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He makes it to the bedroom in under twenty seconds, breath heavy as he swings the door open.
You watch the rise and fall of his chest from where you’re seated on the bed and hum appreciatively. Then you realize that he’s actually out of breath.
“Is doing the dishes that tiring?” you ask. You’re laughing, but there’s a sharpness to it. A bite, a playful jab. You can’t help it, can’t help but fall back into it with ease.
The pout he sends back your way is worth it.
“We had kimchi stew for dinner,” he defends, sways to the side and leans against the door jamb. He sighs a little dramatically, like Look at how tired and weary I am, lend me your love and maybe I could feel better. He sighs again, “Just think of all the oil I had to deal with.”
“I could,” you lay back on the bed and study him. He’s so tired, and so, so beautiful.
How did I live all those months without you?
He crosses his arms and looks back at you, waits for you to toss the bait. There’s an impatient bend in his brow that makes you want to draw it out longer, but you figure you can’t wait either. Not tonight.
So you look down the length of him. Purposeful and slow, heavy, heated.
“But I’d rather think about something else.”
He grins.
“Why think when we can do,” he teases as he starts walking towards you, pulling his shirt above his head with ease. Like it’s nothing. Like the planes of his chest and the definition in his torso mean nothing. Like the way he looks at you from where he’s standing at the foot of the bed doesn’t make heat swim in your veins. You swallow as he flops onto the mattress. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”
He rolls on top of you, lays the length of his body against yours as he hovers his face close enough to kiss, to lick. You breathe him in.
“You smell like kimchi and sesame oil,” you scrunch your nose, snorting when he looks mildly offended. He’s so cute, so lovely, and you run your fingers through his hair to sooth his ego. You brush your lips against his temple. “Should we shower?”
He perks up immediately, lets your last snipe slide off as he holds you close.
“You mean together?”
You pull him in for a kiss, honest and open. Simple.
“Yeah.”
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He’s told you a few times that he picked up the habit of going to the gym in the past few months, and as you both settle under the warm spray of the shower, you can’t help but notice how much his body has changed. He reaches across you to get more soap, body twisting deliciously, and yeah, you see it. The lines of him, long and full and hard.
“Especially here,” you say when he steps back, soap suds sliding down his neck, his stomach. You follow suit and slip your hand down to hold him at the base of his cock, to prove your point. You smile up at him, sweet and mean. “Happy to see me?”
“Stop,” he groans, kicks his hips up when you squeeze. “I’m still soapy.”
“Yeah,” you move forward to press a kiss on his collarbone before looking down to watch the flick of your wrist, the way your hand slides against him. You glance up at him again, lashes heavy and wet. “I know.”
“Babe,” he holds you by the back of your neck, leans down to kiss you. He lets you lick into his mouth, and you let him move against the circle of your fingers. The sounds that bounce against the shower walls make your skin burn hot, but that only makes you want it even more. All of it, as much as you’ll let me take. He sighs into your mouth and you bite his lip, you move your hand a little faster. His hand tightens against your skin as he whispers against your mouth. “Babe, not here.”
So you let go of him to wrap both arms around his shoulders and kiss him instead. Again and again, until there’s nothing left but the water and friction slipping between your bodies.
You’re not sure who pulls away first, but you take the chance to stop the shower and pull him out of the ensuite after a quick dry down, naked and uncaring, excited for the rest of the night.
“I didn’t even get to try your fancy conditioner,” he says as you lead the way to the bedroom. It’s a full-bodied whine, childish and cute, but when you catch a glimpse of him in the mirror behind the bedroom door, his eyes are dark, gaze half mast, and he’s smiling.
You want to wipe it away, along with the months you spent separated. Then it hits you. You’re suddenly hyper-aware that you haven’t touched him in months. You haven’t held him, you haven’t heard him...not in the way you’re about to.
Just how much have we missed?
It makes you irrational, makes you upset, and you squeeze his wrist tighter than you mean to.
“Hey,” he calls out, pauses when you turn to him. He looks like he wants to say something, and if you looked close enough, you could see the words sitting at the seam of his mouth, ready to burst. You wait for him to let it spill over, to let it lay on the ground, but he pulls you in for another kiss instead — pulls you back to now.
He kisses you, tender and understanding, like You have me again. And you’ll have me as much as you want.
“Let me give you everything,” he says softly, lets you swallow the words he presses to your lips. A promise of what’s to come. “Anything you want.”
You push him to sit at the edge of the bed before sinking to your knees. You lean forward and rest your cheek on his thigh, mouth close to where his cock’s standing at attention, hard and wet and curved up to his stomach. You blink up at him, and you wait.
“Anything?”
“Shit,” he holds your face in his hand and you watch his skin flush red with anticipation, muscles tense and fucking gorgeous. He uses his other hand to hold his length out for you. “You want this?”
