It takes a moment, but the loud beeping pulls me back into my surroundings. I have to get the lasagna out of the oven.
“The food. I got to get it out of the oven,” I mumble my thoughts. I’m so disoriented and weak from the two orgasms Oran effortlessly handed out.
“Don’t move. I’ll grab it.”
Oran slides his head from between my legs. My shorts are around my shins still. Rolling over, I push up on my hand and knees to climb down so I can finish dinner.
Oran’s warm hands squeeze my ass cheeks hard enough for me to wonder if he’ll leave a bruise.
“I told you not to move.” Is the only warning I get before he sinks his tongue into me from behind.
Bucking against his mouth, I arch my back like a stretching cat. My mouth hangs open, caught between pleasure and surprise. His thumbs keep me spread apart as he takes what he wants. Oran presses my perineum with the tip of his tongue then strokes up and down while toying with my clit until I’m moaning his name again.
His tongue roams higher and my eyes buck when it circles a part of me that’s never been licked before. I try to clench, but he’s holding me in place. His free hand moves to toying with my slit, pressing enough to tease me and buck my hips for more which causes a different thrill from his tongue doing dark, dirty, and now very satisfying things. Oran adds just the right amount of pressure with his tongue and hand and makes me short-circuit.
An eruption like none I’ve ever had before has me scraping at the hardtop as I give my throat and lungs a workout. I collapse when my legs and arms give out. He might be right. I’m not ready for the full experience. He almost killed me with foreplay.
Oran slides me off until my feet connect with the floor. Kneeling, he bites my ass again before he rolls my shorts back into place. His erection rides its way up my body then presses into my lower back as he stands behind me, caging me between the island and his body.
“Never question if I can back up what I say.” Oran warns me, then steps back to swat me on my ass. “Go clean yourself up, and thanks for moisturizing my beard.”
I gingerly walk away on shaky legs, the evidence of my orgasms still coat my inner thighs as I enter the master bathroom all the while wondering what the fuck just happened.
Chapter 21
Oran
I’m addicted. Karessa is stamped on my skin like a tattoo. She’s beginning to influence my moves and actions even when she’s not around. If we’re heading towards annulment, having her near me will be impossible, but not being around her would be worse. I rub my aching dick when she disappears, willing it to behave. We need to talk. Not argue or get each other off. Talk. I need to know the game plan so I can act accordingly.
I want more and I will get it, I just need to know when. The food smells delicious and I’m trying my damndest to wait for her. Now that I’m not blinded by those damn shorts that begged me to eat her pussy, I can pay attention to my other hungers outside of the way she smells, tastes, and feels.
Downing some ice icy water, I attempt to tamp down my hormones. At this rate, I’ll fuck her hard for the rest of the week and worry about the legalese later. My determination to consider what she wants gives me pause. Looking down at the lasagna again, I allow the memory of the times my mother made it for me when I was having a bad day wash over me. It’s my favorite food that also feeds me with wonderful memories of her.
My phone vibrates against my thigh until I fish it out of my pocket.
Trophy: Go ahead and eat. I’m not hungry.
That’s adorable. She thinks she can avoid me.
Me: I’ll see you in five minutes.
I chuckle when I hear her low growl from the other room. Grabbing two plates, I serve us some pasta, salad, and rolls. I leave them near the stove as I clean the island. Karessa appears once I’m moving the plates in front of our seats.
She stares at the surface as if she’s able to watch a replay before her cheeks tint. She’s dressed much more modestly in silky peach pajama pants and a gray baby t-shirt. It looks like she learned to not wear booty shorts around me. The memory of her cheeks hanging out the back of them almost makes me grab her once more.
With a thank you far too prim and proper for a woman who was just screaming my name about thirty minutes ago, Karessa sits across from me and begins eating her meal. She chews cutely as she looks everywhere but at me. I want to grab her by her topknot and finish what I started.
For a few minutes, our silverware and plates are the only thing interacting as we process our thoughts. One thing keeps tugging at me for my attention.
“Karessa?”
Her cautious gaze jumps up from her plate as if I’m a principal who has summoned her to my office. My asshole dick chooses that moment to picture her as my very naughty student.
Fuck, that’s hot.
“Yes?” Her response brings me back to the question I’m waiting to ask.
“Why did you make lasagna?”