Martha's boots crunched over the slushy sidewalks as she and Leandro pushed a wobbly shopping cart through the fluorescent-lit aisles of the upscale grocery on West 23rd Street. It was the day before New Year's Eve, and the place buzzed with harried locals stocking up on champagne flutes and caviar knockoffs, but their cart held the real essentials: a slab of prime rib for roasting, fresh figs that Leandro insisted on for some vague "festive touch," and a tower of cherry pies stacked like contraband. "You and your pies," she muttered, plucking one up and eyeing the flaky crust, a sly reminder of the tin he'd snuck into her bag back at the ranch. He just grinned, tossing in a bottle of prosecco that clinked against the others, his hand brushing hers in that possessive way that sent a spark straight to her core.
They'd spent the morning tangled in her Airbnb sheets, his mouth on her pussy in a lazy wake-up call that left her thighs slick and trembling, but now the mundane errand felt charged, like foreplay in disguise. Leandro steered the cart with one hand, the other occasionally grazing her ass through her jeans as they navigated the produce section. "Need anything else, boss?" he teased, his voice low, eyes flicking to the display of plump peaches. She swatted his arm, laughing, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her—memories of his assertive growls from their Christmas tryst in his childhood room flickering like static.
At the checkout, the line snaked long, and Leandro crowded behind her, his breath warm on her neck. "Crowded in here," he murmured, pressing his hips forward just enough that she felt the growing bulge of his dick against her. "Makes me think of that time we fucked quick before your flight, right up against the villa wall." Her pulse quickened; she remembered the urgency, his hands pinning her, claiming her like he couldn't bear the separation. The cashier scanned items with mechanical efficiency, oblivious, but Martha shifted, arousal pooling between her legs. By the time they loaded the bags into a cab back to Chelsea, the air between them crackled, unspoken promises hanging heavy.
The Airbnb's tiny kitchen became their playground as soon as the door clicked shut. Bags thudded onto the counter, and Leandro pulled her against him, mouth crashing onto hers in a kiss that tasted of mint gum and intent. "New Year's prep starts now," he said, nipping her lower lip, his hands already tugging at her sweater. She helped, peeling it off to reveal the lacy bra he'd bought her on a whim during their post-Christmas shopping spree—black, sheer, doing nothing to hide her hardening nipples. He groaned approval, palming her breasts roughly, thumbs flicking the peaks until she arched into him. "Fuck, these are perfect," he muttered, dipping his head to suck one through the fabric, the wet heat making her gasp.
Martha's fingers fumbled with his belt, yanking it open as she backed toward the counter, the edge digging into her ass. His jeans hit the floor, cock springing free—thick, veined, already leaking at the tip—and she wrapped her hand around it, stroking firmly from base to head. "Missed this dick," she admitted, voice husky, dropping to her knees on the linoleum that still smelled faintly of last night's pizza. The cool tile bit into her skin, but she didn't care, leaning in to trace her tongue along the underside, savoring the salty tang before taking him deep. Leandro's hand tangled in her hair, guiding her rhythm, his hips rocking gently as she hollowed her cheeks, sucking with deliberate pulls that made his breath hitch.
"Goddamn, Martha," he rasped, watching her through hooded eyes, the possessive glint from their ranch reunion flashing back. She bobbed faster, one hand cupping his balls, rolling them lightly while her other twisted at the base. He was close—she could feel the twitch, the way he thickened in her mouth—but he pulled out with a wet pop, hauling her up. "Not coming like that. Your turn." He spun her around, bending her over the counter, the marble cold against her cheek as he shoved her jeans and panties down in one go. Her ass exposed, she felt the air kiss her skin, pussy already slick and aching.
Leandro dropped behind her, spreading her cheeks with rough hands, his breath hot against her folds. "Look at you, dripping for me." No teasing this time; he dove in, tongue plunging into her entrance before lapping up to her clit in broad, flat strokes. Martha gripped the edge, moaning as he sucked her lips, then flicked the nub with precision that had her knees buckling. His fingers joined, two sliding inside her, curling to stroke that spongy spot while his thumb circled her asshole, echoing the ass play from their shower the night before. The dual assault built fast, pressure coiling like a spring, and she pushed back, grinding against his face. "Fuck, Leandro—don't stop."
He didn't, adding a third finger to stretch her pussy, his mouth relentless on her clit until she shattered, orgasm ripping through her in shuddering waves. Her juices squirted against his chin, a messy gush that soaked the floor, and he lapped it up greedily, humming approval. "Taste like fucking heaven," he growled, rising to rub his cock along her slit, coating himself in her arousal. She was still quivering when he thrust in, filling her pussy in one deep slide, the stretch making her cry out. He set a punishing pace, hips snapping, one hand fisting her hair to arch her back, the other reaching around to pinch her clit.
