Your breath hitches, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “On you—want to see it on you—”
Eamon’s pupils blow wide, his chest stilling for half a second before a sharp intake of breath.
“Yeah?” His voice drops, rougher, darker. “Want to mark me up?” It’s not a tease. It’s genuine want, raw and unfiltered.
He pulls off your cock completely, his hand immediately wrapping around the base, replacing his mouth with a grip slick from spit and the last traces of the tart filling. His thumb swipes over the head, his touch deliberate, his focus laser-sharp.
Eamon’s hand is firm, practiced, his strokes measured as he kneels back slightly, positioning himself just right. His face is close enough, close enough to see the way his lips part, the way his breath hitches as he watches you.
His other hand cups your balls, rolling them gently, or braces on your thigh, holding you steady.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a rough purr. “Let me see it.”
You’re already so close from his mouth, from the heat of his throat, the filthy sounds he made. But this, the visual of Eamon kneeling, waiting, wanting, pushes you over the edge.
“Eamon—fuck—I’m—”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t close his eyes.
“Do it,” he growls, his voice a command wrapped in need. “Come on me.”
You come with a broken cry, your cock pulsing in his grip. The first rope hits his cheek, just below his eye, stark white against his warm skin. The second catches in his beard, dripping down. The third lands across his lips. He doesn’t flinch, his mouth parting slightly as more streaks his chest, his shoulder, his collarbone.
A low, approving sound rumbles from his chest, almost a moan. His cock jerks beneath the apron, untouched but aching, the fabric tented obscenely. He keeps stroking you through it, milking every last drop, his hand slick with cum and the remnants of the tart.
He’s covered, face glistening, beard streaked, chest marked with you.
His tongue darts out, tasting what caught on his lip.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice thick. “Look at you.”
Eamon’s hand releases your softening cock, his fingers covered in you lifting to his mouth. He licks them clean, slow and thorough, his tongue swiping across his lips to catch more. The taste is salt and sweet, bitter and fruit, the last of the tart filling mingling with your release.
He hums, his eyelids fluttering closed for just a second.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Better than I expected.”
His fingers trace through the cum on his chest, bringing them to his mouth again, savoring. Not just cleaning. Indulging.
Eamon rises to his feet, slow and deliberate, his body still glistening with you. The kitchen light catches the streaks of cum on his chest, his beard, the way it drips down toward the waistband of the apron. His gaze never leaves yours as he reaches for the ties at his neck, his fingers deft despite the mess. The apron clings to him, the fabric damp and heavy, the outline of his cock straining against it, thick and heavy.
You take him in as he stands, broad shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moves. The cum you left on him is already dripping, trailing down the defined planes of his chest, catching in the dark hair that dusts his pecs. His breathing is still unsteady, his chest rising and falling with the aftermath of your release, the aftermath of his own restraint. The apron is a mess, the once-clean fabric now smeared with you, with the remnants of the tart, with the evidence of what just happened between you.
He unties the apron with one hand, the clean one, his movements unhurried, almost lazy. He brings the fabric to his face first, wiping his cheek, his beard, smearing some of the cum into the cloth before letting it drop to the floor with a quiet thud.
The grin that spreads across his lips is pure satisfaction.
“Wanted to see what I looked like wearing you.”
There’s something obscene about it, the way he stands there, marked by you, completely unashamed. The apron pools at his feet, leaving him fully exposed, his cock already thick and heavy, flushed dark with need. He doesn’t rush to cover himself. Doesn’t rush to clean up. He just lets you look.
Now he’s completely naked, and you take him in. All of him.
His cock is the first thing that draws your eye, thick, heavy, standing proud from his body. It’s uncut, the foreskin pulled back just enough to reveal the broad, slick head, nearly purple with need. The veins stand out prominently, thick lines running the length of his shaft, pulsing with his heartbeat. The head glistens with precum, a steady drip connecting it to his thigh, the skin so dark it’s almost bruised. His balls hang heavy and full, the skin loose and dark, the weight of them evident in the way they shift slightly as he moves.
His body is built for endurance, broad chest still streaked with your cum in places he didn’t bother to wipe off. He’s thick through the middle, solid, the kind of body that comes from years of physical work. Standing for hours in front of an oven. Kneading dough until his muscles burn. Dark hair trails across his chest, down his stomach, leading to the nest at the base of his cock. His thighs are powerful, muscles defined from years of standing, of moving, of working. Not gym-made. Lived-in.
The scars catch the light. The burn on his forearm, pale and ridged. The thin line above his eyebrow, a story you don’t know yet. His skin is warm brown, darker at his nipples, his cock, his balls, the contrast making him look even more vital, more alive. Sweat beads at his temples, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone, his body still humming with the heat of what just happened.
His stance is confident, feet planted wide. No shame. No self-consciousness. Just a man comfortable in his body, in his desire, in the mess you’ve made of him.
His hand drops to his cock, wrapping around himself with a slow stroke, his breath hitching just slightly as he does.
“Your turn to watch,” he says, his voice low, rough.
