He pushes inside.
I cry out at the stretch, the feeling of fullness overwhelming. He waits a moment, letting me adjust, his hands gripping my hips tightly.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Move,” I demand.
He starts to thrust, slow and deep at first, building a rhythm that makes my toes curl in my boots.
The door rattles with every movement, but I don’t care. The only thing that matters is the feeling of him inside me, filling me up, claiming me.
I can feel the knot at the base of his cock starting to swell, catching on my rim with every thrust. It’s an intense pressure, a biological promise of lock and key.
“Amber,” he groans, his speed increasing. “I’m… the knot…”
“Not yet,” I gasp, shaking my head. “Eli, I’m not ready for that. Not yet.”
He stills instantly, his control hanging by a thread. I can feel him fighting the instinct, the primal drive to lock us together.
“Okay,” he breathes, kissing the back of my neck. “Okay. We won’t.”
He resumes thrusting, avoiding the deep pushes that would trigger the full knotting. It’s still incredible, the friction building a coil of tension low in my belly. He reaches around, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight circles.
“Come with me,” he pants in my ear. “Please, Amber.”
I let go. My orgasm crashes over me, harder than the first, dragging a scream from my throat. My inner walls clench around him, milking his cock.
“Fuck!” he shouts, burying his face in my neck as he finds his own release. He pulses inside me, his hips jerking with the force of it.
We stay there for a long time, leaning against the door, trying to catch our breath. The air in the small room is thick with the scent of sex and flowers.
Eventually, he pulls out carefully, dealing with the condom. I slide down the door, my legs feeling like jelly. He helps me to the rug, and we collapse onto it, lying side by side on the floral pattern.
I start to laugh. It’s a quiet, hysterical laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside.
“What?” he asks, grinning at me, his hair a mess.
“I just… we just had sex in the storage room of a flower shop,” I giggle. “On a rug that probably has potting soil ground into it.”
“It was the best sex of my life,” he says, rolling onto his side to look at me. “So I don’t care about the rug.”
I reach out, tracing the line of his jaw. “Yeah. It was pretty incredible.”
He leans up, grabbing his jeans and pulling the small white box of tarts from the pocket. He opens it, breaking off a piece of the buttery crust.
“Open up,” he commands softly.
I do, and he feeds me the tart. It’s rich and sweet, the perfect contrast to the salty, musky taste of sex.
“This is the best date I’ve ever been on,” he declares, feeding me another piece. “Flowers, burgers, sex on a rug, and chocolate tarts for dessert. It’s perfect.”
I chew, swallowing the bite of tart. “You’re weird, Eli Chen.”
“And you’re beautiful, Amber Carter.”
He kisses me, and I can taste the sugar on his lips.
This is perfect. He is perfect.
