Chapter 31: Good Morning - B
Becky surfaced from sleep like drifting up through warm, sunlit water. The first sensation was heat—the solid, living furnace of Grant’s body curled around her back. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. The second sensation was quiet, a deep, pervasive silence broken only by the distant hum of the city and the sound of that breath. No clatter of pans from the kitchen, no low murmur of a second voice.
April had an early shift at the school. They had the apartment to themselves.
A slow, feline smile spread across Becky’s face. She pressed back into him, savoring the full length of his form against hers. His arm was slung over her waist, his hand resting possessively on her bare stomach. She wriggled, just a little, a sinuous ripple of her spine to feel him stir against her lower back. A low, sleep-thickened groan vibrated through his chest.
“Mmm. Princess is awake,” he mumbled into her hair, his voice gravel.
“The sun is,” she whispered back, her tone feigning a gentle, innocent observation. She turned in his arms, the sheets whispering against her skin. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheeks. In sleep, the composed intensity was softened, making him look younger, almost boyish. She adored this version of him, the unguarded possession of dawn.
She traced the line of his jaw with a fingertip. “And someone promised me coffee.”
One blue eye cracked open. “Someone did. The service fee just increased.”
“Oh?” she breathed, shifting closer so her bare breasts brushed his chest. “What’s the currency?”
He answered by kissing her. It was a lazy, deep, exploring kiss, all soft lips and shared morning breath that somehow tasted sweet. His hand slid from her stomach to the small of her back, pressing her flush against him. The evidence of his own awakening was firm and insistent against her thigh.
The kiss broke, and he nuzzled her neck. “Affection first,” he stated, his voice clearing into its usual grounded tone. “Then coffee. The order is non-negotiable.”
What followed was a slow, tender unraveling. There was no frantic heat, only a luxurious rediscovery. He kissed her shoulders, the hollow of her throat, the sensitive undersides of her wrists. His touch was worshipful, tracing the slopes and curves of her body as if memorizing her by braille. She sighed and arched, offering herself to this devotional attention, her fingers threading through his thick, wavy hair. It was intimacy as a language, a quiet conversation of sighs and gentle presses. When his mouth finally found her breast, when his tongue circled her nipple until it tightened into a desperate peak, the lust was there—a bright, eager thread—but woven through a tapestry of profound, soothing connection.
He moved down her body, his hands spreading her thighs with a firm, deliberate gentleness. His gaze held hers for a long moment, a silent question and answer. Then he lowered his mouth to her.
This, too, was different. It wasn’t a claiming, but a gift given with painstaking focus. His tongue was a slow, devastating artist, painting intricate patterns of pleasure that built not in sharp spikes, but in wide, rolling waves. He listened to every hitch in her breath, every minute tremble in her muscles, calibrating his touch to draw the pleasure out, to make it last. She twisted her hands in the sheets, a soft, continuous moan escaping her lips. This was being known. This was being cherished to the point of madness.
The orgasm, when it finally broke over her, was a deep, resonant hum that started in her core and radiated outward, leaving her limbs loose and heavy, her mind blissfully empty. He kissed his way back up her body, gathering her against him, letting her float in the aftershocks.
“Okay,” she breathed against his collarbone, her voice dazed. “Coffee can happen now.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling against her cheek. “See? Systems work.”
They untangled themselves from the sheets. Grant rose, unabashedly naked, and padded toward the bathroom. Becky watched the play of muscle across his back, the powerful, easy grace of his movement. She slipped from the bed and went to the closet, her fingers finding not her usual soft cotton robe, but the one Grant had altered for her.
She pulled it on. The emerald silk, once April’s, was now hers in function and form. Or rather, lack of form. Grant had taken a pair of scissors to it, cutting deep slits up both sides that reached to her hip bones, and widening the neckline so it plunged perilously. The sash was the only thing holding it shut. In a neutral stance, it hinted at the curves beneath. But the moment she moved…
She tied the sash in a loose knot and walked into the living room.
Grant was at the espresso machine, his back to her, filling the portafilter. The morning light streamed in, painting him in gold and shadow. She leaned against the doorframe, one foot crossed over the other.
“Will there be toast with this extravagant coffee service?” she asked, her voice light and playful.
He glanced over his shoulder. His gaze traveled down her body, a slow, appreciative scan that warmed her skin more than the sunlight. A smirk touched his lips. “That depends on the chef’s ability to focus.”
She pushed off the doorframe and glided toward the kitchen island. With each step, the deep slits in the robe parted, revealing long, tantalizing flashes of her tanned thigh. She reached up to the cabinet for a mug, stretching. The motion pulled the fragile silk taut across her breasts, and the widened neckline gaped open, offering him a perfect, shadowed view of the full, soft swell of one breast, the nipple peeking from the edge of fabric. She heard his sharp intake of breath.
