#teasing

“I’-m sorry I had to work today,” he says, voice vibrating against your lips. “I thought we’d have more time for this Valentine’s Day stuff. I’m—”

“I don’t mind,” you rush to reassure him, teasing his earlobe with your teeth.

Truth is, you love watching him coach the little league baseball team. Seeing him bark encouraging orders while raking a hand through his hair, elbows on his knees in the dugout—it’s like foreplay.

Nothing beats the salty taste of late summer nights on his skin, or smelling the turf in his hair when he’s fresh off the field. And it doesn’t steal a second from you. Because tonight, he’s all soft brown eyes, warm firm hands, and…all fucking yours. 

“We’re supposed to be making cookies,” he reminds. “C’mon, I—mmph.”

You capture his mouth with yours, swallowing whatever he was going to say. His lips part obediently. Instantly. You moan as his tongue brushes yours. Salty from the sunflower seeds he's addicted to eating during games, tangled with that familiar sweetness of him that has you arching into his body, begging for more. 

“You’re a problem. You know that?” He murmurs, dragging his mouth from yours. “Keep this up and I’m gonna accidentally swap the s-sugar for salt or someth-thing—oh shit.”

You hum a sound of false sympathy against his throat as your hand travels the length of his abs, and brushes over the bulge in this khaki pants. 

“Mmm, but you’re so hard,” you sigh. “Here, let me...” 

Before he can protest, your fingers nimbly undo his belt. And as you drop to your knees in front of him, you take his pants down with you. His cock springs free, achingly hard and flushed at the tip. 

Your mouth waters as you look up at him. Pupils blown wide. Pink lips parted in surprise. Hair slightly mussed. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe he’s here right now—that you’re really willingly down on your knees for him like this. 

You’ve only been dating for a few months. But every time without fail, even though you’ve been having regular (amazing) sex, he always looks at you like this. Hesitant. A little guilty, maybe. Like he thinks he doesn’t deserve it or something. 

Well, that’s bullshit. 

God, he’s pretty like this. Breathing hard, khakis rumpled around his thighs, white polo untucked, and belt hanging loose. This undone, needy version of him turns you on so damn much. An urge to tell him—to show him—grips you by the spine and you lean in to lick a greedy wet stripe up his cock from base to tip. 

A deep groan escapes his chest and his hand slips into your hair, knuckles bumping against the counter behind you.

“Oh fuck,” he whines, his hips chasing your mouth just a little. Just enough to let you know how much he wants it. “No—no, no, no. We can’t—I had whole this plan, and—”

You pull back just enough to murmur, “It’s fine,” around the tip before resuming the warm, wet pressure that’s driving him insane. 

What you really mean is—it’s great. Perfect. Exactly what you want. 

But he must hear something else, because his open palm lands on the sink ledge above you seconds later with a sharp, regretful smack before he pulls back, his cock slipping from your lips. It bobs in front of you, slick with saliva, dripping from the tip like a delicious, ripe fruit. You nearly whine at the loss. 

“Baby—it’s our first Valentine’s Day,” he huffs, “Look. I bought heart sprinkles and everything. This is what you wanted to do, remember?”

He’s right. 

You’d never been a huge fan of the whole fancy, expensive dinner Valentine’s Day tradition. So when you suggested something different, he’d heard you out. 

 ‘I want to do something simple, Steve.” You’d told him. “Let’s just bake some cookies at your place. Oh! And we can decorate them, and then maybe watch a rom-com on the couch? That sounds perfect.’

Well, now, it’s sounding not so perfect. 

Because it’s sounding like entirely too much time standing in between what you really want. Which is Steve’s massive cock inside you. 

You glance through the triangle of space his arm makes with his hand perched on his hip. There is, in fact, a little canister of red and pink heart-shaped sprinkles on the counter. Steve takes advantage of your momentary distraction to put himself back together. 

You swallow your disappointment as he reaches down to help you up. 

“Hey. Don’t worry,” he whispers, lips soft against your neck when you straighten. “I’ll give you everything you want. But first, we do Valentine’s Day right. Like you wanted. Okay?”

You huff, impatient. “Fine.”

