Chapter 25 Nico
NICO
Iwake to the sound of her moving around my kitchen like she owns it.
She does now.
The place smells like coffee, soap, and a hint of lemon from the cutting board I scrubbed at five.
The sky out the window is pale and a little sullen.
I stand in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her.
She’s wearing one of my old T-shirts, the grey cotton hanging off one shoulder, the hem brushing mid-thigh.
Her hair is a messy knot, and she’s humming something under her breath as she butters a piece of toast.
The domesticity of it is a punch to the gut, more potent than any memory of the night before.
This is what peace looks like.
This is what I’ve spent my life running from.
She senses me, turning with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach her tired eyes.
“Coffee’s on.”
I don’t move for the coffee.
I move for her.
In three strides, I’m across the cool tile, my hands finding her waist, turning her to face me.
I back her against the counter, the hard edge digging into the small of her back.
I don’t kiss her.
I just look at her, drinking in the sleep-soft lines of her face, the faint purple smudges under her eyes, the way her pulse flutters in her throat.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice rough with sleep and something else, something darker, more possessive.
Her breath hitches. “Good morning.”
My hands slide from her waist down to her hips, then under the hem of the T-shirt.
Her skin is warm, smooth.
I find she’s wearing nothing underneath.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across my face. “Skipped a step, didn’t you?”
A blush creeps up her neck. “I was hungry.”
“So am I.” My voice drops to a low growl.
I lift her, setting her on the edge of the granite countertop.
The butter dish clatters.
She lets out a small gasp, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders.
I step between her spread knees, the thin cotton of my sweatpants the only barrier between my hardening cock and her heat.
I finally kiss her.
It’s not the frantic, desperate clash of last night.
This is slow, deep, claiming.
I taste the coffee on her tongue, the faint sweetness of the butter.
My hands slide up her thighs, pushing the t-shirt higher, baring her to the waist.
The cool air makes her nipples pebble into tight, dark peaks.
I break the kiss, my mouth trailing down her neck, over her collarbone, lower.
I take one breast into my mouth, sucking deeply, my tongue circling the taut nipple.
She moans, her head falling back, her fingers tangling in my hair.
I lavish attention on one, then the other, biting gently, laving the sting away, until she’s writhing against me, little mewling sounds escaping her lips.
My mouth continues its journey south, over the quivering plane of her stomach.
I drop to my knees on the cool tile, my hands pushing her thighs wider apart.
She is open, glistening, the scent of her arousal, pure and musky, cutting through the smell of coffee and lemon.
Beautiful. Mine.
I don’t tease. I dive in.
My tongue finds her clit and I feast.
I lap at her like a man starved, broad, flat strokes that make her cry out, her hands flying to the counter’s edge for support.
The wet, filthy sounds are a stark contrast to the quiet morning.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that perfect, rough spot.
She gasps, her hips bucking off the counter.
“Nico… oh, God…”
I fuck her with my fingers, my mouth never leaving her, sucking her clit, flicking it with the tip of my tongue.
I feel her body tightening, the first tremors of her climax beginning to gather.
I want to draw this out.
I want to make her scream.
I pull my mouth away, my fingers still working inside her.
Her eyes fly open, dazed and pleading. “Don’t stop…”
“I’m not done with you,” I rasp.
My eyes scan the counter.
The butter.
The jar of honey.
A bowl of ripe, dark cherries.
I reach for the butter first.
I take a small, cool pat of it and, my eyes locked on hers, I slowly smear it over her inner thighs, the pale yellow stark against her skin.
I lean in and lick it off, my tongue rough and hot, cleaning a path up one thigh, then the other.
She shudders, a low moan rumbling in her chest.
The taste of her, salt and musk, mingles with the rich, creamy fat.
It’s depraved. It’s perfect.
Next, the honey.
I unscrew the lid, dip two fingers into the thick, golden sweetness.
I drizzle it slowly, deliberately, over her breasts, watching it slide in sticky rivulets over her nipples, down the curve of her stomach.
I follow the trail with my mouth, licking and sucking, cleaning every drop.
