Served Raw

“You were gonna feed me like this?”

Liam’s voice, rough from a day unspoken, cut through the sizzle of onions in the pan. I froze, spatula halfway to my lips for a taste.

Caught. Apron. That’s all. My floral, slightly-too-short apron, and nothing else. The one I’d tied on with a very specific kind of dare glinting in my eye, hoping he’d be late, or maybe just hoping he wouldn’t. Well, he’s not late.

His shadow fell over the kitchen island. He hadn’t moved from the doorway, but his eyes… God, his eyes were doing all the moving, stripping away the thin cotton of the apron, then the skin beneath. I saw his gym bag hit the floor by the door with a dull thud. His broad shoulders filled the frame, the muscles in his arms, still pumped from his workout, straining the fabric of his t-shirt. He was all hard lines and barely leashed want. My stomach did a little flip. Yeah, this is what I wanted.

I swallowed, turning slowly. The tie of the apron at my back felt suddenly flimsy. “I was cooking - ”

“And now I’m starving.” He closed the distance in three long strides, a hunter spotting very, very easy prey. His scent hit me – sweat, gym, him. Intoxicating. His hands landed on my hips, fingers splaying wide, thumbs hooking into the hollows there. He pulled me forward, away from the stove, the almost-dinner forgotten.

He lifted me, easy as breathing, and sat me on the cool, unforgiving marble of the countertop. My bare thighs prickled at the sudden cold. His hands. So strong. He didn’t even hesitate. The apron rode up, exposing everything. He didn’t miss it. His gaze dropped, hot and heavy.

“Liam,” I breathed, a token protest. My nipples were hard, pushing against the fabric. He knew.

“Dinner can burn.” His voice was a low growl, right against my ear. His breath fanned over my neck, sending shivers down my spine. He nudged my knees apart with his own, stepping between them. The heat of him, pressed against me. I could feel the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans, pressing insistently at the juncture of my thighs. My core clenched. Oh. Yes.

He bent his head, lips brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “You’re the only thing I’m hungry for right now.” His tongue darted out, a wet, hot promise.

A small gasp escaped me. Fuck. His tongue. He licked a slow stripe upwards, his stubble deliciously rough against my skin. My fingers tangled in his hair, a weak attempt to pull him closer, or maybe push him away. I wasn’t sure anymore.

His hands were on the apron ties. He didn’t untie it. No, he just tugged, pulling the hem higher, exposing my pussy completely to his gaze. My breath hitched. The air, cool on my wet heat, was a shock. He leaned back slightly, eyes devouring me. Dark, possessive.

“Standing there like that…” he murmured, his thumb tracing the outline of my swollen clit, “you knew exactly what I’d do.”

It wasn’t a question. My hips gave a little involuntary buck. He always knows. His gaze met mine, and it was like staring into a banked fire, all heat and simmering intensity. He could be so gentle, so careful with me other times.

Reading beside me on the sofa, his hand tracing patterns on my arm, listening patiently while I rehashed work drama. But then there were these times, these raw, consuming moments where that carefulness vanished, replaced by something wilder, something that stripped me bare. It reminded me of that time at old Miller’s

Overlook, when he’d caught some guy looking at me a little too long. The way his hand had clamped on my waist, pulling me into his side, the almost feral glint in his eyes. That same look was there now, amplified, focused solely on me.

His fingers, those strong, calloused fingers I sometimes watched flexing as he gripped a dumbbell, or a pen, thinking about how they’d feel… they slipped inside me. Two of them. Oh, god. I was already so wet. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through me.

“Mmm. Fuck. You’re dripping, princess.” His fingers moved, stretching me, filling me. “You are doing this on purpose, aren't you? ”

I tried to close my legs, a sudden wave of shyness, of being too exposed, too vulnerable, washing over me. His eyes narrowed.

He held them open, his grip firm, unyielding. “No.” The word was a steel command.

“You walk around in just an apron," His hips pushed forward, "you don’t get to act shy now.” His erection now rubbing directly against my clit, still mostly covered by his jeans. The friction was maddening. “You get used.”

