I was still leaking when I walked into the kitchen.
Ten minutes. I’d spent them on the couch with two fingers pushed inside me, keeping his c*m where he’d put it, thighs sticky, heart loud. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. Marcus stood at the counter in the same jeans, shirt sleeves rolled, coffee in one hand like this was any other morning. He looked at me—naked from the waist down, t-shirt clinging, cunt shining—and set the mug down.
“Closer.”
I stopped in front of him. He turned me, bent me over the counter Mom used every morning, and kicked my feet wider. The marble was cold against my stomach. He freed his c**k again, already half-hard, and dragged the head through the mess still slipping out of me.
“You held most of it. Good. Second one goes here. Then yo
