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I want to feel his cum tear through me, hot and potent. I want him to leave me so full of his cum that I leak into panties all week. I want him to drill that big dick of his so fucking deep that when he pours his cum into me, that perfect ass of his clenching, there’s no way I’m not getting pregnant.
Fuck. I want his babies. I want him to breed me, carry his child. Bring a life that’s from him into the world.
“Jesus Christ,” I utter as I sink down, down, down, like Alice down the rabbit hole, until his wide crown nudges my g-spot and my pussy feels so full, I can hardly move.
But that's the point:notmoving.
My mind shrinks down to a singular focus:do not clench your pussy. If you clench all around him, you’re going to either come immediately and ruin this, or start bouncing, because his dick is thick and long and so fucking hard. So perfect.
Shit.
I’m a porn star and I’ve never called a cock perfect.
My focus is stolen, relaxing my cunt as he drives a bite of ziti into my mouth, after blowing to cool it. I moan through the bite, the warm ricotta creamy, the noodles the perfect softness. His voice is smoky against my ear when he asks, “Does it taste good to you?”
I nod. “Very.”
He gives me another bite, and as I swallow, he thickens inside me in a few pulsing waves. I see in his eyes determination, and know he’s fighting an orgasm. We both are.
But we’re going to do this.
Cohen pokes at the ziti with the tines of the fork, bringing another bite up to my lips. Before he serves it up close enough for me to take, he stops short. “If there’s a meal you want, tell me and I’ll make it, okay?”
I lick my lips, and my heart tickles my ribs. “I like the ziti.”
He nods. “I know. But I will make you anything.” His cock flexes and I bite my bottom lip so I don’t start milking him. My pussy feels so good, I no longer have control.
“Thank you,” I say, in awe of this man who genuinely wants to serve me. But it’s not just food. He wants to pleasure me first, he wants to open my doors for me and hell, he fixes things in my apartment and the other day he bought me vitamins. His kind heart and penchant for protecting me have me so deep in this. So ready for more.
But for now, keeping him hard inside me is something I can do. And I am lucky enough to do so.
His breath is hot against my neck. “We don’t come like this. I feed you. I make sure you’re full, and you enjoy every bite. And then I take you to bed, and make sure you get rest because you’ve had an extremely long week, and you need it.”
I lick my lips, both hating and loving those plans. I want that orgasmless intimacy, those vulnerable and deep moments.
But I want to be worshiped by him in equal measure. I want him kneeling at my feet again, kissing his way up to my bare cunt and feasting on me until I collapse in sticky pleasure.
But his way is better, and exactly what we need to bridge the gap.
“Another bite,” I tell him.
He feeds me, taking turns to feed himself, and like that, we work through both plates together. He adjusts me a few times, asks to be kissed a couple of times, too. But at the end of the meal, he leans forward and I steady myself on my feet, letting him slide out. I reach out, grabbing the edge of the table to adjust to the emptiness. I almost whimper, I swear.
His hand presses to my lower back as he guides us… first to the bathroom, where we talk about our favorite desserts ever—because that's what you do after you eat a good meal, you dream up a delicious dessert.
He turns down the bed, and waits for me to slide in.
Cohen joins me in bed but pulls me all the way onto him, stacking his chin on my head. “Thank you,” he says, adding, “you changed my life.”
I blink into the darkness, heart running wild, pulse hammering. He kisses the top of my head and says, “Goodnight. I’m here if you need anything.”
And I want to pull apart those words—you changed my life—and really jump into how beautiful and completely romantic of a thing that is to say but I feel so pleasantly warm in his arms, and my body relaxes and goes limp.
And I fall asleep before I can think of anything else.
twenty
cohen
