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I cry out again when his fingers are right there but he still won’t touch me.
“Lachlan,” I beg.
“Shh.” His vocal cords hum against my body.
He brings his hand back up, swirling his fingers around my belly button.
“Hands on the glass,” he commands.
I didn’t realized they’d fallen. In a flash I raise my hands back, placing them flat against the fogged glass. He nips my earlobe and I shiver. His hand dips lower again, barely brushing my clit. My hands threaten to close into fists, my fingers flexing, but somehow I keep them on the glass.
“Oh my God,” I cry out, my head lolling to the side when his thick middle finger prods my entrance, swirling through my pleasure. I mewl when it leaves, but within a second he’s bringing that wetness against my clit, rubbing it in slow steady circles.
“Does that feel good, baby?”
My lips shake. “Y-Yes. So good.”
He hums in satisfaction, kissing my shoulder.
My hips begin to move of their own accord, rubbing my ass into his dick. I feel him growing hard again already.
I’ve heard tales from past friends, and overheard conversations, of some girls’ awkward first times, how it was over in minutes, sometimes even seconds. But my experience with Lachlan isn’t like any of those stories at all, but maybe that’s because he’s a man and those were boys.
“Dani,” he growls my name into my ear, turning into a feral sound. “Fuck, you’re killing me baby.”
He applies a little more pressure to my clit, increasing his speed. My orgasm hits like a rocket shooting into the sky. My whole body shakes and when my hands fall from the glass, my body unable to stay upright, he’s there to catch me.
He gathers me into his arms, holding me close, gently now.
He rubs my back as the tremors fade. “That was—”
He silences me with a kiss. Rubbing his thumb over my cheek he stares into my eyes. “Amazing,” he finishes for me.
Thirty minutes later we’re freshly clean and my hair is wet from being washed. Leaning against the counter in his kitchen, the shirt of his I borrowed rides up, showing off my underwear from the night before. They seem so childish but every time his eyes flick over from the skillet of eggs, they flash with desire, so it must not be too bad.
“That smells amazing.” I rest my head in my hand, watching him cook.
He sprinkles red and green peppers, scallions, and something my brain can’t recognize since I can’t cook, into the eggs.
He grins over at me, looking carefree and happy. I don’t want to see that look go away. I want to remain here in this blissful bubble forever. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask for, but I know it’s an impossibility.
“It’ll taste even better.”
While he continues with the scrambled eggs, my eyes take a shameless perusal of his body. He tossed on a pair of sleep pants, no underwear, and that fact has been killing me from the moment I watched him. I think it should be a rule that he doesn’t wear pants. That’d be great.
My eyes drift to his ass and how the fabric molds to the curves of it.
“I can feel you staring at my butt.” He chances a glance over his shoulder to confirm it and I give him a naughty grin in return.
“Trying to get my fill.”
His eyes fill with sadness before he clears his throat and the look is gone again.
He deposits the eggs onto two separate plates with the pieces of bread I toasted and buttered—somehow they’re a tad charred, which I can tell amuses him, but he doesn’t remark on it. He opens a drawer, grabbing two forks, and sets one on each plate.
“Grab the orange juice,” he tells me, nodding his head at the two glasses I poured some in earlier. “I’ve got the plates.”
With the juices in hand, I follow him to the table and we sit down to eat together.
