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I shudder under him, my chin notching back as my lips part.
“Luca,” I cry as he stretches out his fingers, his hand covering me, his palm gently pressing my cockhead. “Please. Keep touching me.” I lift my hand to his hip again and hold on tight. “Don’t let me go.”
He drags in a slow breath, only to look at me so softly that my heart is nothing but his. It's incredible what he does to me.
“I won’t, baby. I won’t,” he hums as he shifts his hand, stroking my cock from base to tip through thick material. “Can you be patient for me?” His sweetness falls away, his sharp cheekbones lift as his impish grin returns. “Because those sweats definitely have to go.”
My cock completely agrees. The strain against the fabric is rough, and I want Luca to feel how hot and ready I am for him.
I want him with everything I have, and the tension building between us vibrates in a way that only Luca can conjure. It’s how millions of people lust over him because of one simple photo. He knows how to use his body, how gorgeous he is, and he knows exactly what he’s doing as I arch my back, sucking in my stomach to give him room.
If I told him I loved him now, how much would change? Would he still reach for me like this? Would it become even more romantic because he’d confess he feels the same way, too?
That's another secret fantasy I keep close to my heart. But, when he lets go of my cock to hook his finger under my waistband, murmuring, “You're so fucking hot,” I really think he might love me. One day I'll tell him the truth, even if it becomes a burden for him. Just not today.
And it’s there, right at the moment he tugs on my waistband, that the oven timer goes off.
A rush of air leaves us both, and we pause.
It’s clear what we’re thinking.
Even though it's difficult, I release him, my hand falling away from his hip, the other from his jeans. Luca will always be my priority, but the squid was expensive.
I twist my lips, eyebrows raising behind my glasses. Either he steps back or I make him. Whenever Luca kisses me hungrily, it usually means we’ll be distracted for at least an hour, and I don’t want to end the evening because the kitchen is on fire.
One way or another, I will save the food.
Luca’s fiery stare morphs into a wicked smile as he releases me. My waistband snaps back to my hips, the strain on my cock returning.
“Well,” he gives an exaggerated shrug. “I guess someone has to check on the oven,” he sighs heavily.
His other hand leaves my neck, a whisper of his fingers curl around the shell of my ear. I nod, my whole body hardening as he climbs off of me. I press my lips together. I can’t complain because it’s important. I really want to see Luca’s face when he tastes my cooking for the first time, and it can be reheated.
He groans as he leans back, his gaze dancing over me again. “Fuck, I love it when you pout. It’s even better with the glasses. You’re so bloody cute.” He leisurely steps away from me, tilting his head. “Or would you rather eat? Because I can stop,” he teases, flipping his hair over his shoulder as he straightens his shoulders and pops a hip, lifting his nose in the air. “You know, if you want to eat instead?” He peeks at me from the corner of his eye, and I feel as if he's asking me to give him a quick answer. But I falter when he challenges me, a tingle running up my spine, but he lights up when I reply.
“But you need me, don’t you?” I say. My gaze drops to his crotch, where he is so obviously hard that I feel uncomfortable just looking at the tight stretch of his jeans.
Luca laughs as he grabs the front of my apron, bunching the material in his hands as he drags me back into a sudden kiss.
“Fuck, yeah I do.” He says, his soft breath sparking tingles over my cheeks. “So fucking badly. Now get those sweats off and wait for me, okay?”
I nod quickly before he hurries, grabbing the mitts lying on the counter next to the oven; white and pink, shaped like kitten paws, matching my apron. He gives me a quick smirk, quirking a brow before slipping them on, and there’s another pierce of fear that he might be making fun of me. I'm distracted by the steam billowing from the door as he opens it. I really hope the food isn't burnt. I made the frittata three times in the last month to make sure the timing was right.
I hurriedly push at my waistband, lifting my hips to slide them under my ass. My bare skin presses into the wood as I tip forward, getting them over my knees, but I'm so hot it makes no difference that the seat is cold. It's not the first time I've sat here naked.
My cock rubs the inside of the apron as I lean back in the chair, watching Luca in my kitchen like he belongs here. I'm already imagining sleepy mornings by my coffee machine and cooking after late nights at work, chatting and laughing, planning dates, adventures I feel safe enough to take when I’m with him, maybe even a holiday, and living peacefully together.
There's a clunk as the baking dish slides onto the counter and Luca waves away the light steam swirling above it. I love seeing him doing such normal things. I placed him on a pedestal before I met him on our first shoot, assuming he was far beyond me, even though we are the same in so many ways.
The silence stretches on for too long as he presses his mittened hands on the counter, leaning over the frittata, my blood picking up, my nerves stepping in to interfere with my happiness. My mind races, looking for something I could say to ease the tension, but he speaks first.
“This really is my favourite food,” he sighs, his head bent forward, his braid hiding everything except the gentle smile on his lips.
And my nerves float away at the easiness of his smile. He lifts his head, swinging his attention back to me.
I swallow the quick thump of my heart. “I know,” I reply quietly.
He licks his bottom lip, and I think he’s looking at me with love in his eyes, though I try not to assume, no matter how much I want it.
