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A plate slid.

Then another.

I didn’t stop.

“Fuck—Sam⁠—”

“Don’t talk.”

He grabbed my hips and fucked up into me until I couldn’t keep the pace. Then he flipped me.

Bent me over the table.

Hand in my hair. Other hand on my waist. Deep strokes that had the table legs scraping the floor.

“This what you been wanting?”

I hated that he asked.

I hated that the answer was yes.

“Yes. Fuck. Just like that.”

He smacked my ass.

Not playful. Real. Just how I wanted it.

“Oh my God, I’m bout to cum, fuck fuck.”

I came shaking against the table, almost cracking my teeth, pussy gripping him while he kept going.

He pulled out, turned me, sat me back on the edge, and slid in again face to face. My legs over his arms. Plates on the floor. Ham still sitting on the island like this nigga wasn’t giving me the dick of a fuckin’ lifetime.

I felt him get close.

“I’m bout to⁠—”

I could tell he usually pulled out, I could feel him start to.

Then he didn’t.

He groaned deep and stayed in.

“Fuccck. Samantha. Shit.”

He nutted inside me. Deep. Pulsing. Hands locked on my hips like he knew he wasn’t supposed to and did it anyway.

Afterward, I stayed exactly where I was for a few seconds.

Breathing.

Staring at nothing.

The kitchen suddenly looked too fucking normal.

The foil-covered ham was still sitting on the island.

Dishwasher still running.