And you do.
You watch as his fingers tighten around his shaft, as his thumb swipes over the head, smearing the precum down the length of him. You watch the way his abs flex with the movement, the way his thighs tense, the way his entire body coils with the promise of what’s coming next.
There’s no hurry in him. No performance. Just Eamon, standing there in all his glory, offering himself up to you as completely as he just did on his knees.
His rhythm starts slow, savoring. His grip is tight, the way he likes it. His thumb swipes over the head again, smearing precum down his shaft, his other hand cupping his balls, rolling them, tugging gently.
His hips begin to move, subtle thrusts into his fist, his abs flexing with each stroke. The veins in his cock grow even more prominent, dark and pulsing.
His focus is all on you, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in the sight of you watching him.
“Like what you see?” he asks, his voice rough.
Low grunts escape him, his breathing growing ragged.
“Fuck—” under his breath. Your name, maybe.
Eamon doesn’t come yet. He holds himself at the edge, his free hand reaching for you, pulling you close. Your bodies press together, your chest against his, his cock trapped between you, hot and slick.
The kiss is deep, filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he keeps stroking himself. You can feel everything. The heat of his cock. The way his abs flex. The tremor in his thighs.
His breath is hot against your mouth.
“Close,” he pants between kisses, his strokes growing faster, more erratic.
His entire body goes taut. Shoulders. Back. Thighs. His hand speeds up, his grip punishing.
“Gonna—fuck—”
He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as his cock jerks in his fist.
Cum shoots hot across your thigh, your hip, thick ropes of white against your skin. He groans, deep, guttural, raw, as he keeps stroking, milking himself through it. More pulses coat your leg, dripping down.
His body trembles against yours, his free arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close. His breath comes in ragged gasps against your neck.
“Fuck—fuck—”
Eamon lifts his head, finding your eyes. A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his lips.
“Messy,” he observes, not apologizing.
His hand releases his cock, his cum-slick fingers lifting. He offers them to your mouth, an option, not a demand, or wipes them casually on his own thigh.
The kiss this time is softer, less desperate. His hand cups your jaw.
“Good?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
Eamon steps back, just enough to breathe, his gaze dropping to the mess on you, on him. He chuckles, low and warm.
“Can’t send you home like this,” he says.
His hand finds yours, his fingers lacing with yours.
“Come back with me,” he murmurs. Not a question. Not a command. An offer.
“Got a shower. Clean sheets. More food.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be.”
His expression is open. Genuine. No games. No performance.
Just Eamon, offering what he has.
Eamon’s pupils blow wide, his chest stilling for half a second before a sharp intake of breath.
“Yeah?” His voice drops, rougher, darker. “Want to mark me up?” It’s not a tease. It’s genuine want, raw and unfiltered.
He pulls off your cock completely, his hand immediately wrapping around the base, replacing his mouth with a grip slick from spit and the last traces of the tart filling. His thumb swipes over the head, his touch deliberate, his focus laser-sharp.
Eamon’s hand is firm, practiced, his strokes measured as he kneels back slightly, positioning himself just right. His face is close enough, close enough to see the way his lips part, the way his breath hitches as he watches you.
His other hand cups your balls, rolling them gently, or braces on your thigh, holding you steady.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a rough purr. “Let me see it.”
You’re already so close from his mouth, from the heat of his throat, the filthy sounds he made. But this, the visual of Eamon kneeling, waiting, wanting, pushes you over the edge.
“Eamon—fuck—I’m—”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t close his eyes.
“Do it,” he growls, his voice a command wrapped in need. “Come on me.”
You come with a broken cry, your cock pulsing in his grip. The first rope hits his cheek, just below his eye, stark white against his warm skin. The second catches in his beard, dripping down. The third lands across his lips. He doesn’t flinch, his mouth parting slightly as more streaks his chest, his shoulder, his collarbone.
A low, approving sound rumbles from his chest, almost a moan. His cock jerks beneath the apron, untouched but aching, the fabric tented obscenely. He keeps stroking you through it, milking every last drop, his hand slick with cum and the remnants of the tart.
He’s covered, face glistening, beard streaked, chest marked with you.
His tongue darts out, tasting what caught on his lip.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice thick. “Look at you.”
Eamon’s hand releases your softening cock, his fingers covered in you lifting to his mouth. He licks them clean, slow and thorough, his tongue swiping across his lips to catch more. The taste is salt and sweet, bitter and fruit, the last of the tart filling mingling with your release.
He hums, his eyelids fluttering closed for just a second.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Better than I expected.”
His fingers trace through the cum on his chest, bringing them to his mouth again, savoring. Not just cleaning. Indulging.
Eamon rises to his feet, slow and deliberate, his body still glistening with you. The kitchen light catches the streaks of cum on his chest, his beard, the way it drips down toward the waistband of the apron. His gaze never leaves yours as he reaches for the ties at his neck, his fingers deft despite the mess. The apron clings to him, the fabric damp and heavy, the outline of his cock straining against it, thick and heavy.
