Then he entered me from behind in a single, slow thrust.
My spine went rigid. The hand holding the wooden spoon froze mid-stroke, and the spoon clattered against the rim of the pot. Master Paul’s hand closed over mine and pressed the spoon back into my grip.
“I said keep stirring.”
His voice sounded low, dark, and amused. The amusement was worse than sternness in a way because it told me he knew exactly what he was doing to me and he enjoyed the cruelty of making me perform a mundane task while his cock split me open from behind. I stirred. The spoon moved through the sauce in jerky, uneven circles while his hips pressed flush against my bare bottom, his slacks rough against my bruised skin, his shaft buried to the hilt inside me in a fullness that made my eyes water.
He pulled back and thrust again, harder, and it drove my hips against the edge of the counter. The marble bit into the tops of my thighs and I gasped, and the spoon kept moving because he’dtold me to keep stirring and my body had learned, over the last three days, that his instructions were not suggestions.
“Good girl,” he murmured against my ear. His hands returned to my hips, gripping the silk that had bunched around my waist, and he set a rhythm—slow, deep, overwhelming. Each thrust pressed me into the counter’s edge and drove the breath from my lungs, and each withdrawal left me aching and empty for the fraction of a second before he filled me again. The sauce bubbled. The wooden spoon circled. I made dinner for my husband while he fucked me from behind in his kitchen, and the domesticity of it—the sheer, obscene normalcy of vegetables sautéing while a man’s cock moved inside me—made me feel like I was living inside a fantasy I hadn’t known I’d had.
“Tell me what you’re making,” he said, and his voice had thickened, the words coming between controlled breaths that I could feel against the back of my neck.
“P-pasta,” I managed. “With… oh, God… with roasted tomatoes and…ah?—”
He thrust particularly deep and I lost the recipe entirely. My forehead dropped forward, nearly touching the range hood, and the spoon made a wild, arrhythmic scrape against the bottom of the pot. Master Paul’s hand found the nape of my neck and held me there—bent over the stove, stirring, impaled—while his hips moved with an increasing urgency that I could feel in every nerve ending I possessed.
“Keep cooking,” he said one final time, and then his rhythm broke, and he drove into me with the hard, urgent strokes that I had learned meant he was close, and I came around him with a sob that I muffled against my own shoulder while the sauce threatened to burn and the spoon clattered against the pot’s rimand my master’s release flooded me, hot and possessive, in the warm light of the kitchen set.
“Cut,” Melissa said, the single word somehow conveying deep satisfaction. “That’s fabulous, folks. The spoon… the way she kept trying to stir… Paul, you’re a genius.”
That evening, in his apartment, in the real kitchen with no cameras and no Melissa, my master mademedinner. Just copper pots and the smell of garlic and olive oil and Master Paul in a plain gray T-shirt, moving between the counter and the stove with the easy competence of a man who actually knew how to cook.
I sat on a cushion he’d placed on one of the kitchen chairs: a thoughtful gesture that made my eyes sting, because my bottom was still a landscape of welts and bruises that made sitting on hard surfaces an exercise in careful positioning. I wore one of his T-shirts and nothing else, and I watched him cook with a feeling in my chest that I could only describe as fullness. Not the physical fullness of his body inside mine, though the memory of that was still vivid enough to make me shift on the cushion. A different kind. The fullness of being cared for by the same hands that had punished me.
He made pasta. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us—the real version of the meal I’d pretended to cook on set, prepared by the man who’d fucked me while I pretended to cook it. He moved through the kitchen with obvious skill and clear enjoyment. He sliced tomatoes with a chef’s knife, adjusted the flame beneath a pan of sautéing garlic, tasted the sauce from a wooden spoon and added a pinch of something I couldn’t identify.
“Sit,” he told me when I tried to help. “You’ve cooked enough today.”
The smile that crossed his face was private and warm and a little wicked, and I blushed and sat back down on my cushion.
CHAPTER 30
Anne
We ate at his small kitchen table. The food was so much better than anything I’d made for myself in my tiny apartment that I practically cried when I took my first bite. Our dinner conversation felt easy in a way that surprised me.
He asked about my childhood. I told him about growing up in a small town outside of Columbus, about my mother who worked two jobs and my father who’d left when I was seven, about the scholarship I’d lost and the bills that had led me to Selecta’s door. When I stumbled over the part about my father, his hand found mine across the table and held it.
“You deserved better,” he said simply.
After dinner, while he washed the dishes and I dried them—standing beside him at the sink in his T-shirt, our hips almost touching—I felt the need rise again. Heat bloomed between my thighs when for a second I thought he might put his hand on my bottom, under the T-shirt, just to hold it, as a reminder. Alongwith that helpless, instantaneous response came the warmth in my face, of course; shame that only reinforced the arousal.
From there it came on like weather: a darkening of the internal sky, a pressure building behind my navel, a warmth spreading further down that had nothing to do with the hot water and everything to do with the man beside me. My bare, shaved pussy throbbed with a pulse that seemed synchronized to his movements—the flex of his forearms as he scrubbed a pan, the shift of his shoulders beneath the gray cotton, the way his hands moved through the soapy water with the same competence they’d moved through everything else, including me.
I put down the dish towel. I turned toward him and pressed myself against his side, my face finding the hollow beneath his shoulder, my hips tilting forward in that embarrassing but involuntary offering.
“Sir,” I whispered against his shirt. “Please. I want you again.”
His wet hand found the back of my neck. He held me there, pressed against him, and I felt his chest expand with a slow, measured breath.
“You’re too sore, Annie.”
“I’m not,” I protested, even though I was. The tenderness between my legs was real. The deep, bruised ache pulsed with every step, reminding me that my poor little pussy had been thoroughly, comprehensively fucked twice yesterday and once today by my master’s enormous cock. But the ache felt like a door rather than a wall; something I wanted to push through, not stop at.
“You are,” he said, with the quiet certainty that I had learned to recognize as final. “Your body needs time to recover. I won’t damage what’s mine through impatience.”
The wordminesent the usual cascade through my nervous system: heat, clench, blush, want.
