Burnt Croissants

Heejin’s bonnet is halfway off. The ribbon caught between your teeth. Flour smeared around her throat.

You’re already inside her tight cunt. Your hips meeting hers at the counter; the wet sound of it between you.

“Fuck~ Right there. You feel so fucking good,” she gasps.

Heels digging into the small of your back, pulling you flush. Her blouse open but not off yet.

Ruffled linen shoved past her tits, nipples hard against your chest. The kitchen smells like butter and fresh bread and her.

You thrust harder. A baguette rolls off the counter. (Goddamn. You forgot how well she takes you.)

“That all you got babe?” Breathless and grinning. She manages your house like a trad wife but fucks like she’s the top brothel whore.

Her nails raking down your shoulders hard enough to leave a mark til tomorrow. She clenches around you on purpose. Tight. “Come on babe. Prove to me that you missed me. You’ve been gone long enough. I want every—single—drop.”

You pin her wrists against the marble. She moans. Her back arches against the cold stone, that arch—God Heejin—and she pulls you closer by the throat. Ankles locking, hips flush to yours, taking every stroke at the deepest angle she can get.

“Don’t stop babe.” Her voice cracks on the third word. She hates that. Bites your neck hard enough to bruise because you heard it.

The croissants are burnt. Neither of you care. Heejin spread across the marble. She’s the only spread you’ll need today.