He laughs at my insistence when I pull frantically at the fabric of his shirt, trying to tug it over his head. But once I run my palms over his chest, flick my tongue over his nipples, he's not laughing anymore. Then, he's the one moaning, and he’s the one grabbing handfuls of my hair, pulling my mouth to his, tongue against tongue, my lip in his teeth, kissing me like he can’t get enough.
On his feet, he strips off the rest of his clothing and rolls on a condom while I watch him appreciatively. Luke is one of those men who should be required to wear as little clothing as possible. He’s long and lean, a mass of rippling muscles that carry constant tension, the outcome of the need to be always-ready as a smoke jumper, or simply something about his constitution that makes him ever-ready to run. I’m not sure which it is.
But he's the kind of man who breaks your heart.
That’s the thought I have, the nagging doubt in my head, when Luke pulls me down onto his lap, the head of his cock pressed against me. I slide onto him effortlessly, slick with wetness, and any thought I have, insecurity about Luke and who he is, is erased in one swift movement, with him inside me.
I ride him, my forehead pressed against his, his hands in my hair, pulling at the roots, gripping it, like he’s trying to pull me as close as possible into him but he just can’t. When I’m not kissing him, I’m looking at him, riding him with steady rhythm until everything is a blur, a haze of sex and lust. Inside me, he's quickly swollen to the point that I think he’s going to burst, and the sensation makes me want to explode.
He whispers to me as I ride him, tells me how soft and sweet and tight and wet my * is, and so help me, I can barely hang on as he tells me the dirty things he wants to do to me. “I can’t get enough of this tight *,” he whispers. “You know exactly what to do to me.”
I moan his name, over and over, barely audible, my lips close to his, until he’s doing the same.
“Autumn, Autumn, Autumn,” he whispers. “This * – all of this – is mine.”
If I thought the last time it happened was a random incident, I was wrong. He says it, and it sets me off again, unexpected, and I’m crying out my orgasm, trying to stay quiet.
“Shit, Autumn, you’re going to make me come,” he whispers. And then he does, my orgasm triggering his, his hands on my hips, pressing me against him again and again, as he fills me up.
I collapse against him, my face in his neck, barely able to catch my breath, and we sit like that for what seems like forever until we’ve recovered. When he looks up at me, he takes my face his hands. “I knew baking that cheesecake was a great fucking idea,” he whispers.
***
It’s true what they say about younger men, I think, watching him walk around the kitchen, whistling as he brews coffee and makes bacon and eggs. And pancakes – just because you must be starving, he says. And I am starving, after last night’s marathon sex session. Luke is insatiable.
And I’m insatiable with him, I think, looking at his ass in his jeans as he walks over to the kitchen and pours milk into a sippy cup, then hands it to Olivia in her high chair. She reaches for it, but both hands are filled with strips of bacon, and Luke laughs. “You love bacon,” he says, setting the cup on the high chair tray. “I knew you weren’t so bad.”
“Thank you for getting that,” I say, startled out of my daydream, realizing I’d left the sippy cup and lid on the counter and forgotten to refill the cup.
Sex might be robbing my brain of brain cells.
“Greta will be here any second,” I say, suddenly realizing what time it is.
Luke turns around, leaning against the kitchen counter, holding out a cup of coffee in one hand as he brings the other to his lips. Those glorious lips, the ones that spent last night exploring every inch of my body until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. “It is that time,” he says, calm about the whole thing.
I take the cup, the knock on the door startling me despite the fact that we’re standing here talking about it. I’m not ready to be outed, to have what's between Luke and I become public knowledge in this town. Even if I think my nanny is discreet, I don’t know it for sure, and –
I open the door, mid-thought.
“Morning,” she says, her eyes flicking over my face. “You look good. Like you got some sun yesterday.”
“No,” I say, walking down the hallway with her. “No sun. Um, just so you know, there’s someone –“
“Mornin’.” Luke speaks before I can issue a warning, and I glare at him, while he grins with impunity, unabashed and unashamed. I think he's actually enjoying this.
“Good morning.” To her credit, Greta doesn't lose her professional demeanor. At least, not until she turns around, her back to Luke, and gives me a thumbs up gesture, discreetly hidden in front of her stomach.
My cheeks warm immediately, and I know I must be flushed bright red, but Greta is already turned around and making small talk with Luke, who is content to sit, sipping his coffee at the kitchen table like he does this all the time.
Shit, maybe he does do this all the time, actually.