9. #2
Once the sun goes down we go in and I show her how to use the stove.
Gas-powered but tricky to get lit because the electronic igniter stopped working about three months ago and I’ve been meaning to get it fixed.
I just use a cigarette lighter. A low-tech solution to a simple problem.
The truth about these luxury builds is that they’re actually pretty cheap when it gets right down to it.
The washing machine silently twirls in the corner as Thalia cooks the chicken breast and garlic, stirs in a few eggs and the vegetables, then dumps the rice into the pan and mixes it.
Come to think of it, this same meal costs about two dollars a plate on the street.
But she wanted to cook for me and I wanted to let her, and those are the only facts that matter right now.
“Dinner is served,” she announces, holding up the wok proudly.
We sit down at the two-person dining table in the corner of the kitchen, the one I usually don’t bother with because eating alone at a table feels worse somehow than eating standing at the counter.
Tonight though, just having someone to sit across from is a pleasure.
The fried rice is pretty good. It’s generally better if you use cold leftover rice, which I’ve learned from watching enough cooking videos at two in the morning, but I don’t mention this and I don’t care.
It tastes great after all the calories we’ve burned today.
“So?”
I finish chewing before I answer.
“Delicious.”
“Really?” she says. “I know I don’t really know how to cook, but I wanted to do something cute for you.”
“And you did,” I say. “But I’ve still got a hankering for something.”
“A hankering? What’s a hankering?”
“A craving,” I say. “For your pussy.”
She grins, turning red.
“Okay, wait,” she says. “I didn’t shave today.”
“I saw you already,” I say. “You’re clean, you’re fine. Just let me take control, okay?”
“Deal.”
After we’ve finished eating, I clear our plates and we go upstairs. She takes a seat at the edge of the bed—still wearing my shorts, which are obviously too big for her. Her hair is dry now and she lets it cascade across her shoulders as she tilts her head from side to side.
I kneel down and hook my fingers into the waistband of the baggy shorts she’s wearing, but I don’t pull them off right away.
Instead I let my thumbs brush slow circles along her hipbones, feeling the warmth of her skin.
She lifts her hips a little, eager, but I stay right there, breathing against the thin fabric stretched over her thighs, letting her feel the heat of my mouth without giving her anything more.
“Michael,” she whispers, voice already a little frayed.
I smile against her leg and finally slide the shorts down, but I leave them bunched at her knees so she can’t spread them as wide as she wants.
She’s bare underneath, smooth and glistening from the shower, and I let my eyes roam over her without touching.
I press a single soft kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, taking my time, feeling her muscles twitch beneath my lips.
Each kiss lands a little higher, but every time I get close I drift back down again, chasing the scent of her without closing the distance.
She squirms, trying to tilt her hips toward my mouth, and I hold her steady with one hand on her belly. “Patience,” I murmur. “I want you dripping for me first.”
A soft, frustrated sound slips out of her.
I blow a cool stream of air over her folds and watch her clit twitch.
Then I drag the very tip of my tongue—barely there—along the outer edge of her, tasting salt and slick, before retreating again.
She moans and reaches for my hair, but I catch her wrist and pin it gently to the mattress.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “Keep your hands there.”
I go back to work with my mouth, slow and deliberate: long, flat licks that stop just short of her clit, then little nibbles along the sensitive skin where thigh meets pussy.
I spread her with two fingers, opening her up so I can watch how wet she’s getting, then lean in and trace the very edges of her entrance with my tongue, dipping in only a fraction before pulling back.
Thalia’s breathing turns ragged. Her hips keep trying to chase me, but I keep the pressure light, the rhythm unhurried, until her thighs start trembling and she’s making those tiny, desperate noises in the back of her throat.
“Please,” she gasps, “I’m so—I need—”
I look up at her, meet those big, glassy eyes, and let her see how much I’m enjoying this.
Then I finally give her what she wants: I suck her clit between my lips and flick it fast with the tip of my tongue while sliding two fingers deep inside her.
She cries out, back arching, and I start fucking her with my fingers in a steady rhythm, curling them, pressing against that spongy spot that makes her toes curl.
I don’t let up. I lick and suck and finger her until she’s writhing, until her inner walls clench hard around my fingers and she comes with a broken shout, flooding my tongue.
I don’t give her time to come down. I stand, shove my shorts off, and climb over her.
She’s still pulsing when I line up and push in, slow and thick, until I’m buried to the hilt.
We both groan. I give her a few long, deep strokes, letting her feel every inch, then I pick up the pace, driving into her harder, the bed creaking beneath us.
Her legs wrap around my waist. She meets every thrust, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Harder,” she begs. “Please, Michael—use me.”
I do. I fuck her with everything I’ve got, chasing that tight, wet heat, feeling her clench around me again as another orgasm rolls through her.
I’m right there with her, that hot pull low in my gut, balls tightening, and at the last second I pull out.
I stroke myself once, twice, and finish across her stomach and the hem of the tank top, painting her skin while she watches with dazed, satisfied eyes.
For a moment the only sound is our breathing and the soft whir of the ceiling fan. I lean down and kiss her, slow and deep, tasting both of us, then rest my forehead against hers.
“You’re incredible,” I whisper, and she smiles that small, proud smile that undoes me every time.