Chapter 12 #3
I fumbled in the sink, picking up the bowl again, but I didn’t manage to do anything with it because Raj pressed against my back, muscle and heat and the rigid pressure of his erection against my backside.
“Raj,” I repeated, a little desperately.
“Dishes,” he whispered.
I made a sound in the back of my throat, but I tried to focus on my hands. On picking up the soapy dishrag, washing the bowl.
It was particularly difficult to think about cleaning out the grease and streaks of cheese while Raj slowly unzipped my fly.
I could feel each tooth of the zipper give way, releasing just the slightest amount of the building pressure.
My heart was pounding, my breath rasping a little in anticipation of what Raj might do to me.
I had no idea what was going on—I wasn’t objecting, but this was new.
And very exciting.
I managed to finish washing the bowl, then rinsed it with a little hot water from the tap before setting it on the drying mat, my hands shaking.
Raj had finished undoing the zipper, and his hands were rubbing across the tops of my thighs, getting close to the most sensitive parts of me, but not quite touching.
I had one big and the two small dessert plates and several utensils left to wash. I couldn’t quite decide if that was exciting or infuriating.
“W-what are you doing?” I half whispered.
“Do you want me to stop?” As he asked the question, his hands stilled, although he didn’t take them away.
I shook my head. “No!”
The hands slid closer to the inside of my thighs as he chuckled in my ear. “Then does it matter?” he asked, pressing a little to push me back against his body. I swallowed at the feeling of him pressing hard against my ass.
I shook my head again. “N-no,” I managed on a half-gasp as one hand ran over my open fly.
He kissed the back of my neck. “Then you should keep washing,” he said softly, his lips moving against my skin.
“O-okay.”
I took a steadying breath, then moved the large plate into the soapy water, letting out a small sound of mingled frustration and desire as he slid one hand into my khakis and over the knit cotton of my thin boxer shorts.
I clenched my teeth, focusing in on the plate, the swirl of cheese and ketchup still stuck to the ceramic.
Focusing on using the dishrag to scrub in a circle across the surface of the plate, whimpering as Raj’s hand mimicked the movement.
“I had no idea dishes could be this fucking sexy,” he breathed into my hair.
I let out a strangled sound that might have had a laugh in it, making one last pass over the plate with the soapy cloth.
Rinse.
I closed my eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by what Raj was doing to me.
I heard him draw in a breath to speak.
“I’m doing them,” I told him, the words coming out breathy and fast.
He laughed, a low, rumbled chuckle that gave me a funny sensation in my toes.
I reached out for the next plate, then nearly dropped it when he wrapped a hand around me and squeezed. “Raj!”
“What?” he asked, although I could tell from his tone that he was teasing.
“You’re going to make me break a plate,” I told him, following my very serious pronouncement with a moan as he tightened his fingers again.
“If I do,” he murmured, “I’ll buy you a new one.”
“They’re expensive,” I informed him. “Psychic-safe.” Yet that somehow didn’t seem nearly as important right now as it normally would. God, his hand felt good.
He let out a soft hum, gently tugging me out of my boxers. His other hand slid up under my shirt, his palm hot against my skin. “You’re worth it,” he told me, nuzzling the back of my neck again.
Somehow, I neither broke a plate nor stabbed myself with a fork or knife. I was also panting by the time I finished the dishes, pulled out the drain plug, and rinsed the sink and dishrag.
“I’m done,” I told Raj, expecting him to pull me to the bedroom, or at least the beanbag chair.
“Not yet,” he growled back, then shoved me back against the edge of the counter, dropping to his knees and drawing me into his mouth before I had a chance to ask him what he was doing.
I gasped, legs trembling, and sank my fingers into his thick, dark hair. “Raj.”
He let out a grumbling growl, the vibrations sending a series of shudders through me. His hands pulled at my hips, ensuring that I couldn’t have gotten away if I’d wanted to—I didn’t.
God, I didn’t.
My stomach felt tight, heat pooling low in my belly. “Raj—” I gasped out.
He growled again, shifting his weight.
I briefly wondered whether or not his knees were bothered by the kitchen floor, and then I felt his shoulder move against my thigh and I realized what he was doing.
I moaned again, my cheeks flushing as I thought about the fact that he was jerking himself off as he sucked me.
About the fact that having me in his mouth had him so turned on that he had to touch himself.
My hips bucked, and he let out another rumbled groan, the movement of his shoulder sharp and quick.
God. Thinking about him being that desperate made me desperate, the muscles of my lower abs tightening as my balls pulled up tight. I whimpered, wanting so very badly to come, but also wanting to see how badly he wanted me. Wanting him to want me so much that he came into his own hand.
My hips bucked again, knees weak, and I let go of his hair with one hand to grip the edge of the counter. “Raj,” I whimpered again, struggling to hold out against the rising pressure.
The one hand still on my hip slid around to the back of my thigh, and he pulled me tighter to his mouth, his moaning growl electric, and my head dropped back, eyes closed, as the orgasm rushed through me, starting at the back of my throat and rolling through me from head to toes as I came into his mouth.
The sound he made as his mouth and throat moved around me was a snarl, his shoulder jerking sharply two, three, four times as he let me slide from his mouth, pressing his forehead against my thigh.
I let myself lean against the counter, my legs trembling.”Raj?” I asked, softly, my voice as unsteady as my knees.
“Fuck,” he murmured, then kissed my still-khaki-clad thigh. He sat back on his heels, tilting his chin to look up at me.
I swallowed. His lips were wet and swollen, his completely messed-up hair—my fault—slightly damp with sweat, and his cheeks flushed dark. He was so unbelievably beautiful.
I pulled open a drawer and handed him a dish towel to clean his hand.
“You sure you don’t mind?” he asked me, staring at it.