She took the mug down, turned, and set it on the counter with a soft click. Leaning forward on her elbows, she let the robe fall open further. “Sugar?” she asked, her olive eyes wide with faux-innocence.
“You are the sugar, Princess Sunshine,” he said, his voice low. He turned back to the machine, but she saw the tightness in his shoulders, the deliberate control. “Get the butter from the fridge.”
It was a command, a test. A game.
She grinned. She pushed away from the counter and walked, with exaggerated hip-swaying languor, to the refrigerator. She bent at the waist, making a show of searching the lower shelf. The robe, unsupported in the front, fell away completely, giving him an unimpeded view of her round, perfect ass. She lingered for a count of three before straightening up, the silk whispering back into a semblance of cover. She turned, butter in hand, and caught him watching her, his work on the coffee paused.
“Found it,” she sing-songed, placing it on the counter. She then walked to the toaster, her every movement a conscious performance of seduction—a reach that became a stretch, a turn that became a pivot, the robe an accomplice in a striptease that never quite happened. She was exposed, then concealed, then exposed again, the glimpses more potent than full nudity. She was playing, reveling in her own power to distract, to entice, to be the sparkling, irresistible object of his complete attention.
He finished the coffees—two rich, dark cortados—and brought them to the low table by the couch. He sat, still magnificently nude, and patted his thigh. “Come here.”
She didn’t walk; she floated over, a vision in cascading, treacherous silk. She settled sideways on his lap, one arm looping around his neck, letting the robe fall open where it wanted to. He handed her a mug. They sipped in comfortable silence for a moment, the bitter coffee a perfect contrast to the sweetness humming between them.
“April texted,” Grant said casually, his free hand stroking a lazy path up her exposed thigh. “Said the gym’s a warzone. Teenage rebellion over dodgeball.”
Becky laughed, a bright, sparkling sound. “She loves it. She just won’t admit it.” She took another sip, then nestled her head against his shoulder. “It’s nice. This quiet.”
“Mhm.” His hand slid higher, under the silk, his palm warm on her hip. “Quiet’s a relative term. There’s a lot of noise in here.” He tapped her temple gently.
“Hey,” she protested, but she was smiling. He was right. Her mind was rarely still. But here, with the weight of his thigh under hers, the scent of him and coffee filling her senses, the noise faded to a distant buzz.
They ate buttered toast, sharing bites, her playful feeding punctuated by stolen kisses that tasted of wheat and salt. The knot on her robe loosened further. His touches grew less idly affectionate, more deliberate. The hand on her hip slipped around to curve over her backside, kneading gently. The lust meter, as he might have clinically called it, was being dialed up from a warm glow to a distinct, throbbing hum.
She finished her coffee and set the mug down with a decisive click. Turning in his lap, she straddled him, the robe falling completely open now, baring her to the waist. She looped her arms around his neck, her breasts pressing against his chest. She kissed him, deep and searching, pouring all the playful affection of the morning into something hotter, more urgent.
“I’m sticky,” she murmured against his lips. “From toast. From you.”
“A catastrophic problem,” he agreed, his hands spanning her waist. “We have a protocol.”
In one fluid motion, he stood, lifting her with him. She let out a little shriek of delight, wrapping her legs around him as he carried her from the living room, through the hall, into the steamy warmth of the bathroom from his earlier shower. He didn’t set her down. He walked them to the large mirror over the sink, her back to the glass.
“Look,” he commanded softly, his voice in her ear.
She looked. Saw herself—hair sleep-tousled, lips swollen, robe hanging off one shoulder, her body bare and pinned between the hard planes of his body and the cool mirror. Saw his head beside hers, his blue eyes watching her reflection with predatory focus.
He kept one arm locked around her, holding her aloft, while his other hand moved down. He teased her, his fingers tracing idle, maddening circles without giving her what she needed. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin. All the while, he made her watch.
“See what you do to me?” he whispered, and she saw his own need, hard and pressing against her thigh. “See what I do to you?”
She was mesmerized by the reflection—the flush spreading across her chest, the desperate arch of her body, the way her eyes darkened with helpless wanting. It was a performance for an audience of two, raw and utterly real. He finally touched her properly, his fingers finding her slick, swollen core, and her head fell back against the mirror with a thud.
“Watch,” he growled, and she forced her eyes open, locked on her own image as he drove her relentlessly toward the edge. It was the most intense narcissistic pleasure, watching her pleasure unfold on her face—the parted lips, the fluttering eyelids, the sheer unadulterated abandon. When she came, it was with a choked sob, her body convulsing against his hand, her gaze locked on her own ecstatic ruin in the glass.
He let her ride the last waves before gently lowering her feet to the floor. She was boneless, leaning against the sink for support, her reflection a happy, shattered mess. She turned to face him, her eyes alight with a new kind of worship.
