I’ve always believed in the mantra: “One good turn deserves another.” Showing appreciation puts you in line for another blessing/favour as the case may be.
Rotimi and I haven’t been on the best of terms, yet when I needed my generator to be transported to my new location (since I relocated to a new area), he not only offered to sort the logistics, he also called me to make sure the generator arrived on time and in good condition. Being a good human, I invited him for dinner at my new place and he obliged.
The cool evening air drifted through the open kitchen window as I set the last plate down, wiping my hands on the napkin. Rotimi had been surprisingly easy to talk to tonight—old jokes, a few pointed remarks about my taste in furniture, and the quiet hum of the generator he’d helped deliver earlier. The tension from our past felt like a bruise that had finally started to heal.
We sat on the worn leather couch, side by side, a half-empty bottle of red wine on the table. He was mid-sentence—something about a mutual friend’s disastrous wedding—when his voice just stopped. I looked up and saw his eyes, dark and heavy, fixed on me.
“I miss you,” he said, and the rawness in his voice cut through every defence I’d built.
The motherly instinct in me flared—that need to soothe, to comfort. I shifted closer, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, intending a simple hug. But the moment my body pressed against his, the energy between us crackled. His hands slid around my waist, pulling me onto his lap, and his mouth crashed into mine.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate—a retaking of something lost. I felt his tongue push past my lips, tasted the wine and the months of unspoken words. I pressed my body on his and felt the hard bulge already straining in his jeans. He groaned into my mouth, his hands sliding under my shirt, rough palms gliding up my ribs until his thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts.
I called his name, gasping. “Rotimi…”
“Shut up,” he muttered, and pulled my shirt over my head. The cool air hit my skin, but his mouth was already there—hot, wet, trailing down my throat, across my collarbone. He unhooked my bra with a practiced flick, and when his lips closed around one nipple, I arched into him, a moan slipping free. He sucked hard, tongue flicking the peak, while his hand kneaded the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
I reached down, fumbling with his belt. He lifted me just enough to let my fingers work the buckle, the zipper. His cock sprang free. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking slowly, feeling the pulse beneath the velvety skin. He bit down gently on my nipple in response, and I gasped.
Rotimi had me on my back in no time, jeans and panties yanked down my thighs. He knelt between my legs. “Goddamn,” he breathed, and then his face was between my thighs.
His tongue found my clit immediately, circling, teasing, stopping every few seconds to press flat and hard. I cried out, fingers gripping the couch cushions. He licked me like he was starving, drinking every moan, every gasp, his stubble scratching the tender skin of my inner thighs. I felt my climax building, a hot coil tightening low in my belly.
“Not yet,” I panted, “I want you inside me.”
He rose over me, positioning his cock at my entrance. He held there, just the head teasing my wet slit, his eyes locked on mine.
“Fuck me, Rotimi.”
He thrust in—deep, one smooth motion that filled me completely. I cried out, my legs wrapping around his waist. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust, then began to move. Slow at first, long strokes that pulled almost all the way out before sinking back in. Each thrust hit that spot inside me that made my vision blur.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he grunted, his pace quickening.
I couldn’t speak. I just held on, nails raking down his back as he fucked me harder, the couch creaking beneath us. His rhythm grew erratic, desperate, and I matched it, lifting my hips to meet him, wanting to feel him deeper, harder.
He pulled out abruptly, turned me over. I braced myself on my knees, face pressed into the cushions, and he entered me from behind. The angle was punishing—deeper than before. He grabbed my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and fucked me with a raw, possessive urgency. Each thrust drove me forward, my breasts swinging, my breath coming in ragged sobs.
“You’re mine,” he growled, slapping my ass. The sting merged with the pleasure, sending a shock through my clit.
“Yes—fuck—yes, I’m yours,” I gasped.
He reached around, fingers finding my clit, rubbing harsh circles in time with his pounding. That was all it took. My orgasm crashed through me, a screaming release that tightened every muscle, made me clench around his cock. I heard him curse as he drove into me one last time, his body tensing, his hot cum flooding me, deep and thick.
He collapsed over my back, his weight a comfortable pressure. We stayed like that, breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. His lips pressed a soft kiss to my shoulder.
Needless to say, we spent the weekend in each other’s arms. Everything seemed fine, at least for the moment.
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