You start to lean closer, to suck a kiss to it, but he tightens his grip on your cheeks. You blink up at him, wet, and you nod.
He lets go of your face, lets his cock brush against your cheek, your lips. He leans back on his hands, tilts his head at you.
“Take it.”
And aren’t those the sweetest words?
You take the crown of his cock into your mouth, swirl your tongue against the wet of it, swallow him down to the base...and you stay there. Until he lays heavy on your tongue, until he nudges at your throat, until he’s all you can taste.
“Putang ina,” he bucks his hips up, and you just take it. You enjoy it. He reaches down to hold the back of your head, gentle amidst all the pain and pleasure. He meets your gaze, runs his fingers down your scalp. “Can I...?”
You pull off to answer, face wet with tears. You know he likes this, likes the way you look, likes the rasp in your voice, and —
“Fuck my mouth,” you pause, “please.”
— He likes it when you beg.
He slides into your mouth again and again and again. It’s slick and hot and rough…so fucking delicious.
“Yeah?” he asks, and he sounds just as desperate as you feel. “You like this?”
You can barely see him, but you feel him everywhere. And you like that. You like it so much you could just die like this, in the heat of the moment.
But you know that the night has barely started for the two of you. So you lick and suck and ruin him with nothing but your mouth, your kiss. You ruin him until he’s stripped down to his last nerve, sensitive and raw.
He doesn’t mean to come down your throat a few moments after, doesn’t mean to come that fast either.
But you don’t mind.
You like the way he tastes, the way he looks when he’s worn down and blurred at the edges, soft and lovely and sweet.
“Baby,” he says, his first word since his last moan. He stares up at the ceiling, idly runs his finger along his stomach. Then, easy and smooth, like he’s reciting the fucking alphabet: “Sit on my face.”
Your knees buckle, wrecked with arousal before you can even stand.
Do you know what you sound like? Do you know what you’re asking for?
“Stop it,” you slap his thigh before finally standing up. You narrow your eyes down at him. “Shut up.”
“What?” he sits up just enough to rest back on his elbows, just as you lie next to him. He furrows his brows when you roll your eyes at him. “I’m serious!”
He runs his hand down the side of your body then pulls you over to straddle his hips. He squeezes your thigh and grins up at you. Pleased and handsome and smug.
You know that look. You know he’ll get his way.
“Why don’t you just fuck me like a normal person?” you argue, but you know it’s useless. You can’t swallow the heat rising to your throat. You want it so bad, and now that he’s laid it on the table for you to take, you can’t resist.
“I just came,” he laughs, "give me a minute."
He's impatient either way, already leading you up his torso, his chest...until you’re settled right above his mouth, until you can only see his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him, crumbling at the end of it.
“Like what?” he teases, reaches up to hold you open with his thumbs. He groans, and you hear him wet his lips. “Fuck, that’s it.”
“Oh my god,” you cover your face, red with shame and flushed with want. “Please -”
He licks into you before you can finish your sentence, makes you come on his tongue before you can form your next coherent thought.
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He’s holding a condom by the time you come to, face still wet as he smiles down at you, cock hard against your hip.
Pretty and absolutely terrible.
You spread your legs anyway. You want it just as much as him. You think about all those months apart...maybe even more.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly, holds himself over you like a dream. You watch him gaze down your body like he’s memorizing what he’s missed, and you’ve never felt more naked, more open.
“You,” you tell him shyly, heat down to a simmer. A soft burn like cinnamon sugar. “I’m thinking about you.”
He smiles, loving and honey-sweet. The nicest he’s been the whole night.
“I love you, you know.”
You kiss him as your answer, you kiss him so he won’t forget.
I love you too.
He thrusts into you, slow and molten, quiet. Nothing but the sound of you breathing into each other, taking and giving until the lines of your bodies blur into something wonderful. It’s nothing like the way you touched in the shower, against the door, at the foot of the bed...it’s a muted hum against your skin, a tender push and pull. It’s romantic in its entirety, and it’s so much better than you remember. It’s better than you deserve.
“Good?” he asks, lips just under your ear. You whisper yes, afraid of breaking the quiet, and he presses a kiss to the spot. “Good,” he whispers back, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “God, you feel so good.”
He picks up his pace, but it’s more of a grind as he presses into you, again and again until your eyes roll back. You bend to his will, follow the length of his spine with your fingers, hold him close.
Stay with me.
Now that you’re here again, in his arms, in the same bed, you wonder if it can get any better than this.
“I love you,” he says again, like he can’t stop saying it. Like he’s addicted to it, to you. He whispers it against your mouth, your ear, down your neck.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
He’s so beautiful, so honest and perfect, and as he moves up to kiss you again, to make you come...you wonder if you can let go of him. Again.
I love you so much.
A second time.
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