Intermezzo
INTERMEZZO
K eKe
A few seconds later I come to the realization that I must have passed out because I am on my back with both thighs over his shoulders as he laps at my sore pussy. Time seemed to slow as his lips met my pussy, soft and searching at first, that sent a ripple of warmth through my body. His hands cradled my ass, his fingers touching me with a tenderness that made my breath hitch. I sigh as I spread my legs wider, parting in invitation.
His tongue teased me, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring me, drawing me deeper into the moment. A shiver ran down my spine as his hands slides up to my chest, his fingertips tracing around my hardened nipples. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth exploring me with a perfect mix of hunger and control. He wasn’t done with me and that was a promise, one I could feel in every lingering touch of his lips on me.
When the orgasms hit it’s so intense, yet gentle. I feel like I am floating on pure pleasure.
“I don’t mind finishing this here but I would love to take you home so we can be on a soft comfortable bed—eventually, if you’ll let me,” he says resting his head on my thigh as he looks up into my eyes.
“Your house?” I ask coming down real quick from my sexual high.
“We are in a fully functional restaurant, alone. If I wanted to do something with you this is the perfect place. I am thinking of both of our comfort because I am far from done with you if you are willing,”
“I’m willing,” I tell him. He helps me sit up, before going to grab my clothes. My body is still tingling from all the pleasure he’s given me, and I’m looking forward to everything else he has planned for me. I take the clothes he hands me, and hurriedly get dressed.
“Give me a few minutes, I have to finish closing the restaurant and then we can go.”
“Oh, I’ll help,” I offer, slipping on my shoes.
“Uh–”
“I insist,” I say interrupting whatever argument he was preparing. Afterall I am the reason he didn't finish his closing procedure. First, we put his office back together and then headed to the kitchen to finish closing up. It didn't take long for us to have everything set to rights and was heading out the door.
“His arms encircle me, firm yet deliberate, as though giving me one last chance to pull away. The heat of his body presses into mine, steady and grounding, bending his breath fans warmly across the curve of my neck. The scent of him—smoky, earthy, with a hint of something clean and spicy—wraps around me like a whisper of reassurance.
“Still game?” He murmurs against my skin, his lips brushing the hollow of my throat like a secret only I’m meant to hear. His words hum with a mix of challenge and restraint, but there’s a softness, too—a quiet hesitation that begs for honesty.
I feel the slight tension in his hands where they rest on my lower back, the way his thumbs stroke slow, absentminded circles through the fabric of my dress, as if trying to memorize the feel of me. His nose grazes the side of my neck, and I shiver, not from the cold but from the quiet intimacy of the gesture.
“You’ve had time to think about this,” he says, his voice deeper now, carrying a weight that feels as if it settles in my chest. His lips pause, lingering just above my collarbone, and the space between us grows electric.
I tilt my head slightly, inviting him closer without words, the fluttering in my stomach answering his question before I do. My fingers find their way to the nape of his neck, sliding through his hair, as I breathe, “I haven’t changed my mind.”
His hold tightens almost imperceptibly, his mouth curving into a smile I can feel against my skin. His response comes not in words, but in the gentle way his lips claim mine, slow and deliberate, tasting the promise in my answer.
He entwines his fingers with mine, his touch warm and confident as he guides me across the lot. The cool night air swirls around us, but his presence feels like a shield against the chill. When we reach my car, he pauses, pulling open the door with an effortless grace, the soft creak breaking the quiet between us.
I start to slide into the seat, but his hand lingers, brushing my elbow as if he’s reluctant to let go. He leans down, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne—spicy and grounding, like him. His lips find mine in a quick, tender kiss, the kind that speaks of promises yet to be fulfilled.
As he pulls back, his eyes hold mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, a silent reassurance passing between us. Then, with a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, he straightens, turning on his heels with a casual confidence that makes my pulse quicken.
Seconds later, his engine growls to life, the low rumble filling the lot as his tail lights glow red against the pavement. I follow suit, slipping into the driver's seat and gripping the wheel, the warmth of his kiss still tingling on my lips as I pull out of the parking lot behind him, his car leading the way through the quiet night.
