Page 85 of I'll Keep Her Safe

“Oh, but I do.” I grab her hips and tug them toward me, until she falls forward onto the counter, her ass in the air. Without wasting a second, I fall to my knees, dragging my tongue over her pussy, surprised to find it already soaked. She loved what we did as much as me, it seems, and I want to make her feel as good too. I want to show her how good it feels to be naughty. I split her ass cheeks, licking higher, swirling my tongue in the same place she ventured with me, waiting for her approval. When she groans, reaching back to hold my head there, I know I have permission to continue.

“Oh, Wyatt,” she rasps as I probe at the tight ring of muscle with my tongue, my fingers stroking her swollen clit. “That feels so good.” It takes approximately two minutes for her to come, spasming against the counter, pressing her thighs together as she rides the wave.

Then I rise to my feet, jeans still wrapped around my ankles, and line my aching dick up with her entrance.

“You ready to give me what I want, Poppy?”

“Yes,” she breathes, squirming, as I tease her pussy with the head of my cock.

“This is what I want. What I’ve fantasized about since you moved in. Fucking you right here, in this kitchen, in this apron.”

She moans as I sink inside the tight, wet heat of her, hands firm on her hips.

“Every time you’ve put this apron on,” I growl, giving a hard thrust into her, “I’ve wanted to do this. I had to jerk off because it drove me so crazy.”

“Fuck,” she chokes out. “I wish I could have seen that. I would have helped.”

I chuckle, reaching around to grab her breasts under the apron, tweaking her stiff nipples as I drive into her. My hands instinctively go to her stomach, imagining it full and round, and it’s an effort to push the image away. Instead, I hook a hand behind her knee, hoisting her leg higher, opening her wider for me. She moans as I do.

“You love it deep, don’t you?”

“So much,” she sobs, as I bottom out inside her. “I love feeling all of you.”

“Me too, baby.” I kiss my way down her back, slowing my strokes as I slide my thumb between her ass cheeks. “I want to feel all of you, too.”

She gasps as I make contact with that forbidden spot again, then pants out, “Yes, fuck, yes,” as I sink my thumb inside her, rearing my hips back to thrust hard.

“You’re such a naughty girl,” I say, pumping into her, thumb teasing that taboo spot. “Wearing nothing but an apron when I come home from work.” She clenches around me and my balls tighten, ready to explode again. “Loving the way my thumb feels in your ass.”

“God, Wyatt,” she whimpers, “I’m going to come.”

The heat building inside me reaches a boiling point as she tightens around both my shaft and my thumb, but I need to make sure she gets there first.

“Soak my cock, baby. Show me how good it feels.”

A loud moan rips from her mouth as she shoves her hips back, swallowing my dick into her depths, shaking and pulsing with her orgasm. The feeling is so good I can’t do anything but grip her hip and give into it, filling her with my seed.

The oven timer brings us back to reality, and Poppy issues a faint laugh as I withdraw from her and drag my jeans back up, buttoning them with shaking hands.

“I’d forgotten all about dinner,” she says, smiling sleepily.

“Good.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have done my job.” She giggles against me. “I love how kinky you are, baby. I had no idea.”

She blushes. “I didn’t realize I was. You must bring it out in me.” With a peck on the cheek, she ducks out the room to clean herself up, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

I sigh, washing my hands in the sink, finally noticing the delicious smells wafting from the oven. I pull the dish from the oven and set it on the counter, knowing Poppy will want to serve it up herself.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I slide onto a stool at the breakfast bar, noticing Poppy’s laptop. It’s open to a website I don’t recognize, a company calledGrow Your Own, bursting with colorful photographs of vegetables and a manifesto about the joys of growing your own food. My pulse quickens as I scan the images. Everything about it captures my attention, drawing me in, and I lean over, scrolling through the rest of the site. I can’t describe the feeling that tugs at me as I read, eyes devouring the photos, the words proclaiming how empowering it is to eat something you’ve grown yourself. And, God, the pictures—stalks of rainbow chard, the vibrant blooms of sweet peas, golden pumpkins and squash nestled on rich soil. My fingers itch just looking at them, desperate to get into the garden.

“Oh.” Poppy stops short when she sees me poring over her laptop. “You weren’t supposed to see that yet.”

“See…” I shake my head. “How did you find these guys? Are they in New York?” I scroll down the page, but can’t see any contact details.

Poppy swallows. “Um…”

“I have to get in touch with them,” I say, clicking on a link to their About page. I frown when it sends me to an empty page.

“You do?” she asks, venturing cautiously toward me across the kitchen. She’s clothed in a summery red dress, her apron over the top.

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