You really should go easier on him. He’s trying to make your ideal date night come to life. But you’re a greedy bitch when it comes to him, and the recipe blurs in your vision as you rub your thighs together, seeking friction for your aching clit. 

How long is this going to take? Is he really going to hold out until you make the dough, bake the cookies, decorate them, and then watch the movie? Fuck, it’s going to be like three hours. You can’t do that. 

You can’t.

“Here,” he says gently, handing you a bowl. “You mix this part up, alright? I’ll handle the frosting. Shit. Where are the fuckin’ measuring cups, I just had them…”

You look down into the bowl where a pile of flour, sugar, and baking powder stare back up at you. Spotting the spatula, you reach across the counter for it and the stretch causes your shirt to ride up, baring the curve of your lower back to the open air. 

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Steve’s gaze snap back to his task. 

Suddenly, you get an idea. 

Who says you have to be clothed in order to bake cookies? News flash. You don’t. 

With his back turned, you pull off your shirt and quickly toss it out into the hallway. 

The new lacy set fits well, caressing the contours of your body prettily. When you put it on this morning under your work clothes, you fantasized about Steve finding it in a variety of ways. Like maybe in the car on the way home from the game, his hand would land on your thigh like it always does, and you’d push it up under your skirt. 

Or, on the couch half-way during the movie, when his hands got restless, they’d slip under your shirt and you’d just have to press pause so he could admire you better. 

But, this is good too. 

You turn back to your task and pretend to be very engrossed in the recipe book in front of you. It’s a surprise you can even still read the thing with all the chocolate stains it has on it from the years of it being in your mom’s kitchen. 

Steve didn’t have much when he moved into this apartment by himself. So, little by little, you’ve been bringing things with you and just…leaving them here. Like this recipe book, for one. 

After a minute or so, the soft thwip thwip sound of Steve stirring the frosting stops abruptly. You refuse to turn around, instead carefully measuring out the salt and adding it to your bowl. 

Warm fingers slip under the strap on your shoulder and you barely suppress your shiver at his touch. 

“What—” Steve starts, then clears his throat behind you. “Were you wearing this… during my game?”

You bite your lip, recalling how the metal bleachers pressed the lace against your ass under your skirt in the sticky summer heat. 

You reach for the softened butter on the counter. “Stop distracting me, Steve. I’m baking.”

“Right.” He swallows and his touch disappears. “Sorry.”

You smirk and crack two eggs into your bowl while he measures more powdered sugar with painstaking accuracy into his. When you move over to the sink to rinse your hands, you cast a quick glance around.

The cutout in the kitchen gives you a view of the living room, where quite the assortment of candles is scattered throughout. Several tiny tea lights sit on his brand new TV stand you helped him pick out. A heart-shaped candle drips pink wax all over the windowsill. A stray Christmas candle flickers on the table. They glow brighter now as the kitchen dims, the sun finally sinking below the horizon. 

On the TV screen, your favorite rom-com is cued up and ready to press play. 

The whole thing is so sweet it makes you want to rip Steve’s clothes off with your teeth. 

So, with his back still turned, your fingers undo the zipper on your skirt. As silently as possible, you slip out of it and rejoin him at the counter, now in nothing but your matching set. 

“Anything else I can do to help?” You ask softly. 

“Actually, yeah, can you grab the baking powder from the—” His soft brown gaze turns molten the second it lands on you. “Oh, okay. Would you just—be good? For like, five minutes? Please?”

You blink up at him innocently. “What? I’m helping!”

He huffs out an unbelieving laugh and rakes a hand through his hair. “Oh my God. I’m trying to give you what you…” 

He trails off as you sidle between him and the counter again, slipping your hands up under his white polo. His torso is warm and solid, and your mind blanks a little when your nails scrape through his chest hair and down his happy trail. 

“Please, Steve?” You whimper. 

His throat bobs and his eyes wander your bare skin, snagging on your rosy nipples hardening through the thin fabric. “God, you know I can’t handle it when you beg like that.”

The second his hands clamp down on your hips, the room tilts. Your hands fly out to steady yourself on the marble counter, but balance becomes irrelevant when his hand presses at your shoulders, guiding you forward and forcing your ass back into him. 

