summary: It’s Sunday , and that means family dinner hosted at your house. Rafe insists he takes care of everything himself. He didn’t just cook dinner. He cleaned the kitchen , set the table and handled your family without flinching. And now ? Now he was about to be thanked. Thoroughly.
warnings: MDNI 18+ , husband!rafe x wife!reader , smut , unprotected p in v , praise , creampie , cum tasting , oral f receiving , explicit language , slight exhibitionism (kinda???), fingers in mouths
a/n: hey!!! Sooo how do we feel??? lmk your thoughts ?? as always likes make me giggly and re-blogs earn you a kiss (on the cheek cause I’m not ab to get my shit beaten up by wifey)
it started with the smell.
the kind of smell that seeps into your hair and clings onto the fabric of your clothes, wrapping around you like a dirty secret you want to share but can't quite put into words. the kind that makes your guests pause in the doorway to catch their breath just long enough before they ask for the recipe. it floats up the stairs in slow, tantalizing curls, winding through doorways, drifting beneath cracks and ending straight in your nostrils.
somewhere downstairs, a drawer slams shut and a second later you hear Rafe curse under his breath. he sounds like someone trying a little too hard to prove he doesn’t need your help.
it's Sunday, which means it's the day you dread from Monday through Saturday, the day your entire family gathers in your lovely, usually quiet home.
youre still upstairs, standing in front of the mirror next to your vanity, reapplying your plumping lip gloss. quiet moments like these make you rethink this whole ‘family gathering sunday’ thing.
watching the clock on the wall tick closer and closer to the familiar chaos, the storm that always brews on Sundays.
that storm that somehow always feels like home, even when it’s loud and messy and full of love, while your kitchen runs like a machine operated by one man in a red-striped apron.
you take a small breath and let yourself feel it filling your lungs. smoothing your hands down the front of your dress, fingertips grazing each small button.
this dress isn’t for your mom. not your dad. and definitely not for your brother.
because for the last two hours, Rafe has been moving around your kitchen with the calm precision of a man who was made for this. slicing, sautéing and tasting garnishes like a chef on Masterchef waiting to be judged.
you hear the faint scrape of the knife against the wooden board, the soft hiss of something delicious sizzling in the pan.
the stairs creak softly under your heels as you make your way down. You don’t mean to sneak, you just want to catch him in the moment focused on his task.
he’s plating the salads, using those big strong hands with care like tongs would insult the delicate greens.
he hasnt even noticed you yet and maybe that’s what gets your heart beating so fast.
how deeply focused he is, how seriously he’s taking this, and all of this just because he knows how much your family means to you.
you lean against the kitchen doorway with a small teasing smile on your lips.
he doesn’t lift his head but barely even acknowledges you with a hum.
“well its technically our kitchen”
“not when i’m the one searing the scallops” he replies , still not looking up at ou.
you push off the doorframe and saunter over to him, bumping your hip to his. You’re close enough to see the delicious golden crust on the meat, the steam rising from the pan. close enough to smell and taste the lemon zest on his fingers.
he finally glances up at you with a flicker passing through his eyes. a flicker of emotion you know all too well.
any other man would’ve been annoyed at having to do this all by himself, rafe somehow wasn’t. he was turned on. you could always tell.
“i know what that dress means” he says and lifts his finger to point at you.
you bite back a smirk, blinking rapidly and feigning innocence. “what does it mean?”
he leans in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of your neck. “It means I have to be good…and you’re going to make it very, very difficult for me”
before you get to reply, the doorbell rings, making you both pause.
his eyes stay locked on your for a few seconds, but then he straightens, wiping his hands on the towel he had slung over his shoulder and steps around you to grab the wine.
the house fills in a flash, like a bolt of lightning.
your parents arrive first, early as always, walking in like they own the place with a bottle of wine on their hands that’s clearly been debated on the way here and armed with unsolicited opinions about your new curtains before you’ve even had a chance to say hello.
Rafe moves to open the door, all easy smiles and warmth radiating from him like sunlight through a kitchen window. their faces brighten immediately as they see him, a mixture of relief and fondness lighting their eyes. like this is the son-in-law who didn’t used to be a literal feral menace but has somehow learned to tame himself, or at least pretend he can be trusted around your family.
“what is that? It smells amazing in here” your mother says , floating past you towards the kitchen.
