Cera #2
"It's just so pure. And I know it's at least forty-five minutes where these kids can laugh and relax and breathe.”
I don't cover it with a joke or deflect or change the subject or make it smaller than it is. I let it sit there between us and keep eating, because he doesn't diminish it, or me for loving it. He doesn't tell me these kids need more than yoga, or that it's a waste of time.
We work through the cartons in comfortable rotation. He finishes the shrimp. I claim the last spring roll. The Thai tea is half gone, and my stomach is full in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
When the food is gone, I gather the empty cartons and carry them to the trash. The lids snap shut. I rinse my hands and wipe down the counter, pushing crumbs into my palm and tossing them into the sink.
The floor creaks behind me when Wells steps into the kitchen.
I know he's there before his hand lands. The air shifts.
His palm settles at my waist, and his thumb presses against the strip of skin where my tank top rides up. My breath catches before I can stop it.
I freeze with my hand on the faucet. Water runs over my knuckles. I turn the tap off, and the sudden quiet is loud.
His chest brushes my back. His mouth ghosts across the curve of my neck, slow and deliberate, and the faint scrape of stubble along my skin makes my knees forget how to lock.
I press my palms flat against the counter. My heartbeat climbs into my throat. I could say something. I could lean back. I could do anything other than stand here frozen while his lips trace a line from my shoulder to the hollow just below my ear.
"I think it's so sexy what you do to help those kids. They are lucky to have you."
His other hand slides to my hip. He holds me there, pinned between his body and the counter, and kisses the soft skin behind my ear until my breath comes out uneven.
Fuck.
I turn.
The movement is not careful. I twist in the circle of his arms and put my hand against his chest, and look up at him. His eyes have gone dark, and the energy between us pulls tight.
"I'm the lucky one."
He kisses me rather than argue. His hand slides up my spine and fists in my hair, and I open my mouth under his and kiss him back hard enough that he makes a low sound in his throat.
I grab his shirt. The fabric twists in my grip.
He tastes like Thai tea and something sharper underneath, something I want more of.
His tongue slides against mine, and I forget about the dirty counter and the takeout smell still clinging to the air and the dish towel crumpled somewhere near the sink.
Wells breaks the kiss long enough to grab my waist with both hands and lift me onto the counter. The surface is cool under my thighs. The edge digs into the backs of my legs. I hook my ankles behind his hips and pull him closer.
He kisses me again, harder this time. His hands slide under my tank top, his palms rough against my ribs. I arch into the touch and bite his lower lip.
"Fuck, Cera."
His voice is low and rough and does things to me I am not prepared to name.
I reach for the hem of his shirt and tug it up.
He pulls back long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere behind him.
I flatten my hands over his chest and trace a line down the center of him, between his pecs, to his navel.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my shorts as his eyes flick to mine.
I lift my hips. He pulls the fabric down my legs and drops it on the floor. My underwear follows. I don't make him ask.
Wells steps between my thighs. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. He kisses me again, and I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him as close as physics allows.
His hand slides between my legs. I gasp against his mouth. He groans and presses his forehead to mine.
"I can see you're ready for me."
I bite back a whimper and rock against his hand. He circles my clit with his thumb, slow and deliberate, and I dig my nails into his shoulders.
"I am, Sir."
"Say it again."
"I'm ready for you."
His fingers slide inside me, and I clench around him and moan into his mouth. He works me slowly at first, then faster, his thumb pressing hard against my clit until I am shaking and gasping and holding onto him like he is the only thing keeping me upright.
I come hard. My thighs lock around his wrist. My head falls back and I cry out. He doesn't stop until I am boneless and panting.
He pulls his hand away and unbuckles his belt. The sound of the zipper is an aphrodisiac in and of itself. I reach for him and wrap my hand around his cock, and he hisses through his teeth.
"Cera."
I stroke him once, slow and firm, and he grabs my wrist.
"Not yet."
He pushes my hand away and lines himself up. The head of his cock presses against my entrance. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him in.
He slides inside in one slow thrust, and we both groan. I am slick and open, and he fills me so completely I forget how to breathe.
Wells pulls back and thrusts again, harder this time. The counter digs into my thighs. A carton falls to the floor. I hook my ankles tighter and meet him thrust for thrust and let the heat between us turn into something raw and consuming.
"Fuck, you feel so good."
I bite his shoulder. He groans and fucks me harder. His hands grip my hips and pull me onto him with every thrust, and the pressure builds again.
"Wells, I'm—"
"Come for me, Cera."
I do. I clench around him and cry out, and he follows a heartbeat later, his whole body shuddering as he comes inside me.
We stay there, breathless and tangled. His forehead rests against mine. His hands loosen on my hips. I run my fingers through his hair and try to remember how lungs work.
This has stopped being a risk. It's something I want to keep.