Your voice breaks as the words spill out. “Want you inside me—fuck me, please—”
Eamon goes still for a heartbeat. His cock jerks visibly beneath the apron, but his hand on your cock doesn’t tighten. It grounds you, steady and warm. His gaze snaps to yours, dark and searching.
“Yeah?” His voice drops, careful, checking in. “You sure?”
It’s not doubt. It’s Eamon.
“Haven’t prepped you for that yet,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the head of your cock in slow, soothing circles.
You nod, desperate, breathless. “Yes. Please.”
His eyes darken, satisfied.
“Okay,” he rumbles. “Let me take care of you.”
Eamon rises to his feet, slow and deliberate, his hands sliding to your hips to steady you as he helps you step back from the edge of the counter. His touch is firm but gentle, giving you space to breathe, to center yourself.
His eyes trace your body, not hungry, but thoughtful, assessing.
“Need to get you ready first,” he says, his voice practical, calm. But his cock is still hard beneath the apron, the fabric tented obscenely.
He glances around the kitchen, his gaze landing on the butter dish on the counter. A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips. Problem solved.
“Trust me?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Gonna make this good for you.”
Eamon’s hands grip your waist, his fingers warm and sure. He lifts you easily onto the edge of the counter, your legs spreading naturally, feet dangling. The cool surface beneath you is a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he steps between your thighs.
“Want to see your face,” he says, his voice rough.
You’re eye-level now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, the way his beard catches the light. His hands rest on your knees, spreading them wider, making space for himself.
“Just like this,” he murmurs. Perfect.
Eamon reaches past you for the butter dish. It’s soft, room temperature, perfect. He scoops some onto his fingers, practical, unhurried, his other hand resting warm on your thigh.
“Not fancy,” he admits with a small, almost shy smile. “But it’ll work.”
You watch, transfixed, as his thick fingers glisten with butter, the apron still hanging loose around his waist, his cock visible beneath, hard and waiting.
His focus is all on you.
“Gonna go slow,” he promises.
Eamon’s clean hand spreads your thighs wider, his slick fingers finding your hole. He circles the rim, gentle pressure, his touch warm and patient.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
The first finger slides in slow, just to the first knuckle. He pauses, letting you adjust, his free hand stroking your thigh in slow, soothing motions.
“Breathe,” he reminds you.
You gasp at the stretch, the foreign fullness, but his voice keeps you grounded.
“That’s it,” he rumbles. “Good.”
He starts to move, shallow thrusts, patient, his finger crooking inside you, searching. When he finds that spot, your hips jerk involuntarily, a broken sound escaping your lips.
“There?” His smile is knowing.
He adds a second finger, more butter, more patience. The stretch burns, but his thumb brushes your hip bone, soothing.
“Doing so good,” he murmurs, scissoring his fingers, opening you up.
His other hand wraps around your cock, half-hard again already, his strokes slow, keeping you present.
“Stay with me,” he says.
You whimper as he adds a third finger, the butter making the slide easy, the stretch intense. He works them in and out, deliberate, hitting that spot repeatedly until your breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Think you’re ready,” he says, his voice thick with need.
His fingers slide out carefully, leaving you empty and aching. He reaches for more butter, coating his own cock, thick and flushed, veins prominent, the butter making it glisten, obscene. His hand strokes himself once, twice, coating thoroughly, his balls heavy and tight with arousal.
His control is palpable. He’s been hard this whole time, patient, but his need is visible now, his cock twitching, precum mixing with the butter.
He steps between your spread thighs, one hand gripping the base of his cock, the other on your hip.
“Ready?” His eyes search your face, waiting for your nod, your “Yes.”
As you exhale, he pushes in, slow, steady. The head breaches, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. He stills immediately.
“Okay?” His voice is strained but controlled.
You nod, unable to speak.
He’s thick. You feel every inch as he continues pushing in, incremental, his hand on your hip anchoring you.
“Almost there,” he breathes.
Finally, he bottoms out, hips flush against you. You both groan, you from the fullness, him from the heat. He holds there, trembling with the effort not to move.
“Fuck—you feel—” He can’t finish the sentence.
You clutch at his shoulders, the counter edge, overwhelmed.
“Eamon—”
He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, your lips.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He waits, giving you time to adjust.
Eamon pulls back just slightly, then pushes back in. Shallow thrusts, testing. Your body relaxes, opens for him.
“There you go,” he murmurs.
He pulls out further, slides back in deeper, setting a rhythm that’s slow, deliberate, thorough. Each thrust is purposeful, angled to hit that spot inside you. You moan, your hips rocking to meet him.
His body moves with yours, abs flexing as he thrusts, thighs bunching with effort. Sweat beads on his forehead, his chest, his breath coming in rough pants.
His eyes lock onto yours, one hand braced on the counter beside you, the other finding your cock, wrapping around.
He strokes you in time with his thrusts, his voice a low rumble of grunts and murmured praise.
“So good—fuck—,” he says your name breathlessly. “Love watching you take me.”