“My turn, Daddy,” she breathed, her performer’s persona shifting into something more intimate, more devotional.
She sank to her knees on the bath mat, the emerald silk pooling around her like a martyr’s offering. She looked up at him, all faux-naive adoration, then took him into her hands. This was not a prelude. This was the main event. She loved him with her mouth, with slow, lavish strokes of her tongue, with deep, hollowed cheeks and fluttering glances upward to gauge his reaction. She was an artist, and he was her medium. She explored every ridge and vein, worshiped him with a sensual, playful focus that was both entirely for him and a performance for her own senses. She reveled in the taste of him, the weight, the growing tension in the muscles of his abdomen, the way his breath started to come in ragged pulls.
“Princess…” he warned, his hand tangling in her hair, not forcing, just holding.
She increased her pace, her hand working in tandem with her mouth, her eyes locked on his face. She wanted to see it, the moment his formidable control shattered. She pushed him to the very brink, then backed off, whispering teasing praise against his skin, before taking him deep again. It was a drawn-out, exquisite torture, a liturgy of pleasure.
When his release finally tore from him, it was with a raw, guttural shout that was her greatest reward. She took it, then pulled back, letting the pearlescent streaks paint her skin, her chest, the tops of her breasts.
He helped her to her feet. She turned to the mirror again, her eyes wide. She looked wanton, claimed, glorious. Slowly, with a reverent fascination, she began to rub his spend into her skin, massulating it over her collarbones, her chest, as if anointing herself with him. She met his eyes in the reflection, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her slick, swollen lips.
“Now I’m really sticky,” she said, her voice husky with satisfaction.
He reached past her to turn on the shower. Steam began to billow, fogging the edges of the mirror, leaving only the two of them at the center, clear and vivid in the humid glass. “Like I said,” he murmured, pulling her against him, his skin sliding against hers. “We have a protocol.”
He pulled her into the shower stall, the glass door sealing them inside a world of beating heat and vapor. The water wasn’t a gentle spray but a hot, percussive rain that instantly plastered her blonde hair to her scalp and shoulders, tracing glowing paths over the evidence of their earlier play still smeared on her skin. Grant adjusted the head to a wider, softer setting, enveloping them in a constant, warm cascade.
“Eyes on me, Princess,” he said, his voice cutting through the drumming water, calm and compelling. His hands, slick and warm, began to move over her.
He started not with her breasts or between her legs, but with her shoulders, kneading the tension she hadn’t acknowledged she carried. His thumbs pressed into the knotted muscles along her spine, working down with a therapist’s precision mixed with a lover’s possession. A whimper escaped her, part pleasure, part shock at being so thoroughly seen in her tension. “Daddy knows you hold the world right here,” he murmured, his lips near her ear. “Let it go. It’s just us and the water now.”
His touch evolved from therapeutic to exploratory, mapping every dip and curve. He used the soap, working a rich lather between his palms before smoothing it over her. He adored her breasts, cupping their full weight, circling the nipples with his thumbs until they were tight, aching buds against his slick skin. “Every part of you is for pleasure,” he stated, as if explaining a fundamental law. “My pleasure is seeing you feel it. So feel it, Becky. Loudly.”
And she did. Every pass of his hands, every deliberate graze of his cock against her thigh or stomach, drew a sound from her—a gasp, a moan, a high, bitten-off cry. She was a symphony of reactive sensation, her head thrown back, water streaming down her face, her hands gripping his biceps for anchor. When his fingers finally slid between her legs from behind, teasing her already-swollen folds, she let out a wail that echoed off the tiles. “Yes! God, right there, please—”
“Please what?” he prompted, his voice a low vibration against her wet neck. He didn’t give her what she wanted. He circled, applied pressure, then retreated.
“Please, Daddy, I need you inside! I need to come!” Her words were a frantic chant, her hips bucking against his hand.
“Soon.” That single, maddening word. He turned her to face the tiled wall, pressing her front against the cool, damp surface. The contrast of hot water on her back and cool tile on her breasts and belly was electric. He kissed the nape of her neck, his hands roaming over her slick ass, spreading her. “You take such beautiful care of this body for me. Such a good girl.”
The praise liquefied her, merging with the physical need into one molten pool of want. He entered her then, from behind, a slow, stretching invasion that made her sob with relief. He didn’t set a frantic pace. He moved with deep, measured strokes, each one a full, seated possession that brushed a spot inside her that made lights flash behind her closed eyelids.
“Tell me what you feel,” he commanded, his breath hot on her shoulder.
“I feel… full. I feel you everywhere. It’s… it’s like you’re aiming right at my soul, Daddy.” Her words tumbled out between thrusts, raw and unfiltered. “I feel like I’m burning up and the water’s putting out the fire but you’re starting it again, fuck—”
He chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound. “Good. Burn.”
