His kitchen

Morning, and I had actually slept. Grey cardigan over a t-shirt of his, mug in my hand, scrubs in the basket by the washer like a flag that the shift was over. Frank scrambled eggs. He is fifty-five. I am twenty-nine. I watched his hands and told him I wanted them on my cunt before the eggs, and that he should turn the burner off so he could fuck me.

He did. I hopped onto the counter. He stood between my knees and kissed me with sleep still in it. I said lower. He knelt on the mat and licked my cunt while I held the mug out of the way and then gave up and set it down. His hands held my thighs open, thumbs stroking, no rush. He sucked my clit and I came looking at the ceiling, one hand in his hair, telling him yes, there, do not stop. He did not stop until I tugged him up.

I wanted his cock. I said it with my ankles crossed behind him. Fuck me. He eased his cock into my cunt, checked my face, and I nodded hard. The counter was cold and his cock was not. I told him the angle. He found it and fucked me there. I came again with my mouth on his shoulder so the open window would not get the whole story, cunt gripping his cock. He asked. I said cum in my cunt, stay. He finished shaking, arms braced, breath against my throat. Then he actually finished the eggs. I ate them in his shirt with my bare feet on his, and I told him I would go home when I felt like it and not before.