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I wanted to argue, to say that I hadn’t done it all for Aaron, but I had. I had waxed and shaved and done extra Kegels and gotten a mani and pedicure… all in preparation for Aaron. When was the last time I’d done that for E? When was the last time he’d seen me so well groomed?
“I want you to beg for me like you begged for him.”
“I wasn’t begging for him.” I bit back another moan as his fingers quickened inside of me. Leaning back, my shoulders hit the cabinet and I tensed to stay in place. “I was begging for both of you.”
His knees hit the kitchen floor and my pants were pulled off. He pushed my legs farther apart, his fingers wet against my thigh, and his warm mouth settled on me. I dug my hands into his hair, grinding against his mouth. He was greedy and unrelenting, fucking me with his tongue, journeying down to my taint, then back up through my folds, his touch softening as he circled my clit and then hummed over it. My hand fell slack on his head, my hips freezing in place as he focused in on the sensitive bud.
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes. Oh God, yes.”
“The front curtains,” he grunted. “Are they open?”
I turned my head, focusing on the formal living room to our right. Through the arched opening, I could see the plaid couch I’d rescued from my mom’s garage sale and a few random pieces we’d kept from our college apartments. Behind the plaid couch were the dark blue front curtains—a leftover from the prior owners. The panels were wide open, pushed as far to the left and right as their gold rod would allow.
We never left them open at night. When they were, the interior was on full display to anyone who drove past. I always felt ashamed of the mishmash of furniture and the dated kitchen just behind it. I looked out the dark window and saw the glow of lights move down the street. A car. If they looked over, if they slowed, if they focused, they’d see me. Illuminated by eighties-style fluorescent lighting, my knees open, Easton’s head buried between them. I curved my hips deeper against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”
“Slut,” he whispered. “My gorgeous, delicious fucking slut.”
I pulsed my mound against the words, his hands tightening on my thighs, his mouth growing rougher as he ate me out as if he was starving. My clit swelled. My thighs trembled. I knocked the bag of marshmallows onto the floor as I struggled not to fall off the counter. Another set of headlights swept down the dark street and I pinched my eyes closed and imagined them slowing. The car would come to an abrupt stop. The man inside would stare, questioning what he was seeing.
I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head. Easton went to move and I dug my heels into his back, locking him in place. “Don’t stop!” I gasped out the words as I stared at our reflection in the front window, the pink cherries of my nipples catching the overhead light, the shadows accentuating my curves. Was there someone out there in the dark? Watching? Wanting? I gripped Easton’s head, burying it tighter between my legs.
A knocking sounded against the lower cabinet and I looked down, trying to place it, then realized what it was. Easton, his hand furiously jacking his cock, his elbow rattling against the edge of the cabinet. He lifted his head, and I tightened my legs to prevent the motion. “Don’t stop—”
“Move to the couch,” he gritted, pushing to his feet. “Put your knees on the cushion, palms on the window.”
I pushed off the counter without complaint, my feet slapping against the tile, then silent on the carpet. I crawled onto the couch and it creaked in protest as my knees sunk into the faded plaid cushion. I gripped the back of it and stared out the window. There were no lights on in the living room, but still, we’d be outlines, framed by the kitchen’s illumination. I heard the rustle of fabric, then felt the insistent press of his dick.
“Hands on the window,” he ordered gruffly.
It was a good thing Aaron had moved out. Our house was back to being ours, every surface a potential fuck zone. Then again… I put my hands on the glass, each on a different pane, and closed my eyes, imagining Aaron in the guest room, his head lifting off his pillow, his attention caught by the sound of Easton’s voice.
Not that I needed that visual. This was enough. My palms sweated against the glass as Easton thrust in and out of me in short mini strokes. I stared at our reflection, the glow from the kitchen illuminating the swing of my breasts as he pumped into me from behind. “More,” I begged. “Deeper.”
