"Touch yourself," he says roughly, breaking on the last word.
I slide one hand down between us, finding my clit with shaking fingers. The position is awkward, my hand trapped between our bodies, but I manage to work my fingers in tight circles, the pressure building immediately.
He's watching where we're joined now, his gaze fixed on where my hand is moving, watching himself disappear inside me with each brutal thrust, and the look on his face is almost feral. His jaw is clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his chest. Sweat beads at his temples, slides down the side of his face.
"That's it," he groans, his voice breaking. “Good, Isabelle. Good.”
The orgasm builds fast and hits me like a freight train, sudden and overwhelming. My whole body clenches around him, every muscle going tight, my inner walls fluttering and gripping his cock as I come.
I hear myself cry out his name and he fucks me through it, not slowing down, not giving me a second to catch my breath, just keeping that relentless pace as I fall apart. The pleasure rolls through me in waves, each one cresting higher than the last, and I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
"Where—" he starts, his voice strained, his rhythm getting erratic, losing that steady pace, his hips stuttering. "Isabelle, where do you want—fuck, I need to know?—"
"Inside," I gasp, still trembling from the aftershocks, my body still clenching around him in little pulses, squeezing his cock. "Come inside me, I need to feel it, I need you to fill me up.”
He groans and slams into me one more time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and I feel him pulse inside me as he comes. His whole body goes rigid, every muscle locked tight, his fingers digging into my ass and the wall, his face buried in the crook of my neck as he empties himself inside me with a sound that's half-groan, half-growl, raw and guttural and desperate.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, hearts pounding against each other, his forehead pressed to my shoulder and my fingers buried in his hair, holding him close. I can feel him softening inside me, feel the warm slide of his release starting to leak out where we're still joined, and I should probably care about the mess but I'm too satisfied to think about anything practical right now.
Slowly he lifts his head and looks at me. His eyes are soft now, the intensity gone, replaced by something tender and wondering that makes my chest feel even tighter, like something is expanding inside me.
He kisses me, slow and deep and thorough, like he has all the time in the world and he wants to spend every second of it tasting me. His tongue slides against mine, lazy and sweet, exploring my mouth like it's the first time, and I melt into it, into him, into this moment that feels somehow bigger than just sex, bigger than the physical release we just shared.
Then he carefully pulls out, the sensation making me gasp softly, and lowers my legs to the floor. He keeps one arm around my waist because my knees are shaking and I'm not entirely sure I can stand on my own, my thighs trembling so badly I'd probably collapse without his support.
"Come on," he says quietly, and guides me the few steps to the bed.
We collapse onto it together, a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. He pulls me against his chest and I go willingly, curling into his warmth like I was made to fit there, my head tucked under his chin and my legs tangled with his. He reaches down and pulls the blanket over us, tucking it around my shoulders carefully, adjusting it so I'm completely covered. His hand starts tracing lazy, meandering patterns on my bare back, fingertips dragging softly over my spine in a way that makes me shiver and press closer.
"That was incredible," he says quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, his lips lingering there. "You're incredible."
"Yeah," I agree, my eyes already getting heavy. "It really was."
I should probably say something else, something about what this means or where we go from here or how we're going to navigate this with my father and the distance and all the complications looming on the horizon.
But I'm too satisfied and too comfortable and too content to think about any of that right now. So I just curl closer into his warmth, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in the scent of him—salt and sweat—and let myself drift.
I fall asleep in his arms, and for once I don't dream aboutkitchens or menus or my father's expectations. I just sleep, deep and dreamless and safe.
Two days later, Alex and I are alone in the kitchen before anyone else arrives, the sun barely creeping over the hills. We've somehow managed to keep this thing between us a secret, easy enough since there's no staff currently staying in the guest cabins so we can slip between our two cottages unnoticed, spending each night with each other, completely insatiable.
Every waking second together really, working side by side during service and then falling into bed together after, and I genuinely can't get enough of him. It's becoming a problem, this addiction I'm developing.
"Tonight it's going to beAmélie," I say. "You may have a good general cinema knowledge, but it's severely lacking on the French cinema front. You'll like it. Though, I hope you don't complain about subtitles."
He's making our lattes at the espresso machine, the steam wand hissing, while I lean against the counter munching on a bit of cinnamon roll Alex pulled out of the warming drawer a few minutes ago.
Breakfast pastries for the staff that he prepped yesterday, with plenty extra, and I offered to sample them—for quality control purposes, of course. They're heavenly, buttery and sweet with just the right amount of cinnamon, and I close my eyes for a second at the bite, savoring it.
"I don't mind subtitles at all," he says, smiling at me over his shoulder before turning back to the latte. "And deal. Tonight we watch your French film, and tomorrow night it's my pick. I'm thinkingIn Bruges."
"Ooooh, yes, that's a good idea," I say enthusiastically. In addition to our shared love of cooking, Alex and I are bothmovie buffs. Last night we tried to binge the originalStar Warstrilogy. Well, most of it was spent making out on his couch and then having sex on said couch and then moving to the bed for round two. But still. An attempt was made.
He walks over and sets my latte on the counter beside me, then steps between my dangling legs, pressing up against me and pinning me there, his arms bracketing me on either side, hands flat on the counter.
I smile, blinking innocently even though my heart rate just ticked up. "But how am I supposed to drink my latte if you're blocking me in?"
He leans closer, inches from my face, his eyes dark and playful. "Well, I do require payment of some kind for services rendered. You know, for making you the perfect latte."