The road stretches ahead, bathed in the glow of Tomas’s tail lights. My hands tighten on the wheel as my mind drifts, despite my efforts to keep it anchored. The warmth of his touch, the weight of his body, the intensity of being with him on that desk—it all lingers, like embers refusing to die. It scratched an itch I didn’t even realize had grown so sharp, but instead of extinguishing the hunger, it ignited something deeper, something harder to ignore.
I take a deep breath, trying to focus on the road, but another thought claws its way forward—Henrique. My chest tightens at his name. Why now? He hasn’t called, texted, or even pretended to care since he left, and yet, here I am, letting his absence take up space in my head. Guilt curls low in my stomach, unwelcome and sharp, like a shard of glass I can’t quite dislodge.
No. I shake my head slightly, as if the movement could physically dislodge the creeping guilt. Henrique chose to disappear from my life. I’ve spent weeks in limbo, waiting for him to show he cared, and he didn’t. He doesn’t deserve this space in my mind.
But then another wave hits—trepidation, this time. The hum of Tomas’s car ahead seems louder in the silence of my doubt. Am I crazy? I’m following a man I barely know to his house. My pulse quickens, and not in the good way. What am I doing? My fingers hover over my phone, and before I can second-guess myself, I type out a quick text to EJ:
"Following the chef home. Don’t trip. I’ll fill you in later."
As I hit send, I can already imagine her reaction. Her words, her tone. The way she’d probably tell me I’ve lost my damn mind. Without hesitating, I flip my phone to "Do Not Disturb." I can’t risk her calling me, her voice tugging at my better judgment.
The scenery changes, and soon, Tomas’s car slows, his blinker cutting through the dark. I follow as he turns onto a long, winding driveway flanked by trees that sway gently in the night breeze.
My pulse thrums in my ears as the house comes into view—a modern, sprawling structure with sleek lines and walls of glass that glow warmly from the lights inside. It’s stunning, like something out of a dream.
Tomas pulls up in front of the house, parking effortlessly before stepping out. His figure is framed by the soft glow spilling from the porch lights, confident and calm as he glances back at me. My car rolls to a stop behind his, and for a moment, I sit there, gripping the wheel. The car door swings open, and he’s there, hand extended, a quiet command in his presence. His fingers brush mine as he helps me out, his touch firm yet gentle. Without a word, he gestures for me to cut the engine, his gaze steady, urging me to follow. I do.
Grabbing my purse, I trail him toward the house, the sound of our footsteps blending with the night air. The door opens with a soft creak, and the warmth of his home envelops me—a blend of amber lighting, rich wood, and a subtle, intoxicating cologne that seems to linger everywhere.
“A drink?” he asks, his voice smooth, like velvet against my nerves.
I nod, swallowing against the flutter in my chest. “Sure,” I manage, my voice not quite as steady as I’d hoped.
He moves effortlessly, his presence commanding even in the simplest of tasks. The clink of ice against glass, the crisp scent of lemon, and the faint splash of liquid fills the air as he crafts a drink with practiced precision. When he hands me the lemon drop, his fingers graze mine again, sending a spark skittering up my arm.
I take a sip, then another, the sweet-tart drink sliding down far too easily. Before I know it, the glass is empty, my courage bolstered by its contents.
“There’s no need to be nervous, I won’t bite” he murmurs, stepping closer, his breath warm against my temple. His voice dips, a low, resonant hum that wraps around me. “Unless you want me to.”
His words shift, melting into something lyrical and foreign: “ Eu quero te agradar, n?o te machucar. Eu prometo cuidar de você .”
I don’t know what he’s said, but his tone is a promise, a caress, and a question all at once. My pulse quickens, and the only response that comes to mind is yes—a resounding, unspoken yes.
He takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine deliberately this time, a touch that lingers as he sets it on the counter. Then, without hesitation, his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the softly lit hallway.
The air thickens with anticipation as I follow him toward a room I can only assume is the bedroom. His steps are unhurried, his movements purposeful. I offer no resistance.
I’m not thinking about consequences, or guilt, or anything beyond the heat of his touch and the promise in his eyes. Tonight, I am his, and I’ll let tomorrow handle itself.