Page 158 of The Persistence of Thornes
The orgasm lasts for an incomprehensible amount of time. It could be a few seconds, it could be a lifetime.
“Holy fuck,” he curses, keeping up his rhythm. “Your pussy is still squeezing the fuck out of my cock. Are you still coming?”
I can’t answer him, because yes, I think I am.
“Fuck, baby,” He pulls out of me in one rough move. That alone causes another, smaller orgasm to roll through me. He pumps his cock, and thick spurts of come shoot out, covering my abdomen. “So fucking hot,” he pants. “So fuckingmine.”
He stares at me like I’m a masterpiece of his own creation. We’re coated in sweat, panting wildly. He angles over me and unbinds my wrists, rubbing the raw skin from where I kept pulling against the belt.
“Are you okay?” he asks as he straightens.
I still haven’t regained my composure, but I manage a tiny nod and a mumbled “yes.”
“Good.”
He picks me up, and I go limp in his arms. Every muscle is spent. He starts the shower and washes us both before dressing me in yet another one of his shirts.
“No panties,” he warns when I reach for a pair.
My strength is slowly returning, but my brain is still fuzzy.
He tugs on a pair of boxer briefs and takes my hand, encouraging me to follow him downstairs to the kitchen.
“Hungry?” he asks, peeking into the pantry.
“Starving.” How could I not be after all the energy I just used?
He pulls out a box of pasta and sets it on the counter, then plucks a lemon from the fruit bowl on the island and parmesan from the fridge. He sets a pot of water to boil before he turns my way with an arched brow.
“You okay?” he asks.
This man just fucked my brains out, and now he’s standing here, all hot and sexy, cooking for me, and he worries that I’m not okay? Of course I’m not okay. I want to drag him to the floor and ride him right here.
“Just peachy,” I tease.
He smirks like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Who am I kidding? He probably does. Caleb seems to have a sixth sense for these kinds of things.
“What are you making?”
“Pasta.” He grins, setting out two bowls and the strainer.
With a roll of my eyes, I prop my elbow on the counter and put my chin in my hand. “I gathered that, but what kind?”
“Bow tie.” His smirk grows. He’s having fun annoying me.
“Caleb.”
“It’s nothing special.” He turns to add the pasta to the boiling water. “Just a little olive oil, pasta water, and parmesan to make a sauce for the pasta. You’ll see.”
I squint at him, doubtful, but sit quietly while he prepares the meal.
When he sets a bowl in front of me, I dig in.
“Simple, my ass,” I gripe. “This is delicious.”
He laughs, pulling out the chair beside mine. “Glad you like it.”
I devour the meal like I’m scared he might snatch it back. I ate about two hours before he arrived, but I’m pretty sure I burned all those calories off upstairs.
