"What isn't fair?"
"You're still, you're completely dressed?—"
She's right. I'm still in my ruined dress shirt and slacks, while she's spread out on her prep counter, dress rucked up, thighs trembling, face flushed with arousal. The visual contrast sends a fresh wave of possessive satisfaction through me.
"Then fix it," I challenge, scissoring my fingers inside her.
Her hands go immediately to my belt, fumbling with the buckle, and I have to grit my teeth against the urge to knock her hands away and do it myself. The anticipation is excruciating. She finally gets the leather free, popping the button of my slacks, dragging the zipper down with shaking fingers.
The moment she wraps her small hand around my cock, I nearly black out.
"Holy shit," she breathes, staring down between us. "Lanek, that's—you're—how is that supposed to?—"
"Carefully," I grit out, fighting to maintain control as she strokes me experimentally. "Slowly. I told you, little baker. I'll make it work."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true." I withdraw my fingers from her body, ignoring her whimper of protest, and grip her hips with both hands. "But you need to be ready. You need to be so wet and open that you can take me without pain."
"I'm ready?—"
"You're not." I drag her to the counter, positioning myself between her thighs, the thick head of my cock nudging against her entrance. "But we're going to get you there."
I push forward just slightly, barely breaching her, and even that small amount of penetration has her gasping and clutching at my shoulders. She's tight, impossibly tight, her body resisting the intrusion despite how wet and ready she is. The primal part of my brain is screaming at me to thrust forward, to seat myself fully inside her in one brutal stroke, to claim and mark and possess.
I don't.
Instead, I withdraw, ignoring her frustrated whine, and drop to my knees on the flour-dusted floor.
"Lanek, what are you—oh my god?—"
I hook her thighs over my shoulders, bury my face between her legs, and feast.
She tastes like heaven and sin and mine, and the broken, desperate sounds she makes as I work her with my tongue are the most erotic thing I've ever heard. I lap at her clit, circle it with the flat of my tongue, suck it between my lips until she's writhing and pulling my hair and begging incoherently.
"Please. Lanek. I can't. It's too much?—"
"You can," I murmur against her slick flesh. "You will. Come for me, Quinn. Let me feel it."
I thrust two fingers back inside her, curling them against that perfect spot, and she shatters with a sharp cry that echoes through the destroyed kitchen. Her inner walls clamp down rhythmically around my fingers, her thighs trembling against my shoulders, and I work her through it, drawing out every pulse of pleasure until she's boneless and panting.
Only then do I rise to my feet, gripping my cock and positioning myself at her entrance again.
"Better?" I rasp.
"You're smug," she accuses breathlessly.
"I'm right." I push forward slowly, watching her face as the thick head breaches her entrance. "Breathe, little baker. Just breathe."
She inhales shakily, her hands gripping my forearms, and I feed myself into her inch by excruciating inch. The fit is impossible, her body stretching around me, and I have to pause repeatedly to let her adjust. Sweat beads on my forehead from the effort of restraint, every instinct screaming at me to just thrust home.
"Lanek," she whimpers, her voice small and wrecked. "It's too—you're too?—"
"Shh. You're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly." I lean down, bracing one hand on the counter beside her head, the other gripping her hip to hold her steady. "Just a little more. You're almost there."
"Almost—oh god?—"
I push forward the final few inches, seating myself fully inside her, and we both freeze. She's strangling my cock, impossibly hot and tight, her body clamping down around me like a vice. I can feel her pulse fluttering internally, can feel every tiny adjustment as she tries to accommodate my size.
