He stood slowly, kissing his way back up my body, hands sliding under my sweater again. I was still trembling when he turned me around, pressing my front to the shelves, making cans rattle.
"Hold on," he whispered.
I grabbed whatever I could—flour bags, boxes—knuckles white.
I heard his belt. The zipper. The soft tear of a condom wrapper. He didn't fumble. Just rolled it on quick.
Then he was behind me, chest to my back, and one hand sliding around to rest on my stomach, the other guiding himself to my entrance.
"Do you want this, Muffin?"
I pressed my eyes shut. He didn't need to ask. But he did. And I nodded.
"Muffin." His voice was low, teasing. "I prefer you speaking." His c**k pressed against me, not pushing in, just teasing. "It lets me know you're still alive."
"f**k—" I gas
