When I shot my load onto the bed, his dick pulsed inside me. In my mind’s eye, I imagined how I squeezed his cock, milking him, and how his cum shot deep within me.
“You filthy little beast,” Rowan mumbled against my shoulder.
I turned in his arms, letting go of his dick that flopped out of me with a squelch. “Me? I’m an angel.”
“You look like one.” He kissed my clavicle. “And you love like one.” He flicked his tongue over my nipple. “But you fuck like a demon.”
“I have many faces and moods.” Including low ones…
“And I love every single one of them.” He nuzzled my navel, smeared with my cum. “And always will.”
I wriggled lower to reach his lips and kiss him. He was mine, and I was never letting him go.
Panting, I broke away. “Shower. We need to go.”
We arrived at the town community center before everyone else and checked if all the equipment brought the day before was in the right place. The main hall had the tables ready, covered with baby blue cloths with the Cryptid Cafe logo in the middle and smaller logos from our local sponsors.
The extensive kitchen in the adjoining space had been used for the town’s cooking shows and competitions before. One wall had ovens lined along it, and the middle had a long row of marble countertops with bowls, mixers, and pans ready.
Rowan’s phone vibrated, and he left the room to greet the small business owners whose names graced the banner. They donated half of the ingredients needed, and Rowan paid for the rest. He’d told me it was an investment in his future.
Students from my university arrived next. They volunteered their time to oversee the baking process in exchange for getting work experience hours for their chef course. All of them would have a meet and greet with the local businesses that hired students and graduates.
A lot of money went into organizing the event, but the heart of the community shone the most when the bus from Happy Life Senior Home arrived. The elderly, with Ethel at the lead, walked into the cooking area like engineers on a mission to save the world. In photoshoot-ready attire, seniors of all genders and species approached their tables and put on their baby-blue aprons.
Soon, the chatting quieted, and whirring and kneading commenced. Ovens worked overtime, and the camera crew from the local news station tiptoed around to catch the best angles of footage.
We stood to the side to watch but not obstruct. I roamed the room with my gaze and gasped. “Rowan.” I swatted his forearm. “Raina is here.”
The grin that spread across his face told me he’d been expecting her. “They’re here to support you.”
“They?”
Rowan’s sister approached us, and at her heels walked Riley, Ruben, and Rowan’s parents.
Nina, Rowan’s mom, glided to me like a nymph in a delicate white dress, her waist-length ginger hair flowing behind her. “Thank you, Milo.”
“Rowan did all this.” I indicated the room.
She took both my hands in hers and offered me a soft smile. “He did it for you because you opened his eyes to what is important in life.”
I swallowed. “What is that?”
“Love.” She squeezed my fingers. “I’ve never seen my baby boy this happy. He gave us hope when he brought you with him to Raina’s wedding and looked at you with hearts in his eyes all weekend. You unearthed the best in him in a few weeks.” She opened her arms.
I stepped into the hug, and the welcoming gesture felt like a clear wind wrapping around us. Tears pricked my eyes, but I held them back.
Nina let me go and took her husband’s hand. Bob, Rowan’s dad, was a broad-shouldered man in a beige shirt, thick glasses, and an even thicker red beard. “We’ve heard good things about your cafe, but it has to be a truly special place for so many people to show up to support it.” He clapped me on the shoulder,grinned, and pulled me into a hug. “Your parents would be very proud of you. We’re proud of you.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Thank you. For your kind words and for driving all this way. This means a lot to me.” I was holding onto my composure by a thread, so I grabbed Rowan’s hand for support.
“Yeah, but is she single?” I turned to where Riley’s voice came from. I followed her line of sight to where Sophia stood with her green hair in a bun on top of her head, her arms crossed.
“Very,” Ethel told her. “And she’s a good one, so you better hurry.”
Oh, Ethel, you pot-stirrer.
My parents set an impossible example of a couple for me to follow, then Anabelle and Ethel showed me that love can stay strong for decades. I wish the three of them could be here.
