he pulls out a piece of chicken, he raises his eyes back up to me. “Take your shirt off.”
Without hesitation, I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, shaking out my hair. His eyes drop to my bare breasts.
“Mm. No bra,” he groans. “Good girl.”
I lean forward, my breasts hanging between us and open my mouth, waiting for my prize. He places the piece of chicken on my tongue, and I grab the carton, jumping off the counter, and racing out of the kitchen.
“Evangeline!” Darren bellows.
When I get to the beginning of the long hallway, I can hear his bare feet against the wood flooring behind me.
“You better run,” he calls, and I giggle in response, “because if I catch you…” he pauses, and I wait with bated breath for him to finish, to tell me what he will do if he catches me. “You will regret it.” I can hear him grit his teeth and feel his fingers brush my hip while I turn into one of the rooms.