The counter rattled with each pound, bags of groceries forgotten, a fig rolling off to splat on the floor like some absurd punctuation. Martha's bound wrists from Christmas came to mind—not literally, but the memory of his silk tie fueled her, making her clench around him tighter. "Harder," she demanded, and he obliged, his free hand delivering a sharp smack to her ass that bloomed red and stinging. The pain sharpened everything, her second climax building as he fucked her like he owned her, possessive grunts punctuating the wet slap of skin.
But Leandro had other ideas. "Want your ass again?" he asked, voice rough, slowing his thrusts to tease. She nodded, breathless, the daring confidence from their riverside wade surging back. He pulled out, grabbing the bottle of olive oil from the counter—practicality be damned—and slicked his dick, then her tight hole, working a finger in to loosen her. The cool drip contrasted the heat, and she relaxed into it, pushing back as he added a second, scissoring gently. "So fucking tight," he murmured, replacing fingers with the head of his cock, pressing in slow, inch by inch until he was buried deep.
Martha's breath came in pants, the fullness intense, bordering on overwhelming, but his hand on her hip grounded her, stroking soothing circles. He started moving, shallow at first, then deeper, building to a rhythm that had her moaning, pussy clenching empty but aching. Reaching under, he rubbed her clit in tight circles, the combo driving her wild—ass stuffed full, nerves firing like fireworks. "Come on my cock," he commanded, assertive edge sharpening, and she did, orgasm crashing over her, ass milking him as she squirted again, a hot spray that hit the cabinets and dripped down her thighs.
Leandro followed, groaning low as he pulled out, spilling ropes of cum across her ass cheeks, the warmth trickling down her crack. They stayed like that a moment, panting, before he helped her straighten, kissing the back of her neck. "Messy bitch," he teased, wiping her clean with a dish towel, but his eyes held that playful glint, turning the cleanup into another round of touches—his fingers lingering on her breasts, her hand grazing his softening dick.
They didn't stop there. After a quick rinse in the shower—where she soaped his chest, nails scraping lightly over his nipples, and he fingered her lazily until she came with a whimper against the tile—the kitchen called for actual prep. But nudity ruled; they stayed bare, skin flushed and marked from their frenzy. Leandro fired up the tiny oven for the prime rib, while Martha chopped figs, the juice staining her fingers sticky. He watched her, cock twitching back to life, and soon he had her perched on the counter, legs spread wide, feeding her a fig from his hand. The fruit burst sweet on her tongue, but his fingers followed, dipping into her pussy to "clean" them, thrusting shallowly until she was rocking against his palm.
"Fuck the prep," she laughed, pulling him between her thighs, guiding his dick back inside her. This time it was slower, face-to-face, her arms looped around his neck as he rolled his hips, grinding deep. The oven's heat warmed the air, mixing with their sweat, and she bit his shoulder to muffle a moan when he hit that spot just right. His hands cupped her ass, lifting her slightly for better leverage, and she wrapped her legs around him, urging him on. "Fill me up," she whispered, remembering the creampie from Christmas morning, the way it had leaked out of her all day.
He did, thrusting harder, the counter creaking under them. Sweat slicked their bodies, her nipples rubbing against his chest with each slide, building friction that had her close again. Leandro's mouth found hers, tongue mimicking his dick's rhythm, possessive and demanding, until they came together—her pussy fluttering around him, milking every drop as he pumped deep, hot cum flooding her. It overflowed when he pulled out, a creamy trail down her thigh that he smeared with his thumb, pushing it back in with a wicked grin. "Keep it in till midnight."
The afternoon blurred into hedonistic chaos. They abandoned the kitchen for the living room, where a half-decorated New Year's tree—string lights tangled like their limbs—cast twinkling shadows. Leandro rummaged in his bag, producing that damn silk tie again, looping it around her wrists loosely this time, not binding but teasing restraint. "Role-play?" he suggested, eyes dark. "You're the runaway cowgirl, and I'm the rancher catching you." She rolled her eyes but played along, letting him "chase" her around the room, laughing until he tackled her onto the rug, pinning her down.
Naked and bound at the wrists, she spread her legs invitingly, and he ate her out again, slower this time, tongue tracing patterns like he was mapping her for keeps. The tie added edge, her hands above her head, unable to touch, heightening every lick and suck. He brought her to the brink twice, stopping to edge her, his dick rubbing against her thigh but not entering. "Beg for it," he demanded, assertive fire from their villa fuck resurfacing. "Please, fuck my pussy," she gasped, and he obliged, sliding in smooth and deep, the rug burning her back as he drove hard.
They switched, her on top despite the tie, riding him with abandon, wrists brushing his chest for balance. His hands gripped her hips, guiding but letting her set the pace—fast, then grinding slow to feel every inch. She came first, squirting over his abs in a messy arc, and he flipped her onto all fours, pounding from behind until he added to the creampie, pulling out halfway to let some spill while the rest stayed buried.
As evening fell, they finally dressed the tree—still nude, ornaments dangling precariously as they stole touches. What a way to end the year indeed.