He slid a hand around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. The dual stimulation was catastrophic. Her knees threatened to buckle. The orgasm built not as a wave but as a screaming pressure, tightening every muscle in her body, coiling her spine. He felt it, of course, and his voice became a focused instrument in her ear. “Let it go. Give it to me. Scream it out, my perfect fuck doll, I want to hear you break.”
She broke. The sound she made was primal, a ripping, continuous scream of release that swallowed the noise of the shower. Her body clenched around him in urgent, rhythmic spasms, milking him, begging for his own finish.
He didn’t give it. He held himself there, perfectly still inside her as she shuddered, supporting her weight, whispering “good girl” into her skin until the last tremor subsided. Then, with infinite care, he withdrew.
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was thunderous, broken only by their ragged breathing and the drip-drip from their bodies onto the drain. She was limp, utterly spent, her forehead against the tile. He stepped out, grabbed a large, clean towel, and returned.
He wrapped her in it, blotting the water from her skin with a surprising tenderness. He dried her hair, roughly but thoroughly. Then he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like something precious and newly forged. She nestled into his chest, kissing the smattering of hair there, a quiet, loving echo of her earlier frenzy.
He carried her from the steamy bathroom, down the hall, and into the sunlit living room. He didn't lay her on the couch. He lowered her onto the thick, woven rug in the center of the room, where the morning sun formed a perfect, warm square of light. The emerald silk robe, discarded earlier, lay like a forgotten lily in the corner.
He joined her on the rug, kneeling before her. He looked at her—flushed, pliant, eyes wide with satiated love and rekindling hunger. “One more,” he said, his voice quiet but iron-clad. “The final experiment of the morning. I want to watch every single emotion cross your face. I want you to feel so much you can't remember your own name.”
He guided her onto her back. “Put your legs over my shoulders.”
She complied, raising her hips, letting him lift her legs until her ankles rested near his collarbones. The position, the Utthita Sutra Pada or the Extended Bridge Pose, opened her profoundly, leaving her exposed, vulnerable, and offering a depth of penetration that was already making her gasp in anticipation. In Western slang, it was simply ‘The Buddha’—a name that spoke to the yielding, open, receiving state it demanded.
He entered her in one seamless, deep push. She cried out, her back arching off the rug. This was different. Deeper. More. From this angle, every stroke pressed directly onto the most sensitive front wall of her core, a relentless, targeted stimulation that felt less like friction and more like a revelation. He leaned over her, bracing his hands on the rug by her head, his eyes locked on hers. The sunlight haloed his head, his face in shadow, but his eyes were bright, drinking in every micro-expression.
“No hiding,” he breathed, beginning to move. His thrusts were slow, deep, and impossibly deliberate. Each one dragged a new sound from her throat—a gasp, a whimper, a shattered moan.
He was a scientist and she was his peerless subject. He varied his rhythm, watching how her pupils dilated on a deep, lingering stroke, how her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ on a quicker, sharper thrust. He would pause, buried to the hilt, and ask, “What color is it?” and she’d sob, “Gold, it’s all gold!”, her synesthesia bleeding into her ecstasy. He’d pull almost all the way out, teasing her, making her beg with her eyes before sliding home again, earning a ragged cry of relief.
“I can see it,” he murmured, awe in his tone. “I can see the pleasure moving through you like a current. It starts in your belly. It tightens your toes. It makes your eyes roll back.”
She was beyond words, a conduit of pure sensation. The loving feelings swelled inside her, making the physical act not just erotic, but sacred. Each deep stroke felt like he was reaching something untouched, a secret chamber of her heart. Tears mingled with the moisture from the shower still on her face.
“Daddy… I love… I love this, I love you, I can’t—” The confession was torn from her, incomplete, a truth too big for the moment.
“I know,” he said, and for the first time, his control showed a hairline fracture—a tightening of his jaw, a deepening blaze in his blue eyes. “Now show me.”
He increased his pace, the deep, impactful strokes becoming more urgent. She unraveled completely. Her hands flew to her own breasts, pinching her nipples, needing the sensory overload. She thrashed her head side to side on the rug, her cries unstructured, loud, and gloriously expressive. She was a spectacle of her own rapture, and he was her captivated audience of one.
Her final climax approached not as a single peak but as a sustained, seismic event. It built and built, her body bowing, every muscle taut. “Now, Daddy, please, now, I’m gonna—!”
“Come,” he commanded, his own rhythm finally breaking into a hard, driving finale.
The world dissolved into blinding, golden-white sensation. Her scream was long and ragged, her body convulsing around him in a series of deep, grasping pulses that pulled his own release from him at last. He joined her with a groan that was almost a roar, driving into her one last, shuddering time as he emptied himself deep inside.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows, his forehead resting against hers. Their breaths mingled in the sun-warmed air. Beneath them, the rough texture of the rug pressed into her back, a grounding anchor. The antique clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking the return of time.