Page 32 of Never Enough
Once I get my balls under control, I slowly pull away, only to thrust back in. Fuuuck, it’s so good. “Tell me you love me, baby,” I say as I slam back into her. This may sound self-centered, I know, but I can’t control it. Because she hasn’t told me yet, and I’m coercing her to during sex.
“Alex, yes.” Her spine aches, brushing her nipples against my chest. Then, with no hesitation, she says, “I love you! I love you so fucking much.” Mouth gaping in complete ecstasy, she moves her hands to my ass and holds on. Every tender caress of her skin sends goosebumps down my body. I swear it’s like she can heal me with even the simplest of touches.
“Yeah, you do,” I say, mustering up an arrogant cockiness I don’t have. Truthfully, Daphne is an angel. I’ll pray to every god every fucking night if it means keeping her for a little longer.
My hips piston back and forth, each thrust a claim marked by her keening moans. The room fades away until there’s only us, two bodies moving in perfect, desperate harmony.
“Fuck,” I groan, feeling every inch of my cock engulfed by her. She clings to me, nails digging into the globes of my ass, urging me deeper, harder. I’m lost in the rhythm, spiraling towards oblivion.
“Alex!” she cries, her walls clenching around me, and that’s all it takes to send me over the edge. I spill into her with a gutturalshout, each pulse of release painting her insides, branding her as mine.
We collapse into a tangle of limbs, panting and spent. The afterglow is brief but potent. Her fingers trace lazy circles on my chest, and I tighten my arms around her, unwilling to let go.
We hold each other for a minute until Daphne murmurs against my skin, “Food. You owe me dinner.”
“Shower first,” I reply, already mourning the loss of her warmth as she untangles from my arms. Then an idea strikes—a chance to prolong the intimacy longer. I scoop her up again, her surprise melting into laughter as I carry her to the bathroom.
Steam envelopes us like a cocoon as I grudgingly wash the evidence of our passion. Careful hands explore her, lingering between her legs with a gentleness that belies my earlier fervor. She leans into me, trusting and pliant, and I feel the weight of her history, her struggles, pressing against my soul.
“Let me check my work,” I murmur, lowering myself to taste her once more. Her response is immediate, her hips arching into my mouth as I lavish attention on her. The water cascades over us, but thankfully, her moans drown out everything else.
“Alex. Oh God, don’t stop.” Her plea is raw and real, and it stirs something deep within me. This isn’t just sex; it’s affirmation, connection, and healing. I worship her with my tongue until sheshatters again, her climax washing over her in waves, leaving us both breathless and clinging to each other in the aftermath.
“Always for you,” I vow, even as the water grows cold. “Always.”
Several minutes later, I’m tugging on a plain white tee when Daphne emerges from the bathroom, her dark hair damp and curling at the ends. Her hazel eyes are bright, contrasting with the soft gray of my old sweatshirt that drapes over her like a dress. She looks cozy, unguarded, and for a moment, I can pretend we’re just a regular couple without secrets or scars.
“Ready for that dinner?” I ask, holding out my hand. Her fingers intertwine with mine as I lead her to the kitchen. It’s not a grand gesture—just a guy cooking for his girl—but with Daphne, every simple act feels significant.
She perches on a stool by the counter, watching me move. After turning on the stove so the frying pan heats, I collect ingredients from the fridge: fresh herbs and cream. The sizzle and pop of garlic hitting the pan fill the silence between us.
“Smells amazing,” she says, a note of genuine admiration in her voice.
“Wait until you taste it,” I reply, feeling a flicker of pride. Cooking has always been my secret passion, a way to create and control when so much of my life is dictated by theWhitmore legacy.
Plus, Daphne and I have something in common. Our respective grandmas motivated us to follow our dreams. Or, past dreams, in my case. A Whitmore doesn’t do such things. We only take.
When I was eight, Grandma guided me in the art of making of said sandwiches. It started off as a joke because Dad said poor people eat sandwiches with cheese. Therefore, he naturally refused to let our chef dabble in such “low class” meals.
So, Grandma cooked it for me and guided me in learning how to too. Add rosemary, and you’ve got an earthy, piney flavor. Caraway seeds add a bitter nutty taste. Even the type of cheese can change the classic. Blue cheese for boldness and salt, havarti for a creamy take, and provolone for a melty, stringy sandwich.
Once I mastered the basics of spices and simple dishes, I continued to practice and experiment until I eventually learned how to create more complex dishes, like French Confit De Canard. Simply put, Confit De Canard is a dish that uses an entire duck.
As I stir the sauce and boil the pasta, I uncork a bottle of red wine, pouring two glasses. We clink them together.
“Cheers,” we say in unison.
Dinner comes together quickly, plates of creamy pasta garnished with a sprinkle of parmesan and a few basil leaves from the windowsill. We sit opposite each other, knees touching under the table, and I’m struck by how normal this feels, how right.
“Alex,” Daphne starts, cutting through the rich flavors with her gentle voice. “You’ve been quiet. What’s on your mind?”
Truthfully, she’s right. All this cooking reminds me of how much I used to love it. Missing it has led me to remember why I stopped.
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. How do I explain the weight of a name? The pressure of expectations? My gaze drifts to the window where the city lights blur into the night.
“Being a Whitmore is like wearing a suit that’s tailored for someone else. You try to fit, but it’s never quite right.”
“Your dad?” she probes, a frown creasing her brow.