Throttle Body

I was halfway through cleaning the throttle body on my Kawasaki when I heard the front door slam open hard enough to rattle the mug of tea I'd left on the hall table.

"Luke!"

Your voice had a crack in it I hadn't heard before. Not angry. Not upset. Something else entirely.

I straightened up from the bike, wiping my hands on the rag I'd been using, and you came round the corner into the kitchen like a woman possessed. Your hair was down — that long blonde mess you usually keep tied back — and it was tangled like you'd been driving with the windows down. Your cheeks were flushed pink. Your eyes looked wild, pupils blown wide, and you were breathing through your mouth in these short little bursts.

"Are you alright?" I said, because honestly, you looked like you'd either just been chased or were about to chase me.

You didn't answer right away. You just stood there in the doorway of my kitchen, chest heaving, staring at me with this look that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. You were wearing that green dress — the one that hits you mid-thigh and makes me lose my train of thought every time you wear it. Your sandals were already kicked off somewhere behind you.

"I am sopping wet," you said.

I blinked. "Outside? It's not raining, is it?"

You laughed — that proper Becky laugh, the one where your whole face changes and you look like you're about to cause serious trouble. "Not from the weather, you absolute dickhead."

Oh.

Oh.

You crossed the kitchen in about four strides, grabbed the hem of your dress, and pulled it straight up over your hips. No knickers. Of course no knickers. You were glistening, and I don't mean from the weather. You bent yourself over my worktop with your palms flat on the granite, arse in the air, and looked back over your shoulder at me with those wild eyes.

"Fuck me. Now."

I should tell you — for context — that I'm six foot seven and I still felt like the ground had shifted under me. My brain was trying to process about fifteen things at once: the throttle body I'd just cleaned, the grease on my hands, the fact that you were bent over my kitchen counter with your cunt on full display, and the very clear instruction you'd just given me.

"Becky—"

"If you say one more word that isn't yes, I will never speak to you again."

I washed my hands. I washed them properly, with soap, because I wasn't about to put grease anywhere near you. You watched me do it over your shoulder, and I could see you were practically vibrating. Your thighs were pressed together, then apart, then together again, like you couldn't keep still.

I dried my hands on the towel and walked over to you. The kitchen was bright — afternoon sun coming through the window, hitting your back, catching the curve of your hips. You looked incredible. You looked like you'd lose your mind if I didn't touch you in the next ten seconds.

I stepped behind you and ran my hand up the back of your thigh. You shuddered. Actually shuddered, like I'd plugged you into the mains. When my fingers reached you, you were soaked. Not just wet — slippery, swollen, hot. You groaned and dropped your head between your arms.

"Please," you said, and your voice had lost all the cheek. That one word came out raw.

I undid my jeans. I was already hard — had been since you'd pulled your dress up — and when I pushed into you, you made a sound I'd never heard a person make. Not a scream, not a moan. Something guttural and grateful, like relief and pleasure had collided in your throat.

I fucked you hard because that's what you wanted. You didn't want slow. You didn't want gentle. You wanted to be taken over that worktop, and I gave it to you. My hands on your hips, your dress bunched up around your waist, the sound of your wetness every time I thrust into you. You were pushing back into me with every stroke, your fingers gripping the edge of the granite so hard your knuckles were white.

"Fuck — yes — fuck —"

You came fast and loud, your whole body clenching around me, and I kept going because you hadn't told me to stop and I wasn't far behind. When I felt myself getting close, I pulled out, and you made this desperate little whimpering sound that nearly finished me off on its own.

"Turn around," I said.

You did, immediately, like I'd pressed a button. Your eyes were glazed, your lips parted, your dress still bunched up. I pulled it off you properly, over your head, and you stood there naked in my kitchen in the afternoon light and I thought: I am the luckiest bastard alive.

I lifted you onto the worktop. The granite was cold against your skin and you hissed, then laughed, then wrapped your legs around my waist. I stepped back.

"I want to watch you come," I said. "While I watch."

You raised an eyebrow. "While you wank, you mean."

"While I wank, yes."

You leaned back on one hand — the other went straight between your legs, two fingers circling your clit in slow, deliberate movements. You watched me wrap my hand around myself, and your mouth fell open slightly. I was moving slowly, keeping myself on the edge, because I wanted to see this. I wanted to see you make yourself come on my kitchen counter.

