Chapter 27
Licky Licky
Christa
I’m in the kitchen at two sixteen in the morning with a teaspoon and a jar of hazelnut chocolate spread.
No bread. No plate. Just me, the jar, and the kitchen light judging my life choices.
I’m mid-scoop when I hear footsteps.
“Please tell me that’s peanut butter,” Geoff says from behind me.
I don’t turn round. I don’t stop.
“Hazelnut chocolate,” I say.
There’s a pause. Then, “Right.”
I eat another spoonful and look at him. He is wearing long-hanging, black pyjama trousers and a white T-shirt. And, I have to say, he looks mighty fine.
Geoff pads closer, sleepy and cautious, like I might bite. “You okay?”
I consider this. Put the spoon down. Lean back against the counter.
“No,” I say flatly. “I’m horny.”
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Thank you for… sharing.”
“It’s hormones,” I add, annoyed. “They’ve come out of nowhere and they’re being very rude about it.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, half-awake, half-amused. “That does sound disruptive.”
I sigh and tip my head back against the cupboard door.
“My vibrator just wasn’t up to the job,” I say, flat and irritated. “What my body wants is… another body. Preferably above me.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then I watch Geoff swallow.
Hard.
He glances down, frowns, and mutters, “Not even this rouses you.”
The sheer grumpiness of it breaks me.
I laugh. Loud. Undignified. Tears threatening.
“Oh God,” I say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. But that was—”
“Ridiculous,” he finishes. “Yes. I’m aware.”
I wipe my eyes. “Thank you for trying, though. Very emotionally supportive of you.”
“I do what I can,” he says dryly.
“I did briefly consider signing up to online dating,” I add. “But then I remembered men on those apps are mostly creeps. No offence.”
“No offence taken,” he replies. “I’ve met us.”
He opens the drawer, grabs a spoon, and scoops a generous amount of hazelnut spread out of the jar like he’s done it a thousand times.
Which he probably has.
I watch the spoon go to his mouth.
Watch his lips close around it.
Oh.
Oh no.
“I don’t think I ever really noticed,” I say slowly, eyes still on his mouth, “how… sensual your lips are.”
He chokes.
Quite dramatically.
Coughs, bends slightly, thumps his chest like the spread has personally betrayed him.
“Fucking hell,” he wheezes.
I pat his arm, uselessly. “Breathe. It would be very inconvenient if you died right now.”
He straightens, eyes watering. “You cannot say things like that at two in the morning.”
“Pregnancy,” I say mildly. “Very rude hormones. No internal editor.”
He looks at me. At the spoon. At the jar. At the situation neither of us is naming.
“This kitchen,” he says hoarsely, “has become a dangerous place.”
I hold the jar out to him again, arm extended like I’m offering a peace treaty.
“Go on,” I say. “If this kitchen is going to be dangerous, we may as well commit.”
He hesitates, then takes another scoop, slower this time, like he’s learned something. I watch. Obviously.
I clear my throat. “Also. For the record.”
“Yes,” he says warily.
“You’ve already seen me naked.”
He freezes, spoon hovering mid-air. “I have not.”
I give him a look. “You absolutely have.”
He frowns, genuinely baffled. “When?”
I gesture vaguely between us. “The night Pea-Lime happened.”
“Oh,” he says.
Then, “Oh.”
Then, after a beat, “Right. Yes. That.”
I grin. “You looked less confused then.”
“I was operating entirely on instinct,” he says. “Memory’s patchy.”
“That tracks,” I say. “You were very focused.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remember… enough.”
“Good,” I reply. “Because that’s my point.”
I meet his eyes now, the joking easing into something steadier.
“We’ve already crossed that line once,” I say carefully. “So you helping me out now wouldn’t exactly be unprecedented.”
He shifts his weight, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“Just to be clear,” he says lightly, a touch too lightly, “my dick is… not exactly leaping to attention these days.”
I snort. “I’m aware. It’s been on a sabbatical.”
“I’m serious,” he adds, a little defensive. “I don’t want to promise anything my body’s not signing off on.”
I step closer, lowering my voice like this is a board meeting. “Geoff. I distinctly remember that your fingers and your mouth were extremely competent.”
He freezes.
Slowly looks back up at me.
He lets out a laugh, half mortified, half smug. “Right. That.”
“I’m just saying,” I continue, breezy as anything, “friends with baby, friends with benefits… there’s overlap. This would basically be community service.”
He barks out a laugh. “Community service.”
“I’m pregnant,” I shrug. “I’m vulnerable. It’s charitable.”
He rubs his face. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” I say sweetly, “here you are.”
He thinks for a second, then tries again, hopeful. “What if we just… cuddled.”
I tilt my head. “Does this cuddling include a little licky licky?”
He chokes on a laugh. “You cannot say that.”
