16. Hot & Microwaved #2
She lifts onto her toes, and for a breath—just one—I think she’s going to kiss me. Or smack me. Instead, her grin turns lethal, her chin jerking up in a dare. “Make me.”
Fuck.
Something inside me snaps. Maybe it’s the way she challenges me, the way she’s been pushing and pushing, teasing me for weeks with every word, every glance. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s right; I want her, and I’d rather regret her than never know how she feels.
Before I can stop myself, my hands are on her, grabbing her by the arms, walking back until her ass hits the counter. The sharp sound of her gasp echoes through the kitchen, and her breath comes in quick, shallow bursts as she stares up at me, a defiant glint in her eyes.
The now small, feeble voice of reason reminds me that this is a choice I can’t come back from, a path I’ve already walked and brought me to my demise. But Charlotte is right—maybe this is a mistake I have to make. Maybe life isn’t worth living without those.
I’m so fucking close I can taste her, my hands gripping the counter beside her as I lean in, and every instinct in me screams to kiss her, to press my lips to hers until neither of us can breathe.
Maybe she’d let me—she hasn’t pulled back.
But I don’t want to ignore her no kissing rule, so my lips find her neck instead.
The first touch is tentative, just the barest graze of my mouth against her skin, but it’s enough to wipe any doubt. Enough for me to know that mistake or not, I’m never regretting this. The pulse under my lips, the warmth, the soft, flowery edge of her scent—I can’t stop.
My hands roam over her body. I kiss her harder, more urgently, my mouth leaving a wet trail across her skin as I move from her neck to her collarbone, then lower. I follow the curve of her chest, her ragged breath matching mine, my hands sliding down her sides then gripping her hips.
The hem of her dress brushes against my face as I drop to my knees, until my hands lift it higher, exposing the slope of her thighs. My breath catches in my throat when I look up at her, my fingers trembling as I push the fabric higher inch by inch.
Dark green eyes are on me, lips parted and gasping for air.
“Tell me to stop,” I growl as I notice the wet patch on her see-through pink panties, fingers hooking at the sides.
“No.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I slide her panties down her legs, the scent of her arousal the only thing I can focus on. That is until I hook one of her legs over my shoulder and I’m faced with her pussy, bare and glistening.
She’s breathtaking. All freckled skin, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her nipples straining against the fabric of her dress.
Her thighs part a little wider, so open, so inviting...
And I can barely breathe .
My lips graze her inner thigh first, just the lightest brush, and Charlotte gasps, her fingers diving into my hair, tugging, guiding. I don’t give in yet. Instead, I take my time, dragging my mouth higher, closer, teasing her with featherlight kisses and warm exhales.
Her whimper nearly breaks me.
Some part of me thought I’d never get to do this. I certainly thought so on our first night together on TOP. I watched her come thinking that’s all I’d get from her. And now she’s here, dying for me to eat her out.
Maybe the last two years weren’t a punishment—just a test, and this is my fucking prize.
Her hips lift off the counter, desperate for more, but I press a firm hand to her stomach, holding her down. When I glance up, her eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed. She looks...ruined. Destroyed . And I haven’t even started yet.
“Please,” she slurs, breaths shaking out of her lips.
“Yes, baby.” I lower my mouth to her center, the first swipe of my tongue making her cry out. “I need it too.”
She tastes sweet and tangy, fucking perfect. I groan into her, my brain in a frenzy as I lap at her folds, circling her clit and drinking in every gasp and broken plea she gives me.
She tastes better than every fantasy I’ve had rolled into one. Like this pussy is fucking mine .
“Fuck, I love older men,” she says in a breathy laugh as she angles her hips toward me, holding on to the microwave handle behind her for balance.
Relentless, I drag my tongue over her, savoring the way she writhes against my mouth. Her fingers twist in my hair, tugging, trying to get me to go faster, then trying to pace herself, like she’s afraid of coming apart too soon.
But I don’t want her afraid. I want her lost. I want her fucking ruined.
I slide two fingers inside her, coaxing, stretching. Then deeper, curling upward, searching until she gasps sharply. Her whole body tenses as I stroke that spot again and again—right there—my tongue working her clit in tandem. Her moans turn frantic, breathy, her hand tugging at my hair harder.
I remember what she told me on TOP—that the only way a man has ever made her come is by going down on her. If I’m not mistaken, her exact words were “like a man starved.”
Which works out just fine, because it’s exactly what I am.
I flick my tongue and press until she’s right there, until she’s trembling on the edge, her breath catching in her throat.