Your fingers moved faster. Your head tipped back. Your breasts rose and fell with your breathing, and your nipples were hard, and your stomach was tensing in that way it does when you're close. Your eyes kept flicking between my face and my hand, and every time you looked at what I was doing, your fingers moved faster.

"Luke—"

"Come for me, Becky."

You did. Your legs clamped together, your fingers pressed hard against yourself, and your whole body shook. I watched your stomach ripple, watched your mouth open in a silent cry, watched the flush spread down your neck and across your chest. That was it for me. I stepped forward, and I came across your tits — thick, white streaks across your skin, hot against you. You looked down at yourself and gasped, then smiled that smile.

You looked up at me with those wild eyes, and then you did something I was not prepared for. You scooped my cum off your breast with your fingers, rubbed it into your skin slowly, deliberately, watching my face the whole time. Then you lifted your breast up to your mouth, curled your tongue around your own nipple, and sucked it clean.

"Fucking hell, Becky. You are fucking filthy."

You released your nipple with a soft pop and grinned at me. "And yet you're getting hard again."

She was right. I was. Watching you do that — watching you taste me like that — had me rigid again in about thirty seconds. You noticed, obviously. You noticed everything.

You sat there on my worktop, naked, cum-smeared, legs swinging slightly, and you looked at me with a thoughtful expression. Not the wild look from before. Something quieter. More considered.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

"You can ask me anything."

"Have you ever fucked anyone up the arse?"

The question landed in the kitchen like a brick through a window. I stared at you. You stared back, calm as anything, like you'd asked me about the weather.

"Yes," I said. "My ex. A few times."

"What did it feel like?"

I swallowed. "Incredible. Tight. Different. Like she was letting me into somewhere she'd never let anyone before. It felt—" I paused, trying to find the right word. "It felt like trust, physically. If that makes sense."

You nodded slowly. Your eyes dropped to my cock, which was absolutely rigid again now, just from talking about it. You looked back up at me.

"Fuck me up the arse."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Really?"

"I've never let anyone do it." You said it quietly, without embarrassment. Just fact. "Never wanted to. Never trusted anyone enough. Never felt—" You paused, and your cheeks went pinker than they already were. "I've never felt so turned on in my entire life. I want to feel it. With you."

"Why?" I asked, and I didn't mean it as a challenge. I meant it because I wanted to hear you say it.

"Because I trust you. Because you're gentle when you need to be and rough when I want you to be. Because right now, standing in your kitchen with your cum on my tits, I have never felt more safe or more turned on, and I want you to have that part of me that no one else has had."

I stood there, looking at this woman — naked on my kitchen worktop, cum on her chest, asking me to do something she'd never done with anyone — and I felt my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

"Okay," I said. "Upstairs."

You hopped off the counter. I took your hand — not because you needed help, but because I wanted to hold it. We walked up the stairs together, and I led you into the bedroom.

The bedroom was beautiful. I know that sounds like a strange thing to think about at a time like that, but it hit me in that moment. The afternoon light was softer up here, filtering through the curtains in warm bands. The bed was unmade from this morning, sheets tangled, pillows scattered. It smelled like me — like fabric softener and the cedar candle you'd bought me last month. It was calm. It felt like the right place for this.

You stood in the middle of the room, naked, arms crossed loosely under your breasts, looking around. "This is nice," you said softly. "Your bedroom. I don't think I've ever really looked at it before."

"You've been in here before."

"Not like this." You turned to me. "Not like this."

I stepped close to you and kissed you. Properly. Not the desperate, urgent kissing from the kitchen — slow, deep, my hands in your hair, your body pressing against mine. I could feel my cum still on your chest, warm and slick between us, and you didn't seem to care. You held onto my shoulders and kissed me back with this tenderness that made my throat tight.

"Lie down," I said.

You did. On your back, in the middle of my unmade bed, blonde hair fanned out across my pillow. I lay beside you and kissed your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. I ran my hand down your stomach, over your hip, between your legs. You were still wet — from earlier, from now, from everything.

I started with your clit. Slow circles, light pressure, just my fingertips. You closed your eyes and exhaled long and slow. I kept the rhythm steady, not changing it, not pushing, just keeping you there in that warm, buzzing space.