You take him in as he stands, broad shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moves. The cum you left on him is already dripping, trailing down the defined planes of his chest, catching in the dark hair that dusts his pecs. His breathing is still unsteady, his chest rising and falling with the aftermath of your release, the aftermath of his own restraint. The apron is a mess, the once-clean fabric now smeared with you, with the remnants of the tart, with the evidence of what just happened between you.
He unties the apron with one hand, the clean one, his movements unhurried, almost lazy. He brings the fabric to his face first, wiping his cheek, his beard, smearing some of the cum into the cloth before letting it drop to the floor with a quiet thud.
The grin that spreads across his lips is pure satisfaction.
“Wanted to see what I looked like wearing you.”
There’s something obscene about it, the way he stands there, marked by you, completely unashamed. The apron pools at his feet, leaving him fully exposed, his cock already thick and heavy, flushed dark with need. He doesn’t rush to cover himself. Doesn’t rush to clean up. He just lets you look.
Now he’s completely naked, and you take him in. All of him.
His cock is the first thing that draws your eye, thick, heavy, standing proud from his body. It’s uncut, the foreskin pulled back just enough to reveal the broad, slick head, nearly purple with need. The veins stand out prominently, thick lines running the length of his shaft, pulsing with his heartbeat. The head glistens with precum, a steady drip connecting it to his thigh, the skin so dark it’s almost bruised. His balls hang heavy and full, the skin loose and dark, the weight of them evident in the way they shift slightly as he moves.
His body is built for endurance, broad chest still streaked with your cum in places he didn’t bother to wipe off. He’s thick through the middle, solid, the kind of body that comes from years of physical work. Standing for hours in front of an oven. Kneading dough until his muscles burn. Dark hair trails across his chest, down his stomach, leading to the nest at the base of his cock. His thighs are powerful, muscles defined from years of standing, of moving, of working. Not gym-made. Lived-in.
The scars catch the light. The burn on his forearm, pale and ridged. The thin line above his eyebrow, a story you don’t know yet. His skin is warm brown, darker at his nipples, his cock, his balls, the contrast making him look even more vital, more alive. Sweat beads at his temples, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone, his body still humming with the heat of what just happened.
His stance is confident, feet planted wide. No shame. No self-consciousness. Just a man comfortable in his body, in his desire, in the mess you’ve made of him.
His hand drops to his cock, wrapping around himself with a slow stroke, his breath hitching just slightly as he does.
“Your turn to watch,” he says, his voice low, rough.
And you do.
You watch as his fingers tighten around his shaft, as his thumb swipes over the head, smearing the precum down the length of him. You watch the way his abs flex with the movement, the way his thighs tense, the way his entire body coils with the promise of what’s coming next.
There’s no hurry in him. No performance. Just Eamon, standing there in all his glory, offering himself up to you as completely as he just did on his knees.
His rhythm starts slow, savoring. His grip is tight, the way he likes it. His thumb swipes over the head again, smearing precum down his shaft, his other hand cupping his balls, rolling them, tugging gently.
His hips begin to move, subtle thrusts into his fist, his abs flexing with each stroke. The veins in his cock grow even more prominent, dark and pulsing.
His focus is all on you, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in the sight of you watching him.
“Like what you see?” he asks, his voice rough.
Low grunts escape him, his breathing growing ragged.
“Fuck—” under his breath. Your name, maybe.
Eamon doesn’t come yet. He holds himself at the edge, his free hand reaching for you, pulling you close. Your bodies press together, your chest against his, his cock trapped between you, hot and slick.
The kiss is deep, filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he keeps stroking himself. You can feel everything. The heat of his cock. The way his abs flex. The tremor in his thighs.
His breath is hot against your mouth.
“Close,” he pants between kisses, his strokes growing faster, more erratic.
His entire body goes taut. Shoulders. Back. Thighs. His hand speeds up, his grip punishing.
“Gonna—fuck—”
He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as his cock jerks in his fist.
Cum shoots hot across your thigh, your hip, thick ropes of white against your skin. He groans, deep, guttural, raw, as he keeps stroking, milking himself through it. More pulses coat your leg, dripping down.
His body trembles against yours, his free arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close. His breath comes in ragged gasps against your neck.
“Fuck—fuck—”
Eamon lifts his head, finding your eyes. A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his lips.
“Messy,” he observes, not apologizing.
His hand releases his cock, his cum-slick fingers lifting. He offers them to your mouth, an option, not a demand, or wipes them casually on his own thigh.
The kiss this time is softer, less desperate. His hand cups your jaw.
“Good?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
Eamon steps back, just enough to breathe, his gaze dropping to the mess on you, on him. He chuckles, low and warm.
“Can’t send you home like this,” he says.
His hand finds yours, his fingers lacing with yours.
“Come back with me,” he murmurs. Not a question. Not a command. An offer.
“Got a shower. Clean sheets. More food.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be.”
His expression is open. Genuine. No games. No performance.
Just Eamon, offering what he has.