“that would be the garlic confit” Rafe calls after her , already halfway back to the stove.
“and the chicken is almost done. I remembered to brine it this time.”
you blink, shaking your head with a half-smile.
He shrugs “last time it was dry. Your bother didn’t say anything but I could tell by the look on his face”
You can’t help but giggle quietly. And the worst part? He’s not even joking. He can tell. Because Rafe notices everything. And that thought alone is enough to make you want to drag him upstairs by the apron strings around his waist and ruin dinner, him, and this responsible act completely.
but then the doorbell rings again, and again.
shoes are now messily kicked off next to the door while laughter fills the foyer. your dad who’s always too hot opens the big window in the living room way too much making your mother yell at him. the wine is uncorked, your uncle brings too much cheese and your aunt compliments your dress in a tone that doesn’t quite sound sincere.
It should feel chaotic. But somehow, it doesn’t.
because Rafe is at the center of it all, steady and soft-spoken, the kitchen towel still casually slung over his shoulder like a badge of honor. He moves between stove and dining table with an easy grace, like this is exactly where he belongs, like this kitchen is his kingdom and tonight is his triumph.
which, honestly? It kind of is.
and thats what makes you feel unsteady. That’s what makes your breath hitch and your pulse quicken against your wrist.
Because you’re not supposed to be this turned on by your husband talking about chicken stock with your mother.
dinner starts before you even sit down at the table.
the clink of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the rustle of napkins, it all begins in the kitchen, spills into the dining room like a tide you can’t hold back.
And everyone’s eating it up.
Your aunt laughs, bright and easy, at something Rafe says.
your brother, shockingly, doesn’t make a single sarcastic comment. Not one. Instead, he’s leaning in, nodding along, maybe even paying attention.
even your dad, usually the toughest to impress, is quietly nodding, his brow lifted just enough to show he’s mildly, almost grudgingly, impressed.
You’re barely touching your food.
Because you’re watching him.
Watching the way his brows furrow when he listens. The way his hand drapes over the back of your chair like he’s forgotten it’s even there.
The way he makes everyone else feel comfortable, and somehow, still makes you feel like the most important person in the room.
And oh he knows what that does to you. God, he knows.
Because every time your gaze lingers too long, he smirks, just barely and doesn’t say a word.
He wipes a bit of sauce from your lip with his thumb.
Soft. Casual. Like it’s nothing.
It’s not nothing. Definitely not nothing.
the pad of his finger pauses at the corner of your mouth. Just there. Lingering half a second longer than necessary. Like it’s savoring the moment, like it’s memorizing the exact curve of your smile. then, slow and deliberate, he brings that same fingertip to his own lips, licking it clean without ever breaking eye contact.
You forget how to breathe for a few seconds. Don’t breathe for four.
And then he’s back to talking to your father about roasting techniques like he didn’t just make tears run down your thighs. Like it never happened.
You sit beside him at the table, trying your best to play good host. To smile, to nod when it’s appropriate, to look like you belong here , just like he does, like your mind isn’t slowly unraveling beneath a pretty dress and a glass of overpriced wine.
But then Rafe’s hand finds your thigh.
Under the table. Quiet. Still. Familiar. Hot.
Like it’s been there all along, like it knows exactly where it fits.
You take a sip of wine, swallowing hard, desperately trying to focus on your uncle’s banter instead of the slow, deliberate pressure of those fingertips playing with fire beneath the table.
He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even pause in his conversation.
He’s good at this. At pretending. So fucking good.
You shift restlessly in your seat, squeezing your legs tighter, if that’s even possible, and bite your inner cheek to make sure your expressions stay neutral.
Rafe reaches for his glass, next to yours, fingers brushing yours, light, but intentional.
You do though. You always do.
The way he tilts his head to the side when you speak, like he’s memorizing the sound of your voice all over again, like it’s something precious, something he wants to keep close.
The way he says your cousin’s name with perfect pronunciation, even though he’s only heard it once. Because he knows it’s important to you.
The way he hasn’t moved his hand off of your thigh in over twenty minutes.
You sip your wine a little too fast. Set the glass down with shaky fingers. He doesn’t react, but his thumb presses a little firmer into the flesh of your thigh. Just once. A reminder.
Having you squirm without even doing anything major.
