Thursday evening, after I said goodbye to the last few guests (and why is it that the last people always linger the longest?), I have to admit that I was slightly grumpy that Mr. S. had disappeared and left me to deal with them. I was grumbling more than a little when I trudged into the kitchen for what I knew would be hours of dish duty... only to find a nearly immaculate kitchen. The countertops were clear, the leftovers all in the fridge, the dishwasher humming. There he was: whistling and drying platters. Nothing is sexier than a man who helps out in the kitchen.
And of course, you know about my fascination with the kitchen...
I surprised him with a steamy kiss and ran my fingernails up and down his back. It didn't take him long to register what was going on and he did that sort of half-moan/half-kiss thing that I love. I was nibbling at his neck and then taking off his shirt, his belt, his pants--anything that got in my way. My intention was to give him the blow job to end all blow jobs, but before I could so much as kneel, he spun me around, bent me over the island, and fucked me.
I'm still a little trembly.
No, really. Just writing this catches my breath.
I was splayed over the island, trying to claw my fingers into the countertop, while he gripped my hips and fucked me from behind. It was immediate and delicious and everything I'd been waiting for. And when it wasn't enough, he turned me back around and boosted me up. Everything is a blur and a tangle but I do know my legs were wrapped around his waist, his face was buried in my tits, and I somehow bit my lip open trying--unsuccessfully--to keep from screaming.
After we both finished, I slid off of him somewhat less than gracefully and stumbled my way to bed. No shower, no nothing. Clean might be the ultimate in sexy, but it ends in dirty either way.
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