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sudden and slick. I swallowed.

“Sit,” I managed. “Eat.”

We did—awkward at first, then easier. He devoured two helpings, eyes closing like it was the first real meal in years. I watched his throat work, watched a bead of sauce cling to his lower lip before his tongue swept it away.

Plates cleared. Silence stretched, thick as the steam still rising from the bathroom.

He leaned back, chair creaking. “Thank you, Lila.”

The way he said my name—low, deliberate—sent a shiver straight to my clit.

I stood, rounded the table slow. His gaze tracked me, pupils blown wide. When I reached him, I rested my hands on his shoulders, felt the heat of him through cotton.

“You missed a spot,” I whispered.

His brow furrowed. I traced a finger along his jaw—smooth, but a tiny patch of stubble near his ear. He inhaled sharply. “Shaving’s hard in a rush,” he murmured.

“Let me.”

I grabbed the razor and cream from the bathroom, heart hammering. Back in the kitchen, I nudged him toward the sink. He obeyed, silent, muscles flexing as he braced his hands on the counter. I lathered his jaw, the scent of eucalyptus sharp between us. The blade scraped gently, revealing more of that impossible face. Stroke. Rinse. Stroke.

His breathing grew shallow. Mine matched. When I tilted his chin, our eyes locked in the window’s reflection. My breasts brushed his back; he tensed, a low sound rumbling in his chest.

Finished. I set the razor down, hands sliding to his waist. The towel was long gone, but those sweatpants—Christ. His cock had thickened, straining the fabric, a damp spot blooming where the tip leaked.

“Turn around,” I said.

He did. Slowly. The bulge was even more obscene head-on, the waistband barely containing him. I traced it with one finger, from root to crown, feeling him twitch. “Tell me to stop,” I breathed, “and I will.”

Marcus’s hands found my hips, thumbs pressing into the dip above my jeans. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I dropped to my knees.

The sweatpants peeled down easy, his cock springing free—thick, veined, a shade darker than the rest of him, the head flushed and slick. I wrapped my fingers around the base; they didn’t meet. He groaned, hips jerking.

I licked a stripe up the underside, slow, savoring the salt of his skin. When I took him in, lips stretching wide, he cursed, fingers threading into my hair—not guiding, just anchoring. I worked him deeper, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing. His thighs trembled.

“Bedroom,” he growled, voice shredded. “Now.”

He hauled me up, mouth crashing into mine, tasting himself on my tongue. We stumbled down the hall, shedding clothes—my blouse, his tee, my bra flung somewhere near the couch. In the bedroom he lifted me like I weighed nothing, tossed me onto the mattress.

Marcus crawled over me, sweatpants kicked off, cock bobbing heavy between us. He dragged my jeans and panties down in one motion, spread my thighs wide. His eyes darkened at the sight of me—swollen, dripping.

“Been wet since you came out of the bathroom,” I confessed.

He didn’t answer with words. Just dropped his head and licked—one long, filthy stripe from entrance to clit. I cried out, back arching. He devoured me like the lasagna, like he was starving, tongue fucking deep, then circling my clit until my legs shook. Two thick fingers slid inside, curling, pumping. I came hard, thighs clamping his head, a broken moan ripping from my throat.

He didn’t stop. Kept licking through the aftershocks until I was writhing, begging.

“Please—inside—now—”

Marcus rose, cock in hand, rubbing the head through my folds. He pushed in slow, relentless, stretching me open inch by inch. The burn was exquisite. When he bottomed out, we both stilled, panting.

Then he moved.

Hard. Deep. The bed slammed the wall with every thrust, headboard battering plaster. I clawed his back, heels digging into his ass, urging him faster. He obliged, hips snapping, balls slapping my skin. Sweat dripped from his brow onto my breasts; I licked it off his neck.

“Gonna come again,” I gasped.

“Do it,” he snarled, thumb finding my clit. “Milk my cock, Lila.”

I shattered—vision whiting out, pussy clamping down in rhythmic pulses. He followed seconds later, burying deep with a guttural roar, flooding me with heat. Pulse after pulse, until we were both shaking, collapsed in a tangle of limbs.

Later—minutes? hours?—he traced lazy circles on my hip. “Got more lasagna?” he asked, voice rough.

I laughed, breathless. “Freezer’s full. And the shower’s still hot.”

His grin was slow, wicked. “Round two in the steam?”

I rolled on top of him, already feeling him harden beneath me. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The End

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