“This is delicious, Rafe,” your mother says sweetly, fork poised mid-air, beaming with genuine approval.
He smiles at her, warm and polite, hand still not moving from your thigh. “It’s all her,” he says, nodding at you like you’re the secret ingredient behind every perfect bite. “She inspires me.”
Your fork nearly slips from your hand. Your legs are crossed together so tight by now, it makes your muscles ache, humming with the tension only he can create.
The compliment lands, but not where it’s supposed to land. It lands somewhere lower, much lower, somewhere warmer, somewhere that has nothing to do with roast chicken or family dinners.
Youve never wanted to leave a room full of people more than you do now.
By the time dessert arrives, your patience is threadbare, worn thin like fragile lace ready to tear.
You’ve been good. Painfully, excruciatingly good. All phony smiles, practiced laugher when it’s necessary and polite little interjections when its appropriate, barely holding it together while your whole body burned quietly beneath the tablecloth, pretending that you weren’t unraveling at the seams.
Rafe’s hand had finally slipped away from your thigh, after nearly an hour of resting there like a secret between only you two, warm and steady and his. And now, standing at the end of the table like the perfect host he is, he passes around slices of fresh lemon cake with that effortless charm that makes your mother nudge you under the table, proud as ever of her son-in-law.
Youre not sure if this thing twisting inside you is emotional, chemical, or something more primal, something that hums in your bloodstream and makes your skin hum with need. it’s been building all evening, a slow-burning ache you’re desperately trying to hide behind a fragile smile.
The back of your neck is warm and tingly. Your skin feels too tight, making you want to crawl out of it. You’re not even sure you can taste the cake anymore.
So you get up. Don’t even excuse yourself, not really, just murmur something vague about needing more napkins? Maybe coffee spoons? maybe a serving fork? If that even exists, and slip into the kitchen before anyone has the chance to stop your or follow.
You brace your hands against the edge of the counter and take a deep breath, filling your lungs with air.
If anything, it makes things worse.
Because the air smells like citrus, vanilla and wine, the sharp tang of lemon frosting cut with sweet sugar and something darker, muskier, the unmistakable trace of him that still lingers like smoke in the warm pockets of the room.
You bow your head and let your eyes flutter closed.
Your knees feel wobbly and your thighs ache in that low persistent way that makes it difficult to stand still.
And then, like all this isn’t enough.
Just hovering. Just there.
You feel it all, the heat of his body radiating off him in waves, the weight of him, just hovering behind you like gravity has shifted and youre suddenly hyper aware of every inch of your body that isn’t touching his, even though it totally should be.
He’s close enough that his soft breath stirs the tiny baby hairs at the base of your neck, close enough that your heartbeat stutters in your throat, close enough that your fingers curl against the countertop on instinct, needing something to grip, because you are going to fall apart.
“One more hour,” he whispers, voice low and wrecked, pressing a small kiss on your neck, the feel of it enough to make you gasp. “One more hour… and you’re all mine”
Your lips part, not to speak, you’re not even sure you could if you tried, just to breathe. Because suddenly it feels like your lungs forgot how.
And then you nod, barely. Just enough for him to see.
Just enough to agree to something you’d already promised hours ago without even speaking.
He sighs, like he’s barely keeping it together, like you’re not the only one who’s been losing your fucking mind all night.“You’re making it very hard to be good, baby.”
You exhale through your nose, grip the counter tighter.
You bite down on a smile that wants to ruin you.
You don’t look at him. You don’t dare.
Not until this house is empty.
The house is still warm with the memory of too many people, too many voices, laughter spilling from every room, clinking glasses, the quiet hum of family banter that had filled every corner.
But now? Now it’s just the two of you.
You lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowing with playful accusation as you point a finger at him like he’s just confessed to a horrendous crime. “you are a menace”
He looks up at you from the pile of dishes, that stupid grin already tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“Sorry?” he says, all innocence and mischief. Like he knows you’re seconds from combusting and he’s got the match ready in his palm, just waiting to light the fuse within you.
“I made dinner” he lists off, all feigned innocence. “Set the table. Lit the candles. Got your dad to like me. Again.”
“You made dinner like it was foreplay”
He blinks, biting back a grin, tilting his head with mock curiosity.
“Thats called effort” he defended, voice smooth but eyes dancing with amusement he’s desperately trying to hide.