I suck a nipple into my mouth, the honey making the seal perfect, the pull exquisite.
She arches her back, a sharp cry tearing from her throat.
“You taste like dessert,” I growl against her skin.
I reach for the cherries.
I pluck one from the stem, its skin taut and dark. I hold it before her lips. “Open.”
She does, and I place the cherry on her tongue.
She closes her mouth, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.
I take another, but this one I don’t give to her.
I bring it to her sex, rolling the cool, smooth fruit over her swollen, sensitive clit.
She jolts, a gasp catching in her throat.
I press it against her, circling, the juice beginning to seep out, staining her skin a faint, purplish red.
Then I lean in and eat the cherry from her cunt.
My tongue laps up the sweet, tart juice, my mouth closing over her clit, sucking hard, the fruit pulp mixing with her own slickness.
The sensation is too much.
Her control shatters.
Her orgasm hits her like a tidal wave.
She screams, a raw, uninhibited sound that echoes off the kitchen cabinets.
“NICO! FUCK!”
Her body convulses, her inner muscles clamping down rhythmically on my still-moving fingers, her release gushing over my hand.
I ride it out with her, lapping gently, drinking her in, until the last tremor subsides and she collapses back, panting, her body slick with sweat and honey and juice.
I rise to my feet, my own need a painful, throbbing ache.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my gaze burning into her.
She looks utterly debauched, sprawled on my kitchen counter amidst the breakfast debris, her skin marked and sticky, her eyes glazed with satiation.
I push my sweatpants down, my cock springing free, thick and angry.
I grip her hips, pulling her to the very edge of the counter.
“My turn,” I tell her, my voice thick with lust.
I don’t guide myself in.
I just thrust.
I sink into her wet, welcoming heat in one smooth, brutal motion.
She cries out, her nails digging into my forearms, her legs wrapping around my waist, locking me to her.
The fit is perfect, searing, impossibly tight.
I set a punishing rhythm from the start, my hips slamming into hers, the force of it shaking the counter.
The sounds are obscene—the wet, slapping cadence of our bodies, her choked-off moans, my own guttural grunts.
I fuck her like I’m trying to brand myself inside her, to carve out a space that is mine and mine alone.
I bend her back over the counter, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises.
I want to see her face.
I want to see every flicker of pleasure, every wince of overstimulation.
“This is what you get,” I snarl, driving into her, my pace relentless.
“This is what happens when you stay. You belong to me. Every fucking part of you.”
“Yes!” she sobs, her head thrashing from side to side. “Yours! All yours!”
I feel my own climax building, a tight, coiling pressure in my groin.
I’m close, so close.
I reach between our bodies, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.
“Come with me,” I command, my voice breaking. “Now, Elisa. Come for me.”
The dual sensation of my cock pounding into her and my thumb on her oversensitive clit is too much.
Her eyes roll back, her mouth opens in a silent scream, and then her second orgasm rips through her, even more violent than the first.
Her body seizes, her inner muscles milking my cock in a series of frantic, irresistible spasms.
That’s my undoing.
With a guttural roar, I bury myself to the hilt and let go.
My release erupts, hot and endless, pulsing deep inside her, claiming her, filling her.
I shudder through it, my body slumping over hers, my forehead pressed to her sweat-slicked shoulder.
We stay like that for a long time, panting, tangled together on the kitchen counter.
The world has narrowed to this room, to the smell of sex and honey and coffee, to the feel of her heart hammering against mine.
Slowly, carefully, I pull out and lift her into my arms.
Her head lolls against my shoulder, her body limp.
I carry her to the kitchen table and sit, cradling her in my lap.
I look around the wreckage of my kitchen—the smeared butter, the overturned honey jar, the scattered cherry pits, the two of us, sticky and spent.
It’s a chaos I have never allowed in my life.
It’s a mess. It’s perfect.
She stirs in my arms, nuzzling my neck. “We made a mess.”
“I’ll clean it up later,” I murmur into her hair, my arms tightening around her.
The pale, sullen sky is beginning to brighten.
The day is here.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not looking for an exit.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.