Beneath The Skin(69)

“Like grated pepper jack cheese?”

“Delish.”

“Prefer your spicy scramble wrapped in a tortilla or … with toast?”

She licks her lips, deciding. My eyes flick to them, my mind flicking somewhere else entirely at the sight of them.

“Tortilla,” she decides, biting her lip as her eyes trail down to my … eggplant.

“Tortilla,” I echo, suppressing a groan of desire. I could take her once or twice on the kitchen counter before starting up the eggs, if she’d let me. “I believe in full disclosure, so I’m just gonna come out with it: I’m hard as fuck under my apron.”

“Noted.” She props her chin up on a hand, watching me.

“And I’ve never cooked my spicy egg scramble with a hard-on.”

“Also noted.”

After giving her a very tense narrowing of my eyes, I surrender to making breakfast, pulling out a bowl from the cabinet and the carton of eggs from the fridge, along with my secret spices. After tossing a pad of butter into a pan, I go to work cracking the eggs and whisking them in the bowl as the butter starts to melt.

Then there’s a person at my back. A voluptuous, cruel, cock-teasing vixen of the best and worst kind. A woman with darkness in her eyes and talents beyond measure in her unassuming hands. A woman … who is pulling up the front of my apron.

“Nell …”

“Pay attention to your eggs,” she orders me as she works her hands under the front of my apron, my own occupied with whisking a bowl of eggs. “Don’t want to mess up and scramble your nuts instead.”

I moan when her hand reaches my swollen, sensitive cock. “This is so wrong …”

“Shh.”

“So, so wrong.”

And then she starts stroking me.

I shudder, my hand movements frozen in place by her own. I clench shut my eyes, enjoying every push and pull of her skillful grip as she works me from behind.

“Keep cooking,” she orders. “Don’t stop.”

“Nell …”

“Don’t stop.”

I resume whisking, my cock so fucking hard that I feel my butthole clench up. She senses all the tension that’s entered my body because her free hand slaps against my exposed ass, squeezing it greedily. The sting makes me even harder.

“Damn, woman.”

“I like my eggs extra spicy,” she whispers into the back of my neck, leaning forward and helping herself to a nibble of my earlobe.

Her hand runs up my side, sliding over my skin smoothly and causing goose bumps to chase her, then slipping under the upper part of my apron. Her fingers find my left nipple, grazing over it and causing it to harden in an instant. I growl in response.

“You stopped again.”

“This is so wrong,” I moan. “You’re corrupting my sweet, innocent eggs.”

She starts stroking faster.

“Oh god.”

“Your fault,” she tells me, “coming out here wearing nothing but this dumb apron. You expect me to keep my hands off you now?”

“This is our relationship dynamic, is it?” I ask, out of breath from what she’s doing to me. “Me, always your object, always your plaything? Am I just a piece of meat to you?”

“Yep.” Her other hand pinches my nipple, sending bolts of electricity down my body. “And hopefully more.”

“I like being your object.” I pour the egg mix into the pan, then stop with the bowl hovering midair. “Wait, what? … More?”

And then she jerks harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moan, the bowl slamming down on the counter as I breathe heavily, trying to control my orgasm from exploding from me as she speeds up. I’m so close already, my cock a hundred times more sensitive in the morning, and every single slip and stroke and movement of her hand is driving me insane.

The eggs sizzle furiously. The agitated noise of breakfast being born fills the kitchen, combating with the tiny huffs of breath Nell emits into my ear and my own heavy breathing.

It’s inevitable. I’m going to come.

“Oh god. Careful where you aim the cannon,” I warn.

“What?” murmurs Nell.

And then I come, moaning out loud as I spill all over the inside of my apron, wave after wave. Just when I think I’ve finished coming, I come some more, and she jerks me dry, continuing to jerk long past my time of spilling over the edge.

When she finally stops, I look down at the huge wet spot in the apron. Then I turn my head, peering at her over my shoulder. “Look at what you did,” I accuse her.

She pulls her hand out, gives my exposed ass a hearty slap, then slinks over to the bathroom and runs the faucet.

I will never get used to this. And I don’t want to. She surprises me. Her moves are impossible to predict.