Chapter 4: Fire in the Kitchen
878 Words
Tia’s POV
I finally rolled out of bed when Micky muttered something about food and being “responsible adults.”
He threw on a pair of grey sweatpants—low on his hips, no shirt. Of course.
I pulled one of his T-shirts over my head. It hung almost to my thighs and still smelled like him.
He glanced at me from the kitchen, spatula in one hand, smirk on his face. “You planning to kill me or feed me to death?”
I raised a brow. “You’re cooking, genius.”
“I meant with you walking around like that.”
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed under my chest. “Like what?”
“Like s*x and sin and something I’d be willing to burn for.”
I snorted. “You’re dramatic.”
He stepped closer, a little too close, until my back met the edge of the counter and his hips brushed mine.
“You’re distracting,” he whispered, fingers sliding under the hem of his own shirt on my body. “I’m trying to flip eggs, and all I want to flip is you.”
I bit my lip. “Then maybe don’t turn your back on a woman with access to hot pans.”
He grinned like the devil himself. “Feisty.”
I shrugged. “You like it.”
“I love it.”
His lips brushed my jaw, slow and warm, and I melted before I could stop myself. He trailed kisses to my neck, and just as I was about to pull him closer—
BEEP!
The egg. The damn egg.
Micky groaned. “This is your fault.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes,” he said, flicking the burner off and turning back to me. “You’re a menace in my shirt and nothing else. How am I supposed to survive this?”
“You survived last night.”
“Barely,” he growled, grabbing my waist and lifting me onto the counter. “Wanna test my limits again?”
I grinned, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Breakfast first.”
He leaned in, lips ghosting mine. “Fine. But just know—when I’m done feeding you, I’m going to f**k you on this counter.”
I licked my lips. “Then scramble fast, chef.”
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Tia’s POV
His mouth was on mine before the words even cooled on my lips.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was need—wild, electric, fire-on-my-tongue kind of need.
Micky pushed the forgotten pan aside, plates clattering as he shoved them away to make space. For me. For this.
“Legs wider,” he growled, sliding his hands up my thighs, spreading me open on the cold marble counter.
I gasped, the contrast of cool surface and his warm mouth sending shivers straight through me.
“No teasing this time,” I panted.
“Not teasing,” he said, lips brushing my inner thigh. “Just admiring what’s mine.”
And then he dropped to his knees.
His tongue was on me before I could respond—slow at first, tasting, devouring. My hand flew to his hair, tugging hard as a moan tore out of me.
He groaned at me like I was a meal he couldn’t get enough of.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
My head fell back, my thighs trembled around his shoulders, and then—
“f**k, Micky—don’t stop—don’t—”
I came hard, grinding against his mouth as he held me still, licking through it, drawing every last sound from me.
When he stood, his lips were wet, and his eyes were darker than sin.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
I didn’t hesitate.
He spun me on the counter, so I was bent over, ass up, chest pressed onto the cold granite. He yanked my shirt up, lined himself up at my entrance, and slid in with one deep, brutal thrust.
I screamed.
He gripped my hips, pulling me back into him with every stroke, faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping echoed with every thrust, every cry he dragged out of me.
“This what you wanted?” he growled in my ear, biting down on my shoulder. “Me f*****g you where anyone could walk in?”
“Yes—God—Micky, yes.”
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I choked out. “Only yours.”
He slammed in deeper. “Louder.”
“I’M f*****g YOURS!”
He reached around, rubbing my c**t as he pounded into me. My legs gave out, but he didn’t let up. I was a mess under him—wet, shaking, moaning like a woman completely ruined.
And I was.
I shattered again, my orgasm ripping through me like fire. Micky groaned loud behind me, hips stuttering, and I felt him spill inside me, still buried to the hilt.
For a long moment, the only sound was our breathing—heavy, uneven, full of everything we weren’t saying yet.
Then he leaned forward, lips on my ear.
“Next time,” he whispered, “we try the dining table.”
I laughed breathlessly. “As long as you promise dessert after.”
- Writer