"That's nice," you murmured. "That's really nice."

I kept going. I kissed your neck while I did it, breathed against your skin, let you feel the warmth of me beside you. Your thighs relaxed, opened wider. Your breathing deepened. I could feel you getting wetter under my fingers, feel the soft swell of your clit under my touch.

I reached over to the bedside drawer. I had lube — good lube, the silicone kind that lasts. I coated my fingers and returned to you, sliding one finger down from your clit, pressing gently against you there. You tensed for a second, just a flicker, then breathed out and let me in.

"Okay?" I said.

"Mmm. Okay."

I moved slowly. One finger, shallow, while my other hand kept circling your clit. The combination made you gasp — your back arching slightly, your hands gripping the sheets.

"More," you said. "But slow."

I added a second finger. You breathed through it, and I could feel you opening, relaxing, the tight ring of muscle softening around me. I kept my other hand on your clit, keeping you wet, keeping you close to the edge of pleasure so the stretch didn't tip over into anything else.

"Luke," you whispered, and the way you said my name — breathless, trusting, open — made me harder than I'd ever been in my life.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Yes."

I positioned myself behind you, spooning you on your side. I figured that would be easier — more intimate, less intense, you could control the depth. I pressed against you, slick with lube, and you reached back and held my hip.

"Slow," you said. "Really slow."

I pushed forward. The tip went in and you inhaled sharply — a hiss through your teeth. I stopped.

"Don't stop," you said. "Just — hold on. Give me a second."

I held still. I kissed the back of your neck, your shoulder, the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. My hand came around to your front and found your clit again, and I rubbed it in those same slow circles while I waited.

"Okay," you breathed. "Okay, go."

I pushed in deeper. Slowly, so slowly, feeling you open around me inch by inch. The sensation was — I'd told you the truth earlier. It was incredible. Tight, yes, but more than that. It was the intimacy of it. The fact that you were letting me here, that you'd never let anyone else here, that you trusted me enough to do this.

"Fuck," you said, and your voice was thick. "You're so — fuck, you're big."

"Tell me if it's too much."

"It's a lot. But don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

I was fully inside you now, and I held there, barely moving, my fingers working your clit in steady circles. You were trembling — not from pain, I could tell. From the intensity. From the newness. From the overwhelm of feeling something in a place you'd never felt anything before.

I started to move. Small thrusts, barely anything, just enough to create friction. You moaned — low, deep, from somewhere in your chest. Your hand came down to cover mine on your clit, pressing my fingers harder against yourself.

"More," you said. "A bit more."

I increased the pace. Still gentle, still controlled, but deeper now. You were making sounds I'd never heard from you — guttural, raw, almost surprised. Like your body was discovering something it didn't know it could feel.

"Luke — I'm going to come — I think I'm going to come—"

"Come for me, Becky."

You did. And it was different. I could feel it — the way your whole body clenched, the way you arched back against me, the way the orgasm rolled through you in waves that didn't seem to stop. It wasn't like the ones in the kitchen. It was deeper, slower, more total. Like it was coming from somewhere that had never been reached before.

Your orgasm triggered mine. I felt it building from the base of my spine, through my thighs, and when I came inside you, you gasped like you could feel it — the warmth, the pulse of it — and you reached back and grabbed my hair and pulled my mouth to yours and kissed me through it.

We lay there afterward, still joined, my arms around you, your body trembling in small aftershocks. The room was quiet except for our breathing. The afternoon light had shifted, going golden, and I could see dust motes floating in the beam from the curtain gap.

"That was—" you started, and stopped. You tried again. "I've never — that was the most incredible orgasm I've ever had. In my life. By a significant margin."

I kissed your shoulder. "Good?"

"Good isn't the word. Good is what you say about a sandwich. That was—" You shook your head. "I don't have a word for it."

I pulled out of you slowly, carefully, and you winced slightly. I rubbed your hip.

"Okay?"

You turned over to face me. Your eyes were wet — not crying, not quite, but close. You looked vulnerable in a way I'd never seen you look. Open. Unguarded. Like you'd handed me something fragile and were watching to see if I'd hold it carefully.

"I feel like something just happened that I wasn't expecting," you said. "Not the sex. Well, the sex, yes, obviously. But something else."

"What?"

