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"Let me suck your cock again. Please."
He half-laughs, eyes hooded and dark with amusement. "Who am I to deny a lady what she wants?"
He steps back, and I kneel before him in the shower. Let the hot water run over my back and shoulders, rinsing me off even as I part my lips and suck his cock into my mouth.
He tastes just as good as I remember. And this time, when I build up a pace, sucking him in and out of my mouth until he starts to thrust into my throat, losing control, he doesn't stop me. He throat-fucks me, slams his hips into my face, the tip of his cock sliding down my throat with every thrust, until he's gritting his teeth and groaning loudly.
I keep going, my hands wrapped around his balls, tugging at them, toying with them as I suck him into my mouth. He fucks my face, slams against me, and I relax, opening myself to him fully. I let him take control and fuck me how he wants, until he's right at the brink.
"Swallow my cum," he groans, just before it hits him. When he comes, I tighten my lips around him and press my tongue along his length. He comes hard, deep in my throat, and I swallow it all, savoring the taste, the particular, unique flavor that's all him. I keep going, keep sucking until he moans my name, and only then do I lean back to lick his cock clean, slowly, an inch at a time.
I stand up, and I'm amused to find him red-faced and breathing hard, leaning against the shower wall. Now it's his turn to struggle to stay upright.
"How was that?" I ask innocently, batting my eyes.
He shakes his head, a smile on his face and his eyes locked on mine. "You were definitely still thirsty," he points out, and we both laugh a little.
Eventually, we do manage to clean off. Then we stumble out of the shower in towels and he gestures for me sit on the couch.
"I can help," I protest as he sets about making breakfast, puttering around the kitchen.
"You can, I'm sure," he admits. "But you aren't allowed to. You're only allowed to sit there and relax." He shakes a spatula at me, threatening. "You're my guest, Clove, you don't get to cook."
I groan in faux-protest and sink back against the cushions. "Fine. But only because I like it when you boss me around." I stick my tongue out, and he laughs, then turns to finish flipping the omelets he started.
As he does, I catch a glimpse of the book on his kitchen table. “1Q84?”
“Just started it. Have you read it?”
I sit up straighter, grinning. “Oh yeah. I love Murakami.”
“Kafka on the Beach is one of my favorites.”
“You’ll love this one. Especially…” I bite my tongue. “Damn.”
He laughs. “No spoilers! That’s cheating.”
“Okay. I’ll just say you’re gonna love it, that’s all.” Now that I’ve noticed the one book, I let my gaze drift to the shelves beside his TV, chock full of others. “What kind of stuff do you normally read?”
“Little bit of everything. A lot of dystopian, literary fiction. You know, the depressing shit.” He laughs, a little self-deprecating.
“Why do you like depressing books?”
He shrugs. Pauses to flip the eggs on the stove. “I guess it just makes me feel like my problems aren’t so bad. No matter how much shit I might be dealing with, it could always be worse.”
I snort. “Very optimistic world-view.”
“Well, could be worse. I could think my problems are the absolute worst. Then how annoying would I be?”
I grin and roll my eyes. “Fair point.” I can’t help letting my gaze drift to his bookshelf again. I spot at least three of my favorite authors there, along with more than a few who have been on my radar for ages.
Well-read, good taste in music, hot as hell, and he cooks…
He joins me on the couch a few minutes later, two plates of perfectly cooked omelets in hand. I take one bite and my eyes go wide. He added spinach and cheese and bacon and something else, some spices I don't recognize but that go perfectly.
"How are you still single?" I ask, once I've washed that bite down with a sip of the coffee he brewed.
He laughs. "What do you mean?"
