That image hit me too.
Teyonah on her knees before me, right there on the kitchen floor. Those full lips wrapped around my cock, taking me deep into her mouth.
I'd fist my hand in her curls, guiding her head’s rhythm, watching her eyes water as she struggled to take all of me.
"No. No. Don’t stop. Be good, Mommy. That's it, baby," I'd murmur. "Just like that. Show me what that pretty mouth can do."
She would look up at me with those wide, dark brown eyes and I would lose my fucking mind.
She was so experienced.
I already knew she would blow my mind and do things that I’ve only seen porn stars do.
The way her tongue would work along my shaft, the way she would hollow her cheeks, the way the obscene wet sounds would fill the quiet house.
I'd make her work for it.
Make her prove how badly she wanted cum to spill into her mouth.
And when I finally came, I'd pull back just enough to watch her swallow every drop, her lips swollen and glistening, her breath coming in pants.
"Dominic?" Her voice snapped me back once again. “Did you hear me?”
I blinked and then grinned. “No. What did you say?”
“I was wondering if you’ve ever cooked this dish before?”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “Honestly, this may be the third or fourth time I’ve ever cooked in my life. The other times have been with my chef.”
J popped their eyes open. “A chef?”
I nodded. “She wanted me to learn how to make a few simple meals before I went off to college. That was long ago. This chicken dish was one of them.”
Oliver blinked. “You had a chef when you were a kid, Dom?”
“Sure did.”
Oliver turned to Teyonah. “Mommy, can we have a chef too?”
“Uh. . .no, baby.” She laughed, and the sound went straight through me.
We will, Oliver. Don’t worry about that. Let’s just get your mommy on board first.
Dinner turned into something better than I ever could’ve planned.
Teyonah laughed with us, actually laughed—head tilted back, shoulders unburdened for once.
Oliver kept trying to balance his second chicken bone on his fork like it was part of a circus act, while J rolled their eyes but couldn’t stop smiling either.
I’d thought the chicken might be too dry, but they devoured it like I’d pulled it straight out of a Michelin kitchen.
The whole table glowed under the lamplight—warm food, warm voices, the kind of hum that stitched itself into your bones and stayed.
My chest ached, the good kind.
I’d spent years chasing excellence with classes, professors, exams, but this felt like the first success that really mattered.
I’d never had nights like this growing up.