“You coordinated the table settings by color scheme!”
“Last time you said it looked nice”
“You remembered my mom likes red and my brother can’t have tomatoes” you narrow your eyes, stalking closer.
“I listen when you talk, baby”
Your hands fly up in the air like you’re trying to physically release the insanity.
“And then..then you touched me under the table for two straight hours while charming my entire bloodline like you weren’t slowly, methodically, ruining my life.”
He lets the towel slide off his shoulder, folding it with slow, deliberate care and placing it neatly on the counter. Calm. Intentional. Controlled.
Which only makes you unravel even more. If that’s even possible.
“You seemed fine,” he says, deadpan.
“I wasn’t fine. I am still not fine. I was sitting there soaked through my panties while you tasted sauces and licked your damn thumb off in front of my mother.”
He smiles then, not wide, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s barely holding it together. “So you noticed.”
You wave a hand back toward the dining room like it’s a crime scene.
“You were doing it on purpose. Stirring the butter like it’s a love language. Sliding your hand up my thigh like you weren’t talking to my dad about lawnmowers.”
He steps forward. Just one step. Slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching a wild animal. Or a ticking bomb. “Baby..”
“No. Don’t ‘baby’ me right now.”
You jab a finger toward him like it’s a weapon, sharp and impossible to ignore.
“You gave my aunt decorating tips while literally fingering the edge off my dress under the table.”
“You looked so pretty in that dress,” he says, and it’s soft, like he’s saying it for the first time.
He grabs you by your waist, effortlessly lifting you onto the marble counter like you weight nothing. The marble’s cold against the skin of your thighs, but his hands are hot, and they’re already pushing your dress up and parting your legs.
“Not fair” You whisper, but your arms instantly wrap around his neck, its instinctual.
“Mmm I know baby,” he murmurs, warm lips finding their way to your neck, soft like a whisper of touch. “I know.”
He lifts his hand, brushing it against the soft fabric of your dress, slipping open the first few buttons, leaning in and pressing burning kisses on your breasts, gaze never leaving yours. Not for a moment.
you could feel the goosebumps upon your skin , delicate and unmistakable, and the way his touch made your breath catch in your lungs.
He kisses his way up to the corner of your mouth, swallowing your breathy gasp with his tongue as his flat palm trails up the back of your dress.
You pull back , breaking the kiss, close enough that your noses still touch and your heaving chests press together,
“mm, you know,” you breathe, voice just above a whisper, a familiar lilt to your teasing. you swallow, eyes flicking up to meet his, then drifting back down to his mouth like muscle memory. “A little initiative can get you a very, very long way.”
His hands rub up and down your thighs. Once. Twice. Like soothing a fever you both know he started. a breathy laugh escapes him as he plants another quick kiss, still not moving back.
“uh huh so does lip gloss and this dress, baby.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, like he’s taking in the full picture. The slight flush on your cheeks. The rise and fall of your chest. Your breasts spilling out of the unbuttoned front of your dress. The way your hands are already curled in the fabric of his shirt.
he felt like the luckiest man alive.
He glances at the untouched plate of cake next to you on the counter. His teeth tug at his bottom lip, head tilted to the side.
“Did you not like my cake?” he teases, eyebrows raised, voice lazy and warm.
He slides the plate closer, digs his fingers into the lemon frosting, and brings them to your chest, smearing it over your breasts like he’s painting you in sugar. “Oh I really messed you up huh?” He murmurs with a grin.
Then brings his now sticky and sweet fingers to your mouth for you to lick them clean, pressing them on your lips.
You obey. Parting your lips in response and taking his fingers into your mouth, licking and sucking the creamy frosting off of them. A soft moan escaping your lips as the sweet taste hits your tongue, making him groan in response.
When you release his fingers from your mouth , his tongue darts out and he leans forward to lick all the frosting he smeared on your breasts. “Can’t leave you all messy, right?”
He sucks, licks and kisses the sugar off your skin, cleaning up the mess he made with his fingers, not stopping until he’s satisfied.
“Can’t” you moan arching against the counter and into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, desperately pulling him closer, aching for the friction your body needs, and only your husband can provide.
“mm shit it ran down all the way here” he slips open the rest of the buttons of your dress, making it fall open completely, leaving you in just your soaked lacy panties , exposing you to the cool night air and raising goosebumps along your burning flesh.