Eyes widening, she tenses up, then she shatters.
Her body jerks and she tightens her thighs around my head as pleasure crashes over her in waves. I don’t stop. I keep stroking, licking, drawing out every last tremor.
“Breathe for me, baby,” I say when I realize she’s pressing her lips tight.
She opens her mouth, her cry echoing off the kitchen walls, wild and raw.
Fuck, watching her come might be worth everything that’s coming my way.
Everything I undoubtedly deserve. So I don’t stop.
I work her through it until she’s nothing but a shaking, writhing mess.
Until she’s limp and panting, her chest heaving, her body shuddering with the aftershocks.
Then, still not ready to let her go, I suck on her clit one more time.
With a loud cry, she flinches, and through the haze, I hear the sharp pop of plastic and metal giving way.
I look up, confused, and my eyes go wide as I spot the source.
You must be fucking kidding me.
“Hello?” Logan says as he picks up, the whirring of tractors unmistakable in the background.
I squeeze the microwave door in my hand, then look up at the rest of the built-in appliance, hinges dangling uselessly at either side. My throat is dry, my hands clammy, and my heart pounds so hard against my ribs it feels like it’s trying to escape. “I messed up,” I rasp.
There’s a moment of silence, followed by an unimpressed “For fuck’s sake. Who did you screw now ?”
My heart stops for what feels like an entire minute.
The scent of her is still clinging to me, a mix of jasmine and something warmer.
I can feel her—her thighs trembling against the sides of my face, the way her fingers gripped my hair, the breathy moans that still echo in my ears.
The taste of her lingers on my tongue, absolutely sinful.
I can hear the microwave door she ripped off the hinges hitting the floor with a loud clunk before she mumbled a “Thank you, Chef” and walked away without hesitation.
“N-no one,” I rush out. Technically not a lie. “I need help.”
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
Logan speaks to someone else, probably Kyle, then his voice comes back clearer. “Okay. Address?”
“No, wait. I need you to...” I stare at the detached microwave door clutched in my shaking hands, and my reflection stares back at me in the shiny metal, wild-eyed and pale. “Pick up some, uh, pieces.”
Another long silence. “Look, if you killed someone?—”
“A microwave,” I blurt. “I killed a microwave.”
“Okay. And you want me to . . .”
“ Fix it ,” I shriek. My skin is damp, and I can’t breathe. I fucked up so bad I can’t fucking breathe.
There’s a shuffle on the other end of the line, then a new voice. Kyle’s voice. “Aaron?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah.”
“You broke a microwave?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Charlotte’s lips parting in the most beautiful O flash through my mind. Her body arching, her eyes glazing over as she reached for something—anything—to hold on to. The microwave handle, apparently.
“I . . . pulled it too hard.”
He snorts. “Is the door ripped off?”
“Yes,” I whine, pinching the bridge of my nose. “What the fuck do I do?”
Kyle’s laughter only makes the panic tighten in my chest. “I don’t know, man. Open a beer and relax? It’s just a fucking microwave.”
“You don’t understand.” I pace the kitchen, sweat dampening the skin of my neck. “This is my second week, okay? And this woman is—she’s a fucking nightmare. If she finds out...”
If she finds out that her daughter was standing against the counter, gasping in pleasure while I buried my face between her legs... Oh my god. What have I done?
“Amelie and Ian. They’re counting on me—on Logan. I can’t lose this job. I can’t fuck up something else, Kyle, I?—”
“Whoa, okay.” Kyle’s voice is less amused now. “Look, hold the door against the microwave and give it a strong push.”
“Wait.” I put him on speaker and do as asked, relieved when the door clicks into place. “Holy shit, it actually worked.”
“Wonderful,” he mocks.
“What next?”
“Open that beer.”
Seriously?! “How’s that a solution?”
“My cousin should be able to fix it properly, all right? I’ll bring him over tomorrow.”
I palm my forehead before barking my next words into the phone. “And what do I do until tomorrow? What if she tries to use it and it fucking falls on her head?”
“Really?” he says, his voice unbothered. “The woman with a private chef using the microwave? For what?”
My mouth opens, then closes. Shit. He’s right. She doesn’t approve of eating between meals. It could work.
“Okay. Yes. Okay. Call your cousin, please.”
I hang up and look toward the potted fiddle-leaf fig by the archway, where I last saw Charlotte disappear. I just have to make it through lunch.
Yes, this was a mistake.
But this time, I’ll take consequences over regrets.