17. Countertop Confessions
COUNTERTOP CONFESSIONS
SEAN
Greg’s still here.
That’s the first thought that hits me when I glance over and see him on my couch—my too-small, thrift-store couch—spooning pralines and cream out of the tub like we’re an old married couple. Except we’re not. We’re whatever comes first.
He catches me watching him and grins, spoon halfway to his mouth. “What? I’m rationing. You’ll thank me later when there’s still some left.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, reaching for it anyway. “You said that about the bread.”
“Bread was a necessary loss.”
He’s ridiculous. Adorable. And mine—at least for right now.
We trade the ice cream tub back and forth, lips sticky with melted caramel and pecans until it’s empty. I start to stand, gathering the container and spoons, but Greg takes them gently from my hands.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
“It’s two spoons and a plastic container.”
“I know. Let me.”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes my chest swell. Like he’s not talking about spoons at all.
When he comes back, he drops down next to me and slings that massive arm around my shoulders like it belongs there. And maybe it does, because I melt into him instantly. My head fits perfectly against his chest, right under his chin, and when he exhales, it feels like I’m breathing with him.
He smells like brown sugar and something clean, faintly metallic—probably the tools he brought to fix all the things falling apart. Like the cabinet. And my heart.
It hits me then how much he’s done for me in just one evening. And not just being my handyman and bringing groceries to make dinner. He showed up when I was sure he’d walk away.
Who does that?
Greg, apparently.
And he doesn’t expect anything for it. He just… wants me to relax. To stop bracing for everything to fall apart.
I tilt my head up and find him already watching me, glasses slipping down his nose.
“You seem calm.”
“It’s hard not to be around you.” I pat his chest. “That’s what scares me.”
His smile curves, and his nose comes close to mine. “Don’t be scared.”
When he kisses me, it’s soft at first—barely there—but then I sigh against his mouth, and his hand tightens at my waist, and the whole thing tips from sweet into something else. His tusks graze my lips, just enough to remind me who’s kissing me—strong, warm, and all Greg.
I end up half-sprawled across him, my hand on his chest, his fingers tangled in my hair. It’s a little clumsy. I keep kneeing him, and we’re laughing into each other’s mouths, but it feels… right. Effortless.
By the time we break apart, I’m panting, dizzy, and my brain has fully jumped ship.
“C’mere,” I whisper, tugging at his shirt.
“Sean…”
“Don’t start with logic. Just—c’mere.”
He chuckles, low and warm, and lets me pull his shirt off him.
His gorgeous skin is a map I could get lost in—broad shoulders, soft freckles, and those two gleaming silver bars through his nipples that make my breath hitch.
He reaches for me, tugging my T-shirt over my head with the same reverence that makes my pulse stutter.
For a moment, we just look at each other—half-dressed, breathing hard, too close to think straight.
Then I reach in, hands at his waistband, and he nods.
Shoes first, then pants, then everything else.
We move around each other in the small space, clumsy and laughing, shedding layers until there’s nothing left between us but heat and the soft rasp of skin meeting skin.
I stub my toe on the foot of the sofa, swear sharply, and he chuckles against my neck, his tusks grazing my jaw. “Occupational hazard,” he murmurs, and I’m pretty sure he means kissing me, not the couch.
His fingers trace my chest, my hips. I’ve never been self-conscious about my size. Short and stout—like a teapot, with a much bigger dick. But Greg makes me feel attractive in a way that’s new to me. Like he sees my body and loves it, but it’s what’s inside me—all of me—that really matters.
I drag my palms up his back, over the curve of muscle and the faint ridge of his spine. He’s back on the sofa, me on his lap, no fabric between us, his enormous, hard cock pressing into my ass as we resume making out.
This couch, unfortunately, is not built for passion. It creaks like a haunted ship every time one of us moves, and I’m pretty sure the armrest just gave up on its will to exist.
We both burst out laughing. “Okay,” I say between kisses. “New plan. Bigger surface area.”
“The counter?” There’s a mischievous glint in his eye.
“It’s barely two feet.”
“Work with me here,” he says.
I shrug, and he scoops me up like it’s nothing, setting my ass down on the cool laminate of my kitchen counter, which is approximately four steps away because, well, studio apartment. We both glance around like we might be breaking some sacred domestic law.
Then he grins, nodding to the bulb that’s out over the stove. “I’m definitely going to fix this light for you later.”
