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His Favorite Things

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She’s making breakfast; scrambled eggs and bacon and oatmeal with fresh berries.  He hates oatmeal, but loves the way her ass looks peeking out from beneath the hem of his t-shirt.  Perfectly rounded, soft and supple, begging to be pinched, squeezed, kneaded.

He admires the view for a moment before making his way quietly down the stairs.  He treads lightly through the living room to stand behind her, placing his hands gently on her hips and nuzzling her ear with his nose.  She purrs.  He inhales the scent of her, presses the length of his body to hers and she responds immediately by pushing that perfect ass into his groin.  She smells like fresh coffee and the sex they had last night and the leftover drowsiness of sleep, and he’s already half hard because those are some of his favorite things.

She reaches forward to tend the eggs, and he follows the curve of her spine with his mouth, dotting kisses along her neck.  He pulls at the collar of the t-shirt, clearing a path for his tongue as it trails from her shoulder to that spot behind her ear, just… there.  She hums, breathy and low, losing focus on the task at hand.  Her knees give out just enough, and he steadies her with his arm around her waist.

His other hand whispers down her arm, across her hip, and under the hem of the t-shirt.  He palms her bottom, the flesh filling more than a handful, and he squeezes hard.  She mews at the sudden desperation in his grasp and pulls herself up onto her tiptoes in surprise.  She slides herself slowly back down his body and he presses his erection against her ass, groaning her name.

He's hard.  He wants her. 

His hand snakes around her, grazing through her wiry curls until he holds her in his palm.  The firm, meaty flesh of his palm grinds against her pubic bone and he teases her entrance with one, two, three fingers.  She cries out when he moves his thumb to circle her clit.

She's wet.  She wants him.

The eggs are abandoned to a trivet, the bowls of oatmeal and coffee cups are carelessly shoved down the length of the counter.  Silverware clatters to the floor, berries spill out of their little plastic basket, the cream tips over and drips down the cabinet to pool on the floor.  But they don’t notice.

He pulls his cock from the slit of his boxers and rubs against her, coating himself with her desire.  He teases her again, this time with the head of his cock directly against her clit.  She whimpers, begging, and without warning he’s inside of her; one thrust and he is buried in her warmth, her softness, her tightness.  His hands come around to cup her breasts, nipples hard as pebbles, rolling in his fingers.

She is relieved to feel him inside of her, finally.  She pushes back with her hips, spreading her legs and leaning forward, bracing herself with her hands on the cool tile of the countertop.  In an agonizing rhythm, she grinds against him; pulling him out, taking him in, over and over again.  He lets her do this because he loves it, loves it when she fucks him like this.  She’s rolling her hips, desperate for release, taking him in and pulling him out, over and over again.

He watches his cock slide in and out of her and it nearly makes him come.  He slows her pace with a hand on her back and reaches for her once again, feeling her clit throb at his touch.  He draws little circles with his middle finger, firm and even and torturous, and it isn’t long before her hips begin moving again.  She is panting, quivering around him, gripping the counter so fiercely her knuckles are white and she aches all over.  He fucks her earnestly then, thrusting deep and hard and fast.  Deeper and harder and faster, harder and faster, faster.  She moans, useless syllables that mean everything and nothing, as she comes hard around his cock.

He fucks her, frantic and wild, selfish now that he knows she’s come.  She looks over her shoulder at him, pulls her bottom lip into her mouth as the last dregs of her orgasm ripple through her body.  Her eyes are heavy and dark.  He searches them for meaning, for the past and the future, and he finds everything he’s looking for in her.  He is suddenly overwhelmed by this; by desire and desperation and love, and he comes inside her, pushing her roughly against the counter, pressing her into the tile.  He mutters nonsensical things and means every word, she can’t make it out but she understands anyway.

They collapse in a heap on the kitchen floor, thankful for the rug beneath them.  He holds her close, his chest to her back.  If they’re not careful, they’ll fall asleep like this.  He nuzzles her ear and she smells like his favorite things; like sleep and sex and fresh coffee.