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"We will, after you cook me breakfast," I insisted, a hint of challenge in my voice.
He sighed in resignation. "Very well."
I turned to face him, straddling him in the water and reaching for his semi-erect cock. But he pushed my hand away, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“No. I want to give you pleasure.”
“You will if you let me ride you.”
We didn’t have penetrative sex this evening, instead opting for oral sex. I needed to feel Oliver inside me, and I held him steady as I sank down to his root. I rode him as we shared deep, soulful kisses that were full of meaning. I knew he loved me hard, and I loved him just as much.
After our lovemaking, Oliver slipped out of the tub and turned on the shower to rinse off the bubbles clinging to our skin. We took our time, washing each other tenderly before wrapping ourselves in fluffy towels and heading to the kitchen for a late-night snack. My stomach rumbled in anticipation as I stood in front of the open refrigerator, surveying the contents.
As I rummaged through the containers, searching for my favorite crab salad, Oliver came up behind me, his hands wandering to cup my ass. I chuckled as I found what I was looking for, feeling his warm touch.
"Big surprise," he murmured teasingly.
"Can you unhand my posterior, please?" I replied, a playful glint in my eyes.
"Suppose I say no?" he teased back, his grip tightening slightly.
"Then I'll have to dole out some punishment," I retorted with a smirk.
His grin widened as he released me. "I like your punishments."
"I bet you do. Now, about breakfast tomorrow," I said, shifting the conversation.
"What would you like?" he asked, his tone attentive.
I described my craving for silver dollar pancakes and Canadian bacon, accompanied by a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel with jelly and butter.
"Is that all? Perhaps I should squeeze you some fresh orange juice," he suggested, his lips curling into a playful smile.
"That sounds lovely, but I prefer it without pulp," I replied, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him back.
"You're really making me pay for what I said, aren't you?" Oliver chuckled, shaking his head in mock exasperation.
"Yes. Maybe you'll choose your words more carefully next time," I replied, flashing him a mischievous smile as I grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer.
I shared the salad with Oliver; only one fork was needed since I fed him. He held me when we went to bed, stroking my hair until I fell asleep.
I was roused from my sleep the next morning by the sound of Oliver banging the edge of a tray against the bedroom door. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, I watched as he approached the bed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Yummy, I'm starved," I mumbled, sitting up as he placed the large wooden tray beside me. On it were two plates piled with everything I had requested, along with a carafe of freshly squeezed blood orange juice and a steaming mug of coffee. Oliver settled next to me, and I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.
"You didn't make this," I accused, eyeing him skeptically.
"I certainly did. I got up an hour ago," he insisted, his grin widening.
I knew he was lying. "So, if I go in the kitchen, I'll find all the utensils and pans you used?"
"No, I cooked, washed, and dried everything already. It's in the cabinet," he countered smoothly.
"You're such a bad liar," I teased, though I couldn't help but admire his effort.
"I was busy this morning. I had a phone call with Hong Kong," he defended himself.
"So you ordered in?" I pressed, raising an eyebrow.
