Page 39 of Hidden Desires

We stay like that for a minute, breathing hard, bodies tangled and sticky with sweat and sugar. Around us, the kitchen table looks like an apocalyptic scene with plates pushed to the side, spilled syrup, and napkins askew.

“Worth the mess,” he says, grinning.

“Definitely,” I reply, licking his collarbone.

We shower together, and it’s somehow even more intimate than the sex. He soaps my back, I shampoo his hair, and we stand under the spray as the water runs over us. He squeezes my big breasts as I moan before fisting his cock, and we almost end up making love again, but somehow come out without another hot session.

After, we lounge on the couch, wrapped in huge robes and each other, watching bad movies and making up alternate endings. He lets me choose the first one (“Notting Hill,” obviously), and pretends not to like it, even though he laughs at all the right parts.

Around noon, my man gets a wild idea. “You ever made real pasta sauce?” he asks.

“From a jar?” I reply, and he groans in mock agony.

“No, like, actually from tomatoes and basil and all that shit. The good stuff.”

I shake my head, and he pulls me off the couch, leads me to the kitchen, and lines up the ingredients like we’re prepping for a military op.

He talks me through every step: the garlic, the olive oil, the way you have to crush the tomatoes by hand (“It’s messy, but worth it.”) We’re halfway through when I squish a tomato too hard and it explodes all over my chest, leaving a bright red splotch on Jack’s shirt that I borrowed.

He laughs, then licks a drop off my collarbone, slow and deliberate.

“Oops,” I whisper, already vibrating with need.

Jack smiles deviously. “Leave it. I like you like this.”

Then, he pins me against the fridge, kissing me until my knees go weak. His hands are under the shirt again, squeezing my big tits, the cold juice making my nipples pebble.

“Should we finish the sauce?” I pant.

He shakes his head. “It’ll simmer.”

We’re on the dining table this time, Jack lifting me onto the wood surface with one hand, the other already yanking my shirt open. I’m naked underneath, with my big tits trembling and pussy already wet. His eyes devour me.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Eliza,” he says, voice ragged.

“You say that like you mean it,” I tease, but the words stick in my throat as he kneels, spreading my legs and kissing up my thigh.

The first touch of his tongue makes me wail. It feels so good as my fingers move through his dark locks, his lips fusing to my clit as he sucks that sensitive spot.

“Oh Daddy,” I pant. “Yes yes yes!”

Jack doesn’t reply, merely eating me out with the same intensity he brings to everything: focused, relentless, determined to break me. His tongue circles my clit, his fingers working inside me, and I fall apart for the umpteenth time, my curves shaking and legs spread as I give everything to this man.

When Jack stands, his chin slick and shiny, his cock is hard and leaking. I reach for it, guiding him in, and he fucks me slow, tender this time, like he wants to savor every second. The table creaks, the sauce bubbles on the stove, and the world narrows to this moment: hot, desperate, and so alive.

Jack comes with a groan, hips jerking, as hot reams of seed pulse into my insides. I love it and croon while stroking his hair, welcoming that huge dick as it pumps and sprays into my fertile fields.

“Yes,” I murmur softly, looking into my man’s eyes. “Give it to me all.”

Jack spurts once last time and collapses onto me, crushing me to his chest.

“Fuck baby,” he rasps, panting hard. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I giggle.

“But don’t die just yet because we need to finish the sauce,” I whisper, and he laughs, kissing my forehead.

We clean up, finish the sauce, and eat it straight from the pot, sitting on the kitchen floor with our backs against the cabinets. It tastes like heaven, or maybe just like happiness.