You gasp out the words before you can think, your voice raw and desperate. “In your mouth—please—”

Eamon’s eyes darken, a satisfied smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Good choice,” he rumbles, his voice rough with promise.

His hand releases the base of your cock, both palms sliding up to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your thighs. The heat of his touch grounds you, even as your pulse races.

Eamon doesn’t tease. Doesn’t draw it out. He sinks down in one smooth motion, taking you to the back of his throat without hesitation. His tongue flattens against the underside of your cock, his throat relaxing to swallow you whole. The rhythm he sets isn’t slow anymore. It’s steady, purposeful, each stroke designed to drag you closer to the edge.

Your hands fly to his hair, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself as your hips stutter, trying not to thrust but unable to stay still.

“Eamon—fuck—I’m—”

The warning dissolves into a broken sound, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t slow. One hand grips your ass, holding you close, while the other presses flat against your stomach, grounding you as your body trembles. His eyes flick up to watch your face, his throat working around you, a hum of satisfaction vibrating through his chest when he feels you pulse.

You come with a choked cry, your cock jerking as release tears through you. Eamon swallows, his throat working, his eyelids fluttering closed for just a second. He doesn’t pull off. He just holds you there, letting you ride it out, his lips sealed around the head as your hips twitch with the last of it. Small, rough sounds escape his throat, pleasure, satisfaction, ownership.

Eamon pulls off slowly, deliberately, his tongue tracing the length of your cock as he goes. You’re oversensitive, twitching, but he’s not done. His tongue swirls around the head, lapping up every last drop. When you gasp, too sensitive, he presses a kiss to the tip, his beard scratching your inner thigh.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “Just making sure I got everything.”

He’s thorough. His tongue traces the underside, the base, even the crease where your thigh meets your groin. His beard is damp, his lips swollen, and when he finally pulls back, he licks his own lips, savoring.

Eamon stands, slow, unhurried, giving you time to process. He steps into your space, his body warm and solid against yours. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip, before he leans in and kisses you. It’s deep, thorough, filthy.

You taste yourself, salt and bittersweet, and the remnants of the tart filling, fruit and sugar clinging to his tongue. Beneath it all, there’s him, woodsmoke and warmth, the flavor of his skin. The combination is obscene and intimate, and you moan into his mouth.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Taste good together.”

Eamon reaches past you to the counter, breaking off a piece of the tart. He brings it to your lips, his fingers brushing your skin.

“Eat,” he says, not a command, just Eamon being Eamon.

You take it automatically, the sweetness grounding you as your legs still tremble. He watches you chew, his hand warm on your hip, his thumb wiping a crumb from your lip.

“Better?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

Eamon steps back, just one step, his eyes dropping to the apron, still tented with his arousal.

“My turn,” he murmurs, his voice rough with need.

His fingers find the ties, unknotting them with deliberate slowness. The apron falls to the floor, leaving him fully exposed.

His cock is thick, uncut, the head dark and slick with precum. The foreskin is pulled back just enough to reveal the sensitive crown, veins standing out along the shaft, pulsing with his heartbeat. His balls hang heavy and low, the skin loose and dark, already drawn up tight with need. A string of precum connects the tip to his stomach, glistening in the kitchen light.

His chest rises and falls, his breath unsteady now, his abs tightening with each stroke. The scars on his shoulders catch the light as he wraps his broad palm around himself, his calloused fingers gripping tight. His thumb swipes over the head, smearing the beading precum, his strokes slow at first, savoring, just like everything else he does.

His body is a study in tension. Thighs flexing. Muscles bunching. Sweat beading at his temples. The dark hair on his chest trails down, leading to the thick root of his cock. His other hand braces against the counter beside you, his knuckles white.

His gaze locks onto you, unashamed. “Want you to watch,” he says, his voice a rough growl.

You can’t look away. Your eyes drop to his cock, then flick back up to his face, his flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the way his jaw clenches as he strokes himself. He sees the way you’re still trembling, wrecked from your own orgasm, and it makes his cock pulse in his grip.

“Just watch,” he murmurs, catching your hand when you reach for him, pressing it to his chest instead. “Let me look at you.”

His rhythm changes. His strokes get faster, tighter, his hips starting to move, fucking into his own fist. The sound is obscene, wet, rhythmic slaps of skin, his breathing ragged.

The veins in his cock stand out even more, dark lines throbbing beneath his skin. His balls draw up tight against his body, precum flowing freely, making his strokes slick and messy. His free hand grips the counter edge, his arm corded with effort.

Low grunts escape him, bitten-off curses.

“Fuck—” he breathes, your name rough and broken on his lips.

His entire body tenses. Thighs. Abs. Shoulders. His head tips back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing. A deep, guttural groan tears from his chest as his cock jerks in his grip, once, twice.

Cum shoots across his stomach, his chest, thick ropes of white against his dark skin. The first hits high, nearly to his collarbone, the next coating his abs, his hand, dripping down his thighs. He doesn’t stop stroking, milking himself through it, his hips stuttering forward, chasing the last of the pleasure.

His face is raw, unguarded. Pure, unfiltered pleasure. For a man who’s always so controlled, this is him completely undone.

His hand slows, then stills. His breathing gradually evens out, and he opens his eyes, finding your face. A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his lips.

“Damn,” he breathes.

He’s a mess, his hand covered, his stomach streaked, but he doesn’t rush to clean up. He just stands there, letting you see all of him.

Eamon reaches for a kitchen towel, wiping his hand, his stomach with efficient movements before tossing it aside. He steps back into your space, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

The kiss this time is softer, less urgent. His hand cups your face as he pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Come home with me.” Not a question. Not a command. An offer.

His fingers trail down your arm, his touch warm and grounding. The kitchen around you feels different now, less like a workspace, more like the start of something. He steps back just far enough to grab his apron from the floor, tying it loosely around his waist again, but his focus never leaves you.

“I’ve got coffee,” he says, his voice low, “or wine, if you’d rather.” His lips quirk, just slightly. “Or both, if you’re feeling indecisive.”

The invitation lingers in the air, rich with possibility. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the oven, the faint scent of sugar and sex still clinging to the space. His hand finds yours, his fingers threading through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Your call,” he adds, but his grip tightens just a little, as if he already knows your answer.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on, casting a golden glow through the windows. The night feels wide open.