He’s already fixed the cabinet and now the light above the stove I didn’t even realize was out. Right now, I want him to use those strong, nimble hands on me.
“Later,” I say, hooking my fingers behind his neck. “Much later.”
He leans in, kissing me again—deeper this time. His tusks brush my lower lip, just enough to make me shiver. When he pulls back, his voice has dropped an octave.
“Sean, can I…?”
I nod, already breathless. “Yes.”
Greg can do anything he likes.
An orchestra of lips, tusks, and fingers moves down my torso, pausing at my chest—getting lost in the little hair there, pinching, kissing and flicking with deliberate, hungry care.
My cock points right at him, and it doesn’t take long for Greg to grasp it with one hand, while the other glides over my stomach.
“Gods, I love your body.”
He gives my dick a few tugs and then spits. The saliva drips down until he strokes it in, getting me nice and wet, and I let out a little moan. Those firm hands make every nerve in my cock come alive. Figures the IT guy has magic fingers.
“Now…” His eyes settle on my erection, heat pooling there. He’s so tall that even with me perched on the counter, he still has to bend, big hands braced on either side of me. “Be a good boy, and let me suck your beautiful cock.”
My perfectly average-sized dick—which I’ve had no complaints about—looks a little small in Greg’s massive hands, but that’s just the price of dating someone his size.
He rubs the head against one of his tusks, glances up at me over his glasses, and wiggles his eyebrows above his glasses.
I can’t help but laugh. How can someone so big and strong be this sweet and silly?
“Feels… smooth. Shiny.”
He chuckles. “You’d be amazed what a good buffing can do.”
Then he opens his mouth and takes me all the way in—swallowing, sucking, slurping—giving head like it’s his calling. Holy fuck. Maybe it’s his tongue. Like the rest of him, it’s bigger, stronger, relentless. He does this rolling move around the tip, then drags that wet heat down my shaft until—
“Fuck, Greg.”
He pulls off, lapping at my balls.
“Damn, you give good head.”
He makes a noise, somewhere between a growl and a groan, grabs my ankles, tips me back, and runs his tongue straight down to my hole.
I can’t help myself. I reach down and spread my ass wide.
Taking my hint, Greg’s tongue enters me, fucking my ass while he holds one ankle and jerks me with his other hand.
Between his mouth and his hands, he’s making me gasp with pleasure.
All I can do is hold on for the ride, lost somewhere between want and wonder.
And then he’s up—standing between my legs, his gorgeous, long, thick cock pressed against mine.
That horn pokes at my balls, adding pressure in just the right spot until the heat between us blurs my vision.
He slides a hand behind my neck and pulls me in until there’s nothing left between us but sweat and breath.
Spit drips from his lip, I’m all over his face, but I don’t care.
I tilt my head and capture his mouth, kissing him hard, hungry, desperate to taste him.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the look he gives me—like I’m something he built and loves every inch of—makes my body buzz. He kisses me again, gentler now. “Sean,” he whispers. “I really want you to fuck me. Longer this time.”
The words hit somewhere between my stomach and my heart.
“I want to,” I manage. “Gods, I want to.”
“Then be a good boy, and own my hole,” he murmurs, voice rough with want but threaded with something softer—trust.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Grab the lube from the nightstand.”
He doesn’t question it. Just moves across the tiny room—my whole life in twenty steps—retrieves the bottle, and turns back toward me, waiting.
I hop down and let my eyes roam his body—this impossible, brilliant, gentle giant who keeps showing up no matter how many excuses I give him not to.
Then I take a breath, step forward, and reach for him—ready to give him exactly what he asked for.
Greg’s eyes are locked on mine, his face flushed and open in a way that makes my chest ache. I nod toward the counter, my voice rough.
“Bend over.”
It’s not a command so much as a promise—that I’ll take care of him, that I want this as badly as he does.
He moves slowly, hands braced on the cool surface, shoulders trembling just a little, and I watch him breathe out, all steady and trusting.
I take a moment to drink in the sight of his beautiful ass.
Like two huge globes all for me. The air feels thick, like it’s holding its breath right along with us.
I reach for him, fingertips ghosting over the back of his neck, and he tilts his head slightly, waiting, smiling.
The whole world shrinks to this tiny space—the counter, his body, the soft sound of the fridge, and I know, with Greg, there’s no more doubt. I’m all in.