“Better than expected, yes,” Willow urges, gesturing at the plate, “but what else do you think?”
I let the words disappear, feeling too animal to talk now, too physical to think.
“I think it’s sensational,” I say, slowly. “You’re an incredible cook.”
She lets out a sigh of relief, but my cock hears something different in her gasping exhale. I bring my thumb slowly to a speck at the side of her mouth, fingers resting on the round perfection of her jawline. She stills under my touch and catches my gaze, time slowing with the deliberateness of my movements.
I brush the speck, but don’t pull away. Instead, I bring my thumb back across those ever-pouted lips, tracing their dip and fullness, letting her feel the texture of hands rough and scarred from a lifetime in kitchens, our eyes locked together in a moment of anticipation, emotions raging like an angry sea against the dam of the distance between us.
Her lips part slightly, I feel her shortening breath on my hand, and I push my thumb between those juicy, perfect lips, fingers pressing against the base of her ear. Her gentle gasp breaks the silence, before she closes those soft lips around my thumb, the sight of them pressing against my skin making my cock full against my pants. Her teeth gently squeezing my nail, tongue flickering as I push the finger inside the hot wetness of her mouth.
My other hand already on her waist, I pull her toward me, press her lithe body up against mine. Those magnificent hips swaying and rubbing against mine, her weight shifting onto me, breasts heaving, nipples so hard now I can feel them through that sweater dress.
“You’re fucking incredible,” I growl. Prelude to pulling her toward me, my finger in her mouth still, angling her head so I can taste the tenderness of her neck, run my sensitive tastebuds down the taut muscles, follow the path that leads me to the front of her chest. Quiet moans getting louder as I run my tongue down the softness of her cleavage, her dress my enemy now as I pull it down and bury my teeth in her breasts.
“Oh God…” she moans. “Cole…”
I pull away, pull my thumb from her mouth to leave it gasping, lips red and ripe. Wordlessly, I take her hand and lead her into the back office, before either of us can really think, and back up onto the desk, pulling her in front of me. I bury my hand into that hair and pull her face to mine, sucking down the succulence of her tongue with the hunger of a madman. Her tender throat stretched, swallowing gasps and purrs as I bite and pull on those soft lips, while her body undulates against mine. Her nipples still so hard I can feel them through our clothes, the tension of her ass under my smacking palm.
Willow pulls away for a second, breathlessly, then works my pants open with the same deft hands she used to work up the meal, and I grab the condom I always carry in my wallet.
She gasps when she sees my cock, hard and thick with the whole evening’s worth of desire. She stares at it with almost fearful admiration, bringing those graceful fingers to trace its length softly and driving me so wild I almost howl.
“Should we be doing this?” she says, almost to herself, still stroking my cock with the gentleness of a lover.
“Shoulda thought about that when you decided to wear that dress,” I say, holding out the condom. “What do you want to do?”
She smiles at me as she snaps the condom out of my hands, tears it open and slides it over my cock. I pull her lips to mine, taste them softly like a chardonnay, swirling tongues in each other’s mouths. The gentlest of touches, plenty of time to taste, to appreciate, to let the ache for more really build up. I bring my hand under her dress, between her thighs, peeling the lace panties aside to tease the fruit of her pussy, squeeze the juices from her, make her ripe with desire as she turns my cock even harder with longing.
Her tight body turns to liquid, so that she melts against me. I’m leaning back on the desk now, the weight of her body against me. Our bodies acting as one, clambering and shuffling to find space, knocking things off the desk in our desperation for each other. I fall back onto the hard surface and pull her on top of me, her thighs straddling me, knees on the wood, her breasts exposed, the sweater dress just a thin strip of cloth around her waist now.
She stops for a second, a faint note of hesitation appearing in those eyes.
“You still think we’re gonna regret this?” I ask.
“Only if we stop now,” she says, voice slurred with desire.
I pull her body on top of mine, breasts against my chest.
“Then we’d better keep going,” I growl into her ear.
We tumble together through the sensations of the evening. The smell of grilled peppers and soft bread, hard cock against soft pussy, garlic and lime aftertaste, rough hands against smooth breasts that press against the fine fabric of my shirt as our mouths feast on each other, her teasing pussy rolling over the head of my cock like an ecstatic torture, a perfect appetizer that can’t satisfy.
I pull on her ass, smack it and draw nails up the arch of her back, urging her to let me in. She bites my lip and laughs, fighting me for pleasure, making me growl even harder with lust for the kind of woman who can do that. Until she can bear it no more herself, throwing her head back, taking all of me inside of her as she grinds her hips, riding me.
“Yes…” she purrs, eyes drowsy with sensation. “Oh my God, yes.”
She’s mine now, fixed upon my hardness, hips swaying, her breasts magnificently naked. She clutches at her hair as she rocks on top of me, eyes rolling back, mouth fixed open as she moans loudly, as if letting the surge of pleasure inside of her escape before it makes her explode. I watch her sway and throb above me, waves of electric pleasure flowing upward from our connected bodies, up through that tight stomach and those bouncing breasts, up through that pulsating throat and ecstatic face. A monument to beauty, one I worship with roving hands and panting grunts, until she’s too full of bliss, too full for even the screams to temper it, full enough to burst.
She puts a hand over mine, the one I’ve been pinching and rolling her nipple with, pulls it to the center of her chest, clutches it as if for steadiness as she lets the desire overflow.
“That’s it. Come for me, Willow. I wanna see you come, right here on top of this desk, right fucking now.” I tighten my grip on her ass and thrust into her harder, deeper, my voice coming out harsh as I command her to let go.
A final, high-pitched wail gets tossed up at the ceiling, Willow moaning as she falls down the rollercoaster. The sight of her losing control makes it easy for me to join her, to slam myself inside her one last time, to push both of us out from madness and into light.
“Fuck,” she says on desperate breath, as heat leaves her body and she slumps over me. “Cooking is a hell of an aphrodisiac.”
I look down between her damp locks of hair splayed across my chest, her face sleepy now as she rests against it.
“Depends on who’s doing it. Now let me make you dessert.”
6
Willow
It’s mid-morning in Los Angeles, and I’m sitting at the diner Tony suggested, stirring the foam at the bottom of my coffee cup lazily as I look out of the window. It’s a nice place with a vintage 50’s flair, kinda small, and with a great menu I’m more than ready to pick something from, but which I thought would be rude to do before Tony came.
For almost thirty minutes now I’ve been eyeing the attractive waiter (though he can’t hold a candle to the flame of Cole’s perfection) and watching the breakfast rush hour die down as I sip my coffee, trying not to think about last night, the lingering soreness I can still feel between my thighs.
“Spud!” I hear Tony call, turning to see him step inside the diner, open his arms, and make a beeline for me.
I step out of the booth and hug him—or more precisely, allow myself to be squeezed like a lemon.
“Relax, it’s only been a week since I saw you,” I mumble, even with my asphyxiated lungs.
Tony pulls back and laughs, taking a seat across from me. He pulls off his aviators to reveal emerald eyes that always made me kinda jealous.
“I’m just pleased to see you.”
“Shut up,” I smile. “I know you’re just trying to make me forget how late you are.”
It makes sense that Tony would end up in Los Angeles. Even though he’s from Ohio, and I met him when we studied in the south of France, he’s never looked quite so at home as he does with an L.A. sky behind him. His bronzed skin, meticulously arranged more-on-top brown hair, skintight T-shirt revealing a hint of his bare chest, immaculately sculpted pectorals—all of it fits in perfectly now that he’s here.