“I absolutely can,” I reply. “I just did.”
We both crack up, quiet laughter bouncing off the cupboards, the tension loosening enough to breathe.
When it settles, I lock eyes with him. No jokes now. Just honest.
“I’m not trying to make this weird,” I say. “Or break rules. I just… need a bit of help tonight.”
He meets my eyes. He holds my gaze. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fill the space with jokes. Just looks at me like he’s weighing something and already knows the answer.
The silence stretches. My pulse is loud in my ears. My skin feels too tight.
“Please,” I whisper, and it comes out smaller than I intend. Honest. Bare.
That does it.
He takes the jar gently from my hand, sets it on the counter like it matters, then grips my hips and lifts me onto the kitchen island in one smooth movement that steals the air from my lungs.
“Oh,” I breathe, because that gesture has rendered me utterly undone.
He steps in between my legs, hands firm, grounding, and kisses me.
There is nothing friendly about it.
It’s hot and unrestrained and full of intent. His mouth claims mine like he’s been holding back for days. Weeks. Longer. I fist my hands in his T-shirt and he groans softly, the sound vibrating straight through me.
This is not careful. This is not polite.
This is him kissing me like he wants me. Like the bedroom ban is still there, still respected, but absolutely not invited to the party.
My legs tighten instinctively around his hips and he deepens the kiss, slow and devastating, like he’s taking his time on purpose. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads touching, the kitchen spinning slightly around us.
“Still okay?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Very.”
He smirks, low and wicked, and leans back in.
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my pyjama bottoms, knuckles grazing the soft swell of my belly before dipping lower, like he’s reminding himself she’s there too. I suck in a sharp breath when he traces the lace edge of my knickers, his touch light, deliberate, infuriatingly precise.
“You’re so fucking warm,” he murmurs, voice rough, breath brushing my ear.
I lie back, the kitchen island cool against my spine, my body already betraying me. My thighs part without my permission, giving him exactly the access he’s looking for.
His other hand cradles my jaw, fingers firm, turning my face to his. When his mouth crashes into mine it’s sudden and consuming, like something snapping into place. I moan into him, fingers tangling in his hair, noticing absurd details like the silver at his temples catching the light.
He kisses like he’s been starving. Tongue deep. Demanding. No patience left.
My pyjama top rides up, cool air hitting skin that’s already too sensitive, my nipples tightening sharply.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls, voice thick, hands sliding up to cup my sensitive breasts under my top, thumbs brushing over my nipples like he knows exactly how little it will take.
A broken sound escapes me when he pinches lightly, heat shooting straight through me. My back arches, pushing into his hands, wanting more, always more. His mouth trails down my neck, lips and teeth scraping my pulse point, making me gasp his name.
“Geoff—”
He bites just enough to make me squirm.
His hands leave my breasts, sliding down my sides, hooking into the waistbands of my PJ-bottoms and knickers before pulling them down, sending a fresh rush of heat through me.
“Ready for me,” he murmurs, breath hot against the inside of my thigh.
I am already shaking. Already dripping. My body aching, swollen, desperate. I nod, useless for words, but he waits, mouth hovering just above me, fingers tracing slow, maddening circles over my folds.
“Say it,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
I swallow, grip the edge of the island. “Yes,” I pant, legs spreading wider. “Fuck yes.”
And then his mouth is on me.
His tongue moves slow at first, teasing, flicking over my clit until I’m gasping, then presses harder, relentless, precise. My head falls back, a broken sound tearing out of me as his fingers slide inside, curling just right.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. That feels amazing. Don’t stop—”
My hips buck against his face, desperate, needy. He groans against me, the vibration making my toes curl. His fingers thrust deeper, hitting something that makes my vision blur, his tongue never letting up.
“Harder,” I gasp, body trembling.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His fingers drive harder, faster. His tongue flattens against my clit, pressure bordering on too much and somehow still not enough. The kitchen spins. Light smears. My hand fists in his hair, holding him there as my thighs clamp around his head, my hips rocking helplessly.
“Don’t stop—just like that—”
My body coils tight, too tight, everything narrowing down to sensation.
“Fuck, come for me, Christa,” he growls, lips brushing my clit, fingers pushing me over the edge.
I break.
My back arches off the island, a cry ripped out of me as my pussy clenches around his fingers, wave after wave crashing through me. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up. His mouth works me through it, fingers drawing out every last tremor until my legs shake and I can’t breathe properly.
When it finally ebbs, I collapse back against the kitchen island, boneless, breathless.
He lifts his head, lips slick, eyes dark and satisfied. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then presses a gentle kiss to the inside of my thigh, grounding in its tenderness.
Then he gathers me up, lifting me easily, my body still humming as he holds me against him.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, his heart hammering under my hand, his breath warm and steady.
And, for the first time all night, my body finally quiets.