TWENTY-EIGHT.
Tobias
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Strawberry timer.
I stand off to the side, arms crossed loosely over my chest, watching as she ladles dollops of dough onto the parchment-lined sheet in neat, even rows.
The oven radiates steady heat across the small kitchen, warming the air and carrying the sweet, buttery scent of batter that clings to her skin.
It’s already testing every ounce of my patience, that smell mixed with the sight of her.
My eyes drift to her hands as she works, steady and precise now, and the reason I’m here at all comes rushing back.
“So, what’s up with needing hands?” I ask, keeping my voice casual even though my pulse is already climbing.
She smiles to herself without looking up, focused on scraping the last of the dough from the bowl until it’s empty.
“You just wanted me to help you bake?” I press, hoping she’ll give me a straight answer this time.
She slides the tray into the oven, then reaches for the little strawberry-shaped timer on the counter and twists it to fourteen minutes. She wipes her hands on the dish towel, tosses it aside, and turns toward me.
I lean back against the counter and widen my stance instinctively as she closes the distance. No pause, no question—just straight into my space like she belongs there.
She reaches for my wrists and lifts my hands, turning them palms-up, studying them like they’re some rare artifact she’s finally getting a chance to examine up close.
I can’t look away from her face—the soft glow of the overhead light catching the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the quiet beauty she carries even at nearly four in the morning.
She’s breathtaking, and it hits me harder every time I let myself really see her.
“I think I said ‘big strong hands,’” she corrects, eyes lighting up with mischief.
“Strength isn’t exactly needed to grip a spatula,” I point out, voice dropping lower.
She turns my wrists so the backs of my hands face her, tilts her head side to side like she’s inspecting every line and scar, then flips them palms-out again.
“Are my hands not strong enough for you?”
“Maybe we can find out,” she says softly, her gaze lifting to meet mine.
I reach down and lift her onto the counter without hesitation. I lay my hands on her knees and lean in, pulse kicking hard in my throat.
“Strong hands aren’t needed to make you come either, Princess,” I whisper against her ear, deep and rough. Her lips part on instinct, a quiet gasp slipping out.
I slide my hands slowly up her thighs until I’m gripping her hips. Her back arches slightly, arms coming up to rest on my shoulders, bringing her center closer until the heat of her presses against me.
“Sometimes,” I murmur, softer now, “being gentle is much more efficient.”
My hands shift to her lower stomach, thumbs trailing downward, barely skimming over the thin fabric of her shorts until they’re right where I want them to be.
I can feel the warmth, the dampness already seeping through.
I flick my eyes up to hers and let a slow, wicked grin curl my lips when I see how ready she is for me.
How her breath has turned ragged, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven pulls.
“Tobias,” she breathes, eyes fluttering closed, hips shifting forward to chase more pressure.
I let her have it and press my thumb harder against her, moving in slow circles over the swollen heat of her. She’s soaked through the fabric, slickness already coating my fingers. The sound she makes is low, broken, desperate. It’s the best god damn thing I’ve ever heard.
I glance down at the timer briefly. Needing to know how much longer I have to control myself.
My cock is throbbing against the front of my sweatpants, straining, ready to burst if she so much as brushed against me.
I could finish in seconds if she touched me right now, but that’s not what I want.
I want her unraveling, not me. I press my thumb firmer, dragging it slowly up her center one last time before I pull my hand away completely.
Her eyes snap open, hazy with need and frustration, lips parted on a protest that doesn’t quite form.
“What I want to do to you is going to take more than five minutes,” I tell her, keeping my tone low.
She glances sideways at the timer ticking away on the counter, then lets out a shaky breath that does nothing to hide how close she still is.
“I don’t think it’ll take five minutes to get me off,” she says, the words half plea.
Every nerve in my body ignites at the challenge. I look down at the timer again, biting the inside of my lip as I weigh the odds.
“Touch me,” she says softer now, and any hope I had of holding back crumbles.
I slide my hands up her thighs again, slower this time, letting my fingertips slip under the hem of her shorts. When I reach higher and feel nothing but smooth, bare skin, my breath hollows—she’s not wearing anything underneath. Something inside me snaps loose.
“Fuck,” I mutter, leaning forward to press my body against hers as I pull her hips to the edge of the counter.
