I rose, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and took her in—flushed skin, legs still spread, her pussy glistening in the morning light. Beautiful.
Brenna sat up, reaching for me.
“Shirt off,” I said.
I pulled her T-shirt over her head. She pulled the bralette off after it, and her breasts spilled free—full, perky, nipples tight. I groaned at the sight and palmed them both, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks as I shoved my jeans and underwear down just far enough to free my aching cock.
I gripped her hips and pulled her right to the edge of the table. “Look at these tits,” I murmured, voice low and rough. “So fucking pretty and perky, bouncing for me while I fuck you.”
Her legs locked around my waist. She wrapped her hand around my cock, stroking me once, twice, guiding me to her entrance. “Then fuck your wife, Gabriel. I want to feel every inch of you.”
I pushed in deep in one smooth thrust. The tight, wet heat of her pussy enveloped me completely—velvety, scorching, still fluttering from her orgasm. I groaned low in my chest at how perfect she felt around me, like she was made for me.
“God, baby…you feel so fucking good,” I rasped, starting to move in deep, steady strokes. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, the sight so erotic I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Brenna smirked, confidence shining in her eyes—the bold, married version of her who now gave as good as she got. “Harder,” she whispered, nails digging into my shoulders. “I love the way you fill me up. This pussy is yours—now fuck it like you mean it.”
I drove into her deeper, grinding against her clit with every thrust. “That’s my dirty girl. You love getting fucked on this table, don’t you? Pussy dripping all over my cock while your cinnamon rolls wait in the oven.”
“Yes,” she breathed, meeting my thrusts. “I love it. Love feeling my husband come inside me and knowing I’ll be wet with you all morning.”
The words snapped my control. I fucked her harder, one hand on her breast, the other gripping her ass as I drove deep. The wet sound of our bodies meeting filled the warm kitchen, mixing with our ragged, hushed breathing.
Brenna came again with a shuddering gasp, biting her lip hard to stay quiet as her walls pulsed tight around me. The sensation dragged me over right after her. I buried myself to the hilt and came hard, groaning low as I spilled deep inside her, pulse after pulse, filling her completely.
We stayed locked together, breathing each other in while the aftershocks faded. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft sound of us catching our breath and the distant ticking of the oven timer she’d set for a batch of something I’d already forgotten the name of.
“We christened this table almost five years ago,” she said without opening her eyes.
“I remember.”
“It’s held up well.”
“I reinforced the legs.”
Her eyes opened. She turned her head to look at me. “When?”
“During the rebuild. Same time I reinforced the counter.”
“You reinforced my table because you planned to have sex on it again.”
“I reinforced your table because it wobbled.”
“It didn’t wobble.”
“It wobbled.”
She laughed—that surprised laugh that I’d heard for the first time at a diner breakfast and had spent years trying to earn again and again. She squeezed my hand and closed her eyes and lay there, content and unhurried, like a woman who had nowhere else to be and no plans to leave.
The oven timer went off. Brenna didn’t move.
“Your batch,” I said.
“It can wait.”
“You said you had a consult at ten.”
“I have a consult at ten,” she confirmed. “And an order to finish. And a baby who’s going to wake up hungry in about twenty minutes. And a husband who just made love to me on a kitchen table at seven in the morning, and I’d like one more minute of this before the day starts.”