My moan echoed off the polished wood cabinets, a raw, needy sound. His other hand snaked up, gripping my throat. Not painfully, but enough. A clear message of control. His thumb pressed against my pulse, which was hammering like a trapped bird. This is what he does to me. This is how it feels.

“Ah - ,” I gasped, hips lifting, trying to take him, anything.

He was already fumbling with his jeans, the rasp of the zipper loud in the sudden stillness, punctuated only by my ragged breaths and the continued, ignored sizzle from the pan. The food. It’s burning. The thought was a distant flicker.

He was free, his cock thick and heavy in his hand. He rubbed the head against my wet folds, torturing me. “Look at you." I bit my lip. "Begging for it.” His voice was a low thrum, each word a caress and a demand. He was degrading me on purpose, and it was turning me on.

He didn’t push in. Not yet. His gaze fell to my phone, sitting on the edge of the counter, screen dark. With his free hand, he picked it up, his eyes never leaving mine. His thumb swiped, and it lit up. My passcode. He knew it. Of course he knew it.

A message notification. From Mark. From work. ‘Hey, coffee still on for Thursday? Need to pick your brain about the Nelson account.’ Benign. Innocent.

Liam’s eyes, however, went flinty. He read it out loud, slowly, his voice dropping an octave, the words scraping over my raw nerves. “Coffee, princess? Mark from work.”

He pushed the head of his cock just inside me, a brutal tease. I cried out. “You planning on wearing just an apron for Mark too?”

“What? Liam - no, What are you talki - ” My voice was choked.

His hips gave a short, hard thrust. Deeper. Stretching me. “Shhh. Tell me who owns this pretty cunt.” He was playing around. Using 'Mark' for our little foreplay.

His fingers tightened slightly on my throat. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me. “Who are you thinking about when I’m like this, buried inside you?” He pushed in further, until he was seated deep, stealing my breath. Fuck. So big.

My mind went blank. Mark who? Coffee? Nothing existed but Liam, filling me, stretching me, his eyes burning into mine, his hand a brand on my throat. His body was a wall of heat and muscle against me. His scent was everywhere.

“Tell me,” he rasped, his rhythm starting, slow, deliberate, each thrust a claim. The cold marble under my ass was a stark contrast to the fire he was building inside me.

“You,” I gasped, words torn from me. “Only you. Always you.”

A grim satisfaction flickered in his eyes. “Good girl.” He leaned in, his mouth finding mine, a bruising kiss that tasted of want and possession. His tongue plundered, mimicking the rhythm of his hips. Ah… his mouth… so fucking good.

My hands scrabbled at his shoulders, his t-shirt damp with sweat. I could feel the hard muscle beneath. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. He used the angle, driving deeper, hitting that spot, that exact spot that made my vision blur.

“Mmmm… fuck, yes… right there…” The words were a jumbled mess of pleasure and surrender.

The apron was twisted, digging into my sides. The pan on the stove was definitely smoking now, a thin tendril of acrid smoke curling towards the ceiling. The smell was starting to permeate the air. But Liam didn’t seem to notice, or care. His focus was absolute.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to watch my face. His own was flushed, his jaw tight. “You like this, don’t you? Being taken. Being reminded who you belong to.” He didn’t wait for an answer, his hips picking up speed, a relentless, driving rhythm.

The counter vibrated slightly with each powerful thrust.

My internal monologue was just a scream of sensation. His eyes… so intense. The way his biceps bulge when he grips the counter… His grunts… Oh god, his grunts, deep in his chest… The way he handles me, like I’m precious and yet completely his to break…

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled, his free hand slipping down between us, fingers finding my clit again, rubbing, teasing, working in counterpoint to the thrusts of his cock. Oh god. One finger, then two, pressed against it, rolling, applying just the right pressure. The combination was… electrifying. My vision was whiting out at the edges.

“Liam… I’m… I’m close…”

“Not yet.” His voice was rough, but his eyes were alight with a fierce tenderness that somehow made the domination even hotter. “I want to feel every second of it. I want to watch you come apart for me.”