She threads her fingers into my hair and tugs my face down to her neck. I bite down hard, teeth sinking in just below her ear. She gasps, arching into me.
My thumb finds her again, sliding through slick heat. I groan against her throat, nipping gently as I run my fingers over her. I brace my other hand on the counter beside her hip, fighting to keep from losing control entirely. She’s so god damn wet, I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to stop.
She thrusts her hips up suddenly, forcing my hand lower.
I slide my fingers deep inside her, and the sound she lets slip from her lips is loud and unrestrained against the stillness of the kitchen.
She doesn’t stop moaning as I start moving again, slow, deep strokes in and out while my thumb finds her clit and rubs in steady circles.
She lifts her hips to meet every thrust, guiding me exactly where she needs the pressure.
When she pauses, I know I’m exactly where she needs me.
I let my thumb circle her—light, then harder, then light again—teasing until her nails dig into the back of my neck and she’s whimpering my name in broken little gasps.
I wrap my arm around her lower back to hold her steady, and she melts into me, letting my strength take over.
Her legs close around my waist, muscles twitching and trembling as I slide my thumb up slowly.
When her hands clutch at me I press firmer, urging her to the edge until her body shudders.
She comes with a loud, panting moan, head tilted all the way back, eyes squeezed shut, hips rolling against my hand to chase every last wave of pleasure.
I bite down on her neck again as she rides it out, feeling her pulse flutter under my lips, her body shuddering in my arms until she finally goes slack against me.
I ease my thumb away but keep a firm grip on her hip while I try to find some semblance of sanity.
My cock is throbbing, desperate for release, desperate to feel how wet she is, how tight she’d be around me.
She leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck, holding on like she’s not ready to let go yet.
Or maybe just doesn’t have the strength.
I shift her hips so she’s pressed flush against my stomach, slide my arms around her back, and hold her there.
She props her chin on her shoulder, breath warm and uneven against my skin as she catches her breath.
I glance down at the timer, grinning like a madman as the seconds keep ticking down. “How much time is left?” she mutters into my neck, voice muffled and lazy against my skin.
“A minute, maybe,” I tell her.
Her body shakes against mine with a soft chuckle, and I can’t help but join her. I already know this is going to turn into a bad habit: racing the clock to see how fast I can unravel her, how many ways I can make her come apart before the buzzer.
She leans back to check the timer herself, a lingering smile still pressed to her lips. “Well, it smells good,” she says, joy threading through her voice as she turns her attention back to me.
Her eyes drift down my chest, then lower, settling on the obvious bulge straining against my sweatpants. She doesn’t bother hiding the way her gaze lingers.
The timer rings—loud, obnoxious, slightly off-key. She snatches it quickly and twists the knob to silence it.
“Good thing they’re done,” she says, playfully, like the interruption is nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
I slide my hand out from under her shorts, bring my thumb to my mouth, and suck the taste of her off slowly. Her eyes drop to my mouth. Her lips part on a heavy breath as she watches, eyes darkening all over again.
I give her a quick wink, then step back from the counter, leaving her panting.
I grab a dish towel from the hook, open the oven door, then pull the tray out and set it on the stovetop.
The cookies look perfect, but there’s no chance in hell I’m waiting for them to cool before I find out if we actually got it right.
I switch off the oven, toss the towel back onto the counter, and turn back to her.
She’s still perched on the edge, legs parted, cheeks flushed, eyes wild and locked on mine. I close the distance and scoop her up against me, then grab the strawberry timer from the counter.
She laughs softly under her breath, the sound vibrating against my neck. “What’s that for?”
“I think I can get you off faster.”
She leans back to look at me, a familiar tease sparkling in her eyes. “I thought you liked to go slow,” she mocks.
I shake my head gently, hating that she’s using all my words against me tonight, but slow is the last thing on my mind right now. “I didn’t come here for slow, darling.”
She crashes her lips into mine, mouth opening immediately, tongue tracing mine with the same desperate hunger I feel. I kiss her back just as hard, and push the bedroom door open with my foot as I carry her through.
I twist the knob on the timer without looking and chuck it onto the bed—no idea how long I set it for, and no fucks given.
I’ll spend the rest of the night getting her off, over and over, just to hear her moan my name again.
Just to make sure she knows no one else will ever touch her like this, or make her fall apart the way I can.