His fingers trace the lace of your panties, and you can hear the way his breathing starts to match yours. Heavy. Needy. Thick with anticipation. 

Without warning, he pulls the fabric aside and drags two fingers through your wet slit.

A gasp punches out of you at the the delicious drag of his slightly callused hand. His other arm snakes across your stomach, hauling your back flush against his chest.

“You wanna help?” He whispers in your ear. You nod against him, writhing fruitlessly into his hand, while the other dips into the bowl of pink frosting in front of you. “Taste this.”

His fingers find your mouth sloppily, almost like he’s trying to smear the frosting across your lips. You open for him, earning a groan from his chest as you swirl your tongue around his knuckles as silky sugar blooms over your tongue. He grinds his erection into your hip for all of three heart-stopping strokes before he forces himself to stop. 

“Good?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It's...sweet.”

“Alright. My turn.”

You reach towards the bowl to return the favor, thinking that’s what he means, but when two of his fingers slide inside you crumple against him with a broken moan. A needy sound leaves you when his fingers slip out half a second later. You turn over your shoulder to protest, but the sight of him lifting the fingers from your body to his mouth instead of the ones from the frosting nearly undoes you.

His eyes remind you of the freshly tilled soil from your garden every spring—warm, deep, and rich. They don’t leave yours while his tongue works slowly, savoring the taste of you. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, fingers leaving his mouth with a slick pop. “Sweet.”

Your temperature spikes at the timber in his voice. And the way his tongue darts out over his lower lips sends a fresh wave of arousal pooling low between your hips. But before you can act on it, he steps aside, his touch disappearing from your aching core. 

“Y’know, the faster we get these in the oven, the faster I can make you come.” He says, tipping his head towards the messy countertop. 

You huff a humorless laugh and stare at him, your chest rising and falling with shallow  breaths. “You’re really going to make me wait?”

“It’s supposed to be the…texture of wet…sand?” He ignores you, squinting down at the page, then the bowl. “Does this look like wet sand to you?”

He tilts the dough towards you but you’re not looking at it. Instead, you just pull the lace down under your breasts, exposing your hard nipples to him. 

His lips part and you watch his gaze darken as it snags on you. “Goddamn it. That’s it.”

In a heartbeat, he’s pressing you up against the counter again. His belt buckle clinks, and the sound makes your back arch instinctively. 

Yes. Fuck yes, finally.

“Here,” he grits out just as the head of him presses at your entrance. “Just— keep my cock warm while I read this recipe, alright?”

You nod frantically.

You’ll agree to anything as long as it ends up with him inside you. His hands steady your hips as he slowly works himself inside your slick cunt with short, strong thrusts that have your breath stuttering.

“God, you feel good,” he pants, dropping a kiss to the nape of your neck. 

You’re too blissed out by the stretch of him filling you to even respond. His chin rests on your shoulder, and your eyes flutter open, expecting to see him looking at you. 

But he’s reading the fucking recipe. 

When he reaches for the bowl in front of you, you clench hard around him on purpose. His body responds first, rocking into you and pinning your hips against the counter. 

“Shit,” he rasps, chin dipping, hair falling over his brow. “I can’t f-focus. Okay…what’s next? Can you—just mix that up for me, would ya? It’s almost done…”

You can’t argue with him. Not when he’s asking so sweetly. 

So, you do your best, stirring the dough until it’s soft and smooth, even as his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you, making you see fucking stars. 

The second it looks done, Steve catches your wrist and guides your hand up to the nape of his neck. You know what he wants. 

You slip your fingers through the soft, chocolate brown strands of his hair and tug. Not too hard. Just enough to tell him how badly you want this. Want him. He groans, his head dropping into the tender skin between your neck and shoulder. 

“You know…” he murmurs. “I-I would’ve done whatever you wanted.”

Through the delicious haze of your impending orgasm, you barely hear him. “What?”

“For t-today,” he says, reaching up and pinching your nipple. “If you’d asked for a whole night of me fucking you into the mattress, I would’ve done that. But that’s not what you asked for. Is it?”