You looked at me, and your face did that thing it does — that Becky thing where your whole expression rearranges into something so honest it almost hurts to look at. "I love you," you said. "More than I've ever loved anyone. And I don't know when that happened, but it did, and I think it's been true for a while, and I just — needed to say it. Just now. In this bed. While you're still inside my life in every possible way."

I looked at you. Blonde hair everywhere, mascara smudged, lips swollen, lying naked in my bed telling me you loved me. And I felt it — that thing I'd been holding back, that thing I'd been too British and too awkward and too slightly-dorky-to-admit-it to say.

"I love you too," I said. "I've loved you since you told me my motorcycle looked like a vacuum cleaner and then laughed at your own joke for ten minutes."

You laughed — really laughed, full Becky — and kissed me. "It does look like a vacuum cleaner."

"It does not."

"It absolutely does. The shape of the tank—"

"Don't critique my bike while you're naked in my bed."

"Especially then. That's when you're most vulnerable to motorcycle criticism."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. I got up and went to the bathroom. I turned the taps on — hot, not scalding — and added some of that Radox stuff you'd left at my place. The bath filled slowly, and I came back to find you exactly where I'd left you, sprawled across my bed like you owned it.

"Bath's running," I said.

You smiled. "You're running me a bath?"

"I'm running you a bath."

"You're a good man, Luke."

"I'm a very tall man who's just had an extremely good afternoon. The bath is the least I can do."

I helped you up. You walked to the bathroom ahead of me, and I watched you — the way you moved, unselfconscious, easy, your hair down your back. You stepped into the bath and winced when the hot water hit you.

"Ow. Fuck. That's — ow."

"Sensitive?"

"You have no idea." You lowered yourself in slowly, hissing, and then sighed when the heat settled around you. "Okay. Okay, that's actually amazing."

I knelt beside the bath and took the flannel. I washed you — your shoulders, your arms, your chest. You closed your eyes and let me, and there was something about that — about you sitting in my bath, letting me clean you, trusting me with your body in its most raw and tender state — that felt more intimate than anything that had happened in the kitchen or the bedroom.

You opened your eyes and looked at me. "You know," you said, "for a man who looks like a vacuum cleaner enthusiast, you're surprisingly good at this."

"Becky."

"I'm saying it as a compliment."

"You're saying it as a bizarre insult wrapped in a compliment."

"That's my brand." You smiled — that amazing smile, the one that makes your whole face crinkle and makes me feel like the ground is solid under my feet. "Wash my hair?"

I washed your hair. I massaged your scalp the way you'd taught me — firm circles, not too fast — and you made a sound that was suspiciously close to the one you'd made when I was inside you. I didn't mention it. You'd only be smug.

The bath water went cold eventually. I helped you out, wrapped you in a towel, and you stood there in my bathroom, damp and warm and looking at me with those eyes.

"Round three?" you asked.

"You are going to actually kill me."

"What a way to go though."

I pulled you against me, towel and all, and kissed the top of your head. "Food first. Then maybe round three. If you're nice to me."

"When have I ever been nice to you?"

"Fair point. Food first. Then round three regardless."

You grinned into my chest. "Deal."

I made you pasta. You sat at the kitchen table in my t-shirt, hair still damp, barefoot, eating penne and telling me about your day. And I listened, and I watched you, and I thought: this is it. This is the woman I love. She's sitting in my kitchen in my t-shirt eating my pasta and she let me fuck her up the arse this afternoon and she told me she loves me and she's still here, still talking, still smiling that smile.

And later that night, round three happened. Slowly, in my bed, in the dark. And it was different again — tender, quiet, the kind of sex that's less about bodies and more about the space between them. And when you fell asleep afterward, curled against my chest, I lay there in the dark and thought about how strange and unlikely and completely fucking wonderful it was that this cheeky blonde woman had walked into my life and decided to stay.

I pulled the duvet up over your shoulder. You murmured something I couldn't hear. I kissed your hair.

"Love you, Becky," I whispered.

You didn't hear me. But that was okay. I'd tell you again in the morning. And the morning after that. And every morning after that, for as long as you'd have me — which, knowing you, was going to be a very long time, because Becky didn't do anything by halves, and apparently that included loving a six-foot-seven motorcycle enthusiast with a slightly dorky haircut and a kitchen worktop that now had a very interesting memory attached to it.