somethin's burnin'
Your eggs were burning.
Didn’t matter. You were already up on the counter, one leg over John’s shoulder, the other shaking around his waist. He was deep—so deep—gripping your hips like he was scared you’d float off if he let go.
“Thought you were makin’ breakfast,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple.
“I was,” you managed, breath hitching as he angled just right, slamming into that spot that made your toes curl. “You’re the one who—”
He cut you off with a thrust hard enough to knock your head back against the cabinet. “You climbed up here, sweetheart. Don’t blame me.”
You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.
His thumb found your clit. “You cum again,” he warned, voice low, “I’ll flip those eggs myself with your legs over my shoulder. That what you want?”
Smoke alarm chirped.
You didn’t care.