You’re gasping, moaning, incoherent, your body rocking with each thrust. The dual sensation, his cock inside, his hand stroking, is overwhelming.
Eamon’s control slips. His thrusts get deeper, harder, still careful, never rough. The sound of skin slapping, the slick slide of butter, fills the kitchen.
His hand on your cock speeds up.
“Close,” he grits out. “Can feel you—”
You’re stretched, filled, stroked, that spot inside hit repeatedly.
“Eamon—gonna—”
“Do it,” he growls. “Come for me.” “Want to feel you.”
His thumb swipes over your head, smearing precum.
The visual of him, apron hanging off him, barely covering anything, his body glistening with sweat, the muscles in his arms, his chest, his thighs all flexed, is almost too much.
His cock disappears into you, slick with butter, his face a mask of concentration, jaw clenched, eyes dark, focused entirely on you.
The pressure builds, crests. You come with a broken cry, cum spilling across your stomach, Eamon’s hand.
Your body clenches around his cock, and that’s all it takes.
“Fuck—yes—”
Eamon slams in one more time, holding deep as his cock pulses, filling you. His whole body shudders, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your neck.
The heat of him inside you, his hand still wrapped around your softening cock, the apron pressed between you, sticky with your release, it’s too much. Perfect.
Eamon doesn’t pull out immediately. He just holds you, both of you catching your breath, his forehead pressed to yours.
“Good?” he asks eventually, his voice wrecked.
You can only nod, boneless, trembling, satisfied.
He kisses you, soft, gentle, thorough.
“So good,” he murmurs between kisses. “Did so good for me.”
Slowly, carefully, he pulls out. You whimper at the loss, at the way his cum starts to leak out. He watches for a moment, satisfied.
Eamon reaches for a clean kitchen towel, wiping you clean, gentle, thorough. Between your legs, your stomach. No rush. Just care.
He unties the apron, finally, using it to clean himself. Still half-hard, glistening, he drops it to the floor.
Then he lifts you off the counter, setting you on your feet, holding you steady.
“Legs work?” A small smile.
You’re wobbly, leaning into him.
He wraps his arms around you, skin to skin, his chin resting on top of your head.
“You okay?” Checking in.
His hand rubs slow circles on your back.
“Can’t stay in the kitchen all night,” Eamon murmurs, but there’s no rush in his voice.
The offer is simple, open.
“Come home with me.”
Not a question. Not a command.
“Got a bed. Clean sheets. Shower if you want.” His hand finds yours, fingers lacing.
“More food when you’re ready.”
His expression is warm, open, satisfied. This isn’t a one-time thing. Not if you don’t want it to be.
Eamon goes still for a heartbeat. His cock jerks visibly beneath the apron, but his hand on your cock doesn’t tighten. It grounds you, steady and warm. His gaze snaps to yours, dark and searching.
“Yeah?” His voice drops, careful, checking in. “You sure?”
It’s not doubt. It’s Eamon.
“Haven’t prepped you for that yet,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the head of your cock in slow, soothing circles.
You nod, desperate, breathless. “Yes. Please.”
His eyes darken, satisfied.
“Okay,” he rumbles. “Let me take care of you.”
Eamon rises to his feet, slow and deliberate, his hands sliding to your hips to steady you as he helps you step back from the edge of the counter. His touch is firm but gentle, giving you space to breathe, to center yourself.
His eyes trace your body, not hungry, but thoughtful, assessing.
“Need to get you ready first,” he says, his voice practical, calm. But his cock is still hard beneath the apron, the fabric tented obscenely.
He glances around the kitchen, his gaze landing on the butter dish on the counter. A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips. Problem solved.
“Trust me?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Gonna make this good for you.”
Eamon’s hands grip your waist, his fingers warm and sure. He lifts you easily onto the edge of the counter, your legs spreading naturally, feet dangling. The cool surface beneath you is a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he steps between your thighs.
“Want to see your face,” he says, his voice rough.
You’re eye-level now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, the way his beard catches the light. His hands rest on your knees, spreading them wider, making space for himself.
“Just like this,” he murmurs. Perfect.
Eamon reaches past you for the butter dish. It’s soft, room temperature, perfect. He scoops some onto his fingers, practical, unhurried, his other hand resting warm on your thigh.
“Not fancy,” he admits with a small, almost shy smile. “But it’ll work.”
You watch, transfixed, as his thick fingers glisten with butter, the apron still hanging loose around his waist, his cock visible beneath, hard and waiting.
His focus is all on you.
“Gonna go slow,” he promises.
Eamon’s clean hand spreads your thighs wider, his slick fingers finding your hole. He circles the rim, gentle pressure, his touch warm and patient.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
The first finger slides in slow, just to the first knuckle. He pauses, letting you adjust, his free hand stroking your thigh in slow, soothing motions.
“Breathe,” he reminds you.
You gasp at the stretch, the foreign fullness, but his voice keeps you grounded.
“That’s it,” he rumbles. “Good.”
He starts to move, shallow thrusts, patient, his finger crooking inside you, searching. When he finds that spot, your hips jerk involuntarily, a broken sound escaping your lips.
