Page 88 of The Florist and Her Alphas

He fucks me on my own kitchen counter with one hand on my hip and the other gripping the edge of the counter beside me. He keeps his eyes glued to my face.

“And now I’m fucking your pussy in your kitchen. You wanted me to stay, didn’t you?”

“No,” I moan, trying to hide the heat creeping through my face.

“You secretly wanted me to fuck you. Didn’t you? You bad girl,” he says, thrusting hard into me.

“Okay, fine, I did,” I gasp as his balls slap against my ass cheeks.

“Your tight pussy feels incredible,” he murmurs as he pushes his cock in deeper. I clutch at his shoulders as he holds me, pounding into me.

He picks up his pace. The counter creaks softly beneath me.

My hands clutch at his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. His mouth finds my throat. He kisses the pulse there, and sucks gently.

“You looked so pretty sitting on the counter that I had to fuck you,” he whispers harshly.

I blush, hot and full-body, and he thumbs my clit between us, circling the swollen nub with his thumb while his cock pistons into me, and the dual sensation is too much.

I come with a wail, my mouth pressing into his neck.

My pussy clenches around him, pulsing, slick gushing around his cock, and he follows me a few thrusts later, burying his face in my hair, his breath ragged, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes.

His cock swells. The knot stretches me wider, locking us together, and we both stay there for a moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“Oh my god, I never thought we’d end up like this. I was pretty serious when I said no funny business,” I say, shaking my head.

He chuckles, kissing my cheek. “You’re lying to me now, Lia. You know what I do to bad girls. But since you’re already knotted to me, you’ll have to wait a little bit.”

“Your sauce is going to burn,” I say, and he laughs as I wrap my legs tighter around his waist.

He reaches behind him without looking, turns the burner to low, stirs the pan one-handed while his other arm holds me securely against his chest. His knot jiggles inside me with each movement, stretching me, sending little aftershocks of pleasure through my oversensitive pussy, and I close my eyes and lean against his strong chest.

Julian feeds me bites of chicken from a fork, while I straddle him on a chair, still locked to him with his knot.

The chicken is perfect.

Crisp skin, juicy underneath, the lemon-garlic sauce bright and rich against the fat. I moan around the fork without meaning to, and Julian’s eyes go dark, his dimple appearing as he smiles.

“Told you I can cook,” he says, and feeds me another bite.

“It’s amazing,” I moan, taking a swig of wine.

“The first time I ever tried to cook was in college,” he says, twirling asparagus on the fork. “I was seventeen and drunk. It was three in the morning, and for some reason I decided I was going to make pasta carbonara for my three roommates.”

“This sounds like it ends badly.”

“It ended with all four of us in the campus health center two days later with salmonella,” he replies, grinning. “I scrambled raw eggs onto half-cooked spaghetti. Served it with full confidence.”

I laugh and nearly choke on my wine. Julian grins at me, his hazel eyes warm in the low light of my kitchen.

He feeds me bites of his asparagus off his fork. I let him. His thumb brushes my lower lip once, catching a drop of sauce, and he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it clean while holding my eyes, and my pussy clenches all over again.

After dinner, his knot has fully subsided. I do the dishes while he dries.

The apartment is warm and small. It smells like him, and it feels so comforting. His clean lemon scent, musky with sex, is intoxicating to me.

I yawn. Even though it’s only 10 p.m. I’m pretty tired and can hardly open my eyes. I am exhausted from a day that began with heartbreak, a scare from my ex, and ended with getting knotted in my own kitchen.