He thinks hard before biting his lip, miming a zip across it and pointing upstairs.
“Okay, Marcel Marceau,” I say crossly. “Enough mime. Tell me we have lube because I’m seriously thinking of using just spit.”
“We’re in the kitchen,” he says. “Grab the olive oil.”
I grab the green bottle by the sink. “Hmm, produced from rain-fed olives and pressed on the same day,” I say approvingly. “Nothing but the best for my arse.” I snort out a laugh as he shakes his head and shoves me over the table. “Why, Mr Jacobs, you’re looking very impatient.” I wriggle my arse. “In a rush, are we?”
My voice dies away to a garbled groan as his wet, slippery fingers spread my cheeks and press against the pucker. “Fuck,” I groan. “Do it.” I throw my head back and tense as he inserts his finger slowly, sliding back and forward and drizzling more oil onto his fingers.
“This reminds me of a barbeque,” he says in a conversational tone of voice.
“Oh, you’re making jokes. My magic seems to be wearing off.”
He kisses me deeply. “That’ll never go.” He adds another finger slowly and then another until I’m writhing on the table, all laughter gone and only need left in its place.
“Oh shit,” I choke out. “Asa, fuck me, please.”
He rests his face against my back, rubbing his beard slowly over the skin and seeming to light up the nerves underneath. “Yes,” he says deeply. “Going to love you, Jude.”
“You do,” I say softly. “You do it so well, love.”
I grip the sides of the table as he slowly pushes his cock into me, the way slick with oil and his own pre-come so he slides in easily. “Oh fuck,” he chokes out. “So fucking good. Why is it always so good with you?”
I shake my head, pressing my face into the table and raising my arse to push back on him. “It’s the same for me. Oh, shit!” The last is a shout as he shoves into me brutally, banging my prostate until I feel like I could scream. So I do, as he pummels my arse in deep, hard shoves, trying to fuse our bodies together.
My cock throbs, the thud of my pulse in it feeling huge and loud. My balls draw up tight, and I go hot and cold, the sweat standing out on my body.
“Going to come,” I slur. “Asa, I’m going to come.”
“You need my hand?” he says gutturally, ramming into me again and staying to slide his cock over my prostate.
“No,” I grunt. I strain and reach for it, and at last, it happens. “Oh, fuck, I’m coming.”
My dick jerks in the air, pulsing white strands of come over the side of the table and onto the floor under my feet.
Asa gives a loud groan and then presses into me so hard, thrusting frantically, bruising me before stilling and giving a low groan. For a long few minutes, we lean against the table drunkenly. I can feel every twitch of his cock as he slowly softens and the gush of fluid that leaves me and drips over the backs of my legs.
I don’t know how long it takes until our breathing evens out enough to talk, but eventually, I stir. We’re now lying under the kitchen table where we migrated when our legs gave out, and we have sweat and come covering our bodies.
“Tell me we have wet wipes,” I mutter, and he laughs, his massive chest rising and falling under my head. His fingers play with my curls idly as they always do when we lie together. It’s as if it relaxes him.
I twist and rest my chin on his chest, carefully avoiding the tattoo and looking up at him. I blow an errant curl away from my eyes and smile as he runs his fingers down my cheek. “Going to tell me what’s going on?”
He stares at me for a second, thoughts rolling too quickly over his clever face for me to parse. Finally, he smiles almost helplessly. “We’re getting married today.”
“What?” He winces, and I lower my voice. “Sorry. I mean what the fuck, Asa Jacobs?”
He laughs but then grows serious as he threads our hands together. “What I meant to say is if it’s okay with you, Jude, I’d really like to marry you today.”
“Oh my God, you’re serious.” I sit up and promptly bang my head on the underside of the table. “Ow, fuck!” He laughs loudly, and I punch