“There?” His smile is knowing.
He adds a second finger, more butter, more patience. The stretch burns, but his thumb brushes your hip bone, soothing.
“Doing so good,” he murmurs, scissoring his fingers, opening you up.
His other hand wraps around your cock, half-hard again already, his strokes slow, keeping you present.
“Stay with me,” he says.
You whimper as he adds a third finger, the butter making the slide easy, the stretch intense. He works them in and out, deliberate, hitting that spot repeatedly until your breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Think you’re ready,” he says, his voice thick with need.
His fingers slide out carefully, leaving you empty and aching. He reaches for more butter, coating his own cock, thick and flushed, veins prominent, the butter making it glisten, obscene. His hand strokes himself once, twice, coating thoroughly, his balls heavy and tight with arousal.
His control is palpable. He’s been hard this whole time, patient, but his need is visible now, his cock twitching, precum mixing with the butter.
He steps between your spread thighs, one hand gripping the base of his cock, the other on your hip.
“Ready?” His eyes search your face, waiting for your nod, your “Yes.”
As you exhale, he pushes in, slow, steady. The head breaches, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. He stills immediately.
“Okay?” His voice is strained but controlled.
You nod, unable to speak.
He’s thick. You feel every inch as he continues pushing in, incremental, his hand on your hip anchoring you.
“Almost there,” he breathes.
Finally, he bottoms out, hips flush against you. You both groan, you from the fullness, him from the heat. He holds there, trembling with the effort not to move.
“Fuck—you feel—” He can’t finish the sentence.
You clutch at his shoulders, the counter edge, overwhelmed.
“Eamon—”
He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, your lips.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He waits, giving you time to adjust.
Eamon pulls back just slightly, then pushes back in. Shallow thrusts, testing. Your body relaxes, opens for him.
“There you go,” he murmurs.
He pulls out further, slides back in deeper, setting a rhythm that’s slow, deliberate, thorough. Each thrust is purposeful, angled to hit that spot inside you. You moan, your hips rocking to meet him.
His body moves with yours, abs flexing as he thrusts, thighs bunching with effort. Sweat beads on his forehead, his chest, his breath coming in rough pants.
His eyes lock onto yours, one hand braced on the counter beside you, the other finding your cock, wrapping around.
He strokes you in time with his thrusts, his voice a low rumble of grunts and murmured praise.
“So good—fuck—,” he says your name breathlessly. “Love watching you take me.”
You’re gasping, moaning, incoherent, your body rocking with each thrust. The dual sensation, his cock inside, his hand stroking, is overwhelming.
Eamon’s control slips. His thrusts get deeper, harder, still careful, never rough. The sound of skin slapping, the slick slide of butter, fills the kitchen.
His hand on your cock speeds up.
“Close,” he grits out. “Can feel you—”
You’re stretched, filled, stroked, that spot inside hit repeatedly.
“Eamon—gonna—”
“Do it,” he growls. “Come for me.” “Want to feel you.”
His thumb swipes over your head, smearing precum.
The visual of him, apron hanging off him, barely covering anything, his body glistening with sweat, the muscles in his arms, his chest, his thighs all flexed, is almost too much.
His cock disappears into you, slick with butter, his face a mask of concentration, jaw clenched, eyes dark, focused entirely on you.
The pressure builds, crests. You come with a broken cry, cum spilling across your stomach, Eamon’s hand.
Your body clenches around his cock, and that’s all it takes.
“Fuck—yes—”
Eamon slams in one more time, holding deep as his cock pulses, filling you. His whole body shudders, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your neck.
The heat of him inside you, his hand still wrapped around your softening cock, the apron pressed between you, sticky with your release, it’s too much. Perfect.
Eamon doesn’t pull out immediately. He just holds you, both of you catching your breath, his forehead pressed to yours.
“Good?” he asks eventually, his voice wrecked.
You can only nod, boneless, trembling, satisfied.
He kisses you, soft, gentle, thorough.
“So good,” he murmurs between kisses. “Did so good for me.”
Slowly, carefully, he pulls out. You whimper at the loss, at the way his cum starts to leak out. He watches for a moment, satisfied.
Eamon reaches for a clean kitchen towel, wiping you clean, gentle, thorough. Between your legs, your stomach. No rush. Just care.
He unties the apron, finally, using it to clean himself. Still half-hard, glistening, he drops it to the floor.
Then he lifts you off the counter, setting you on your feet, holding you steady.
“Legs work?” A small smile.
You’re wobbly, leaning into him.
He wraps his arms around you, skin to skin, his chin resting on top of your head.
“You okay?” Checking in.
His hand rubs slow circles on your back.
“Can’t stay in the kitchen all night,” Eamon murmurs, but there’s no rush in his voice.
The offer is simple, open.
“Come home with me.”
Not a question. Not a command.
“Got a bed. Clean sheets. Shower if you want.” His hand finds yours, fingers lacing.
“More food when you’re ready.”
His expression is warm, open, satisfied. This isn’t a one-time thing. Not if you don’t want it to be.