You bite your lip as the images flood your mind at his suggestion. He’s right. You should’ve asked for that. 

“I had this whole plan,” he continues, panting as his thrusts grow deeper. Harder. “I set up candles in my bedroom. Rose petals. I was going to take you to bed after the movie. Work you up so slow, kiss you so sweet and go down on you for—oh, shit. Baby. When you move your hips like that I can’t fuckin’ think. Read the—God. Read the next p-part.”

You squint at the recipe through droopy lids, words swimming on the chocolatey page. Please be something easy. Please be the last step. 

“Chill dough for…for thirty minutes.” 

Thank God. 

You feel the shift in him immediately. The way his breath catches against your neck, and his hands start roaming without care, pawing at your breasts, your ass, blunt nails digging into your hip bone. 

“Is this what you really want?” he asks roughly. “Just—getting bent over the counter like this and fucked with your underwear pulled to the side? I’m not supposed to…to treat you like this. It’s Valentine’s Day, I—”

You nod frantically. 

“Use your words.”

“Yes. Steve. Please. I need it.”

“Ah, fuck. Baby.” His chest hair brushes your back as he pulls you closer. “I just want to give you what you want. That’s all I want.”

The depth of this new angle steals your breath. Steve is…well-endowed. You know this. You usually have to work to take him all the way, even with how soaked he makes you. But today, he’s not holding back. Now that you’ve officially declared this is what you want, he’s really giving it to you.

You roll your hips back, arching into him, loving the dull ache against your cervix that only seems to wind you higher. The sound of his hips slapping against yours fills the room, along with your whimpers and his groans, and the puffs of your breath syncing up as the pleasure spirals to new heights. 

Your orgasm hovers on the horizon, and when his fingers find your clit, you surge towards it at breakneck speed, colliding in a blinding rush of pleasure. You moan his name and writhe against him as it rolls through you. 

“That’s it,” Steve groans. His thrusts get rougher. Heavier. “Just wanna make this perfect for you…”

He swells inside you, and you nearly choke at the blissful stretch. When he follows you over the edge, the low sound he makes into your hair sends aftershocks pulsing around him. 

When you finally come back down to earth, the scent of sugar and vanilla reaches you first. Along with that faint piney smell of the random Christmas candle.

Steve laughs softly as he slips free, pressing a kiss to your sweaty neck. “You’re a dessert first kind of gal, aren’t ya?”

“I’m sorry, Steve.” You laugh breathlessly and turn around to face him. “Now, we can do Valentine’s Day right. I promise.”

His lips tilt up in a boyish grin and he leans down to kiss you. His lips are soft and gentle, and he doesn’t waste a second scooping you up into his arms. When he lifts you off the ground you squeal into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist. Then, you’re moving. 

Your mouths part as he carries you into his bedroom. It’s dimly lit with candles, and it smells like him and—oh, he wasn’t kidding about the rose petals. 

“Damn right we will,” he teases, nipping at your ear. “But we’ve still got half an hour to kill.”

Before you can respond, he drops you unceremoniously onto his bed. You laugh, bouncing slightly and reach for him—expecting him to follow you down immediately. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he stays right where he is at the edge of the bed, just looking at you. Softly. Reverently. 

Slowly, finally, he crawls onto the bed, hovering over you for a breath before beginning his descent. His hands glide over your breasts, your waist, memorizing the curves and dragging the lace from your body until you’re naked underneath him. His touch is so firm and unhurried it drags heat down to your core again. 

After he pulls your panties down your legs, his fingers hook beneath your thighs, guiding your legs over his shoulders with a heady confidence. 

His mouth hovers over your pussy, close enough to make your stomach tighten with anticipation. When he looks up at you in the candlelight, your chest flutters and you can’t resist running a hand through his hair. 

“We did it your way,” he murmurs, breath fanning over your sensitive clit, before pressing a sweet kiss on the inside of your thigh. “But this time, we’re doing it mine.” 

a/n: I had to take a break from all the angst I've been writing lately over on The Real Deal and give you a little sweet treat. Hope you enjoyed! Happy Valentine's Day!