He slowed, drawing out the torture, his cock sliding out almost completely, then pushing back in, inch by agonizing inch. Each return was a new wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His thumb was still a relentless tease on my clit, while his fingers inside me curled, hitting my spot with punishing accuracy. He stops… and then he resumes… making everything so much harder for me… His other hand, the one not at my throat anymore, moved to my breast, squeezing gently, then harder, thumb raking over my nipple.

My head thrashed back. A keening sound ripped from my throat. The smoke alarm chose that precise moment to let out a tentative, preparatory beep.

Liam’s head snapped up. He looked at the ceiling, then back at me, a wild, almost dangerous grin spreading across his face. “Looks like we’ve got an audience.”

He didn’t stop. If anything, the beep, followed by a second, more insistent one, seemed to fuel him. He started fucking me harder, faster, his eyes locked on mine, a dare in their depths. Oh my god. He’s not stopping. The thought was both terrifying and incredibly arousing. What if someone heard? What if the neighbors…

“You want them to hear, princess?” he panted, his rhythm still unbroken, his cock a thick, hot brand inside me. “You want them to know how I make you scream?”

He pulled out suddenly, his cock slick and dripping. Before I could protest, or even catch my breath, he spun me around, bending me over the counter, facing the now furiously smoking pan. He grabbed the spatula I’d dropped, the one still smeared with tomato sauce.

“Stir,” he commanded, his voice low and urgent against my ear. He pressed the spatula into my hand, his other hand splayed on my lower back, pushing me down.

“What?” I gasped, confused, my mind reeling.

“Stir the damn sauce. You were cooking, remember?” He entered me from behind, a swift, hard thrust that slammed me against the cool marble. Fuck. Oh, fuck. This angle… deeper, rawer. He gripped my hips, setting a brutal pace.

My hand, clumsy and shaking, reached for the pan. The heat radiating from it was intense. I tried to stir the blackened mess, but my body was bucking with each of his thrusts. The smoke alarm was a shrieking symphony now.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lips at my ear, his teeth nipping my lobe. “Show me how good you are at following instructions, even when you’re falling apart.” His hand left my back, slid between my legs, fingers once again finding my clit, which was so swollen and sensitive it felt like it was on fire. He’s so fucking good… oh god… his fingers… mmmm…

The smoke was thick. My eyes were watering. The sheer absurdity, the wildness of it - fucking me senseless while I was supposed to be saving a ruined dinner, the alarm screaming bloody murder – it pushed me over the edge.

My orgasm hit like a tidal wave, a shattering, screaming release that buckled my knees. I cried out his name, the sound swallowed by the din of the alarm. He roared his own release a moment later, his body tensing, his seed flooding me. Hot. So hot.

He stayed inside me for a long moment, his breath ragged against my neck, his chest heaving. The alarm continued its relentless shriek.

Finally, he pulled out, resting his forehead against my back. “Fuck,” he panted. He reached over me, his hand fumbling, and slapped the silence button on the smoke detector. The sudden quiet was deafening, broken only by our harsh breathing and the faint crackle of the ruined food in the pan.

He turned me around slowly. My legs were shaking. The apron was a wreck, twisted and stained. The counter was… well, the counter was a mess. So was I.

He looked me in the eyes, his own still dark with spent passion and a lingering possessiveness. A small, wry smile touched his lips. He gently brushed a strand of damp hair from my forehead. His hand went to my stomach, pressing lightly.

“You ever cook dressed like this again…” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, and kissed my collarbone, a soft, lingering kiss that sent a fresh wave of heat through me. “You’re getting eaten first. Before you even light the stove.”

I stared at him, my heart still pounding. The smell of burnt tomato sauce filled the kitchen. He was right. I knew exactly what he’d do. And a deep, thrilling part of me, the part that craved his intensity, his obsession, had been counting on it.

He picked me up then, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, cradling me against his chest. The apron gaped, and I didn’t bother to adjust it.

“Shower,” he murmured, carrying me out of the disaster zone that was now our kitchen. “Then, maybe, we order takeout.”

I looped my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. I could still feel the thrum of his orgasm inside me, the phantom pressure of his hand on my throat, the way his eyes had devoured me. The way he looks at me… The way he cares, in his own, consuming way.

A tiny smile played on my lips. Takeout sounded good. Very good. Especially if dinner always came with a side of this.