He presses wet open-mouthed kisses down between your breasts and down your ribs, getting on his knees in front of you on the counter in the process, his lips not once leaving your skin and his eyes not ever leaving yours.
He’s savoring every second of this, practically humming with every lick against your skin, there’s nothing he loves more than how you taste on his tongue, how your soft skin feels against it.
His hands never leave you either, touching everywhere he can reach from his position. Her runs them up your calves and thighs hunting his fingertips are skimming the curve of your hips and the edges of your panties.
“Rafe” you gasp , legs finding his shoulders as you grind your hips upwards, urging him to continue “please don’t stop”
“You’re so fucking perfect” he mutters, against the skin of your inner thigh, lips trailing up to kiss you through the lace of your panties and tongue lapping over the damp fabric.
You close your eyes, the sensation of his touch sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as you arch your back against the counter , hands on his head, feeling his scalp under your fingertips. “Off— take them off!” you eagerly tug at the edges of your panties.
“I got it” he gently swats your hands away, hooking his fingers on either side of them on the outside of your hips pulling the wet lacy fabric down your ankles and taking each foot to remove them completely.
“Fuck” he groans as he’s met with your pussy, swollen and dripping for him. “Fuck baby look at you” he murmurs kissing your clit with a squeeze of his lips, making you whine.
“Rafe please!” you gasp hips lifting off the counter and arching into his mouth “I need it!”
The tip of is tongue circles your clit before licking a long stripe in between your glistering folds, his hands spreading your legs apart so he could taste you, settling in between your thighs.
Pulling back from your pussy just to kiss the inside of your right thigh and suck on the left, before going straight back to flattening his tongue and tasting all of you, letting your juices drip down his chin reveling at the wetness of you.
“You’re perfect” he repeats , his warm breath tickling your pussy. “Say it” he looks up at you, not moving from in between your thighs.
“Say what?” You moan lifting your head from the counter to look down on him, hand on the top of his head.
“Say you’re perfect—say it” he pants against you, sucking your swollen clit as if to emphasize his point, his palm reaching up to feel your tit and squeeze the swell of it.
“Im perfect” you arch your back as he rubs your hardened nipple, back arching off the counter and toes curling against his back.
“Yeah you’re fucking perfect” he affirms watching your head fall back, your mouth fall open and the sharp bites of your nails scratching the cold marble counter.
His hand slides up from your tit, reaching to grasp your chin between his fingers, forcing your gaze back on him “look at me” he murmurs, mouth still grazing your pussy in a way that makes your eyes roll back “c’mon let me see your face”
“Rafe please-“ you gasp meeting his gaze with your own “please I need you baby!”
He’s back on his feet in an instant, hands grazing the sides of your ribs and up your tits , with his teeth now dragging along your collarbone and then soothing it with his tongue, you reach and rub your thumb on his glistering chin, cleaning him off your juices.
You grab his face and pull him to your lips, tugging his lower lip in between your teeth getting to taste yourself on his tongue and then sliding your hand in between your bodies to feel his throbbing cock through his pants.
He grunts against your lips, the sound low and desperate, before suddenly lifting you into his arms. His grip is firm, possessive, like he can't wait another second. He carries you up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, barely breaking the kiss, like every moment not touching you is too long.
He tosses you on the soft mattress with a thump crawling on top of you in record time. You’re both panting, practically gasping for air like the kiss took everything you had and it would’ve gone on forever if you didn’t have the common sense to stop to breathe.
Your hands slide down his sides, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his pants, one on each side.
He leans back slightly, pulling his shirt off his head and throwing it aside without a care.
Warm fingertips trail down his hard chest, following its heaving movements, and then down the ridges of his abdomen, making him flex the muscles unintentionally before reaching down the waistband of his pants working them off.
He helps you, impatiently kicking them off along with his boxers, shoes and socks with a curse, making you giggle under your breath.
God, you loved your husband.
“Come here” you huff pulling him down by his shoulders and wrapping you legs around his waist.
He follows you, leaning down and pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck and jaw, his lips soft and warm against your skin. “Mm fuck I love you”
You pressed kisses on the side of his face, murmuring against his skin “I love you”
“Need you” he whispers against your jaw running his fingers over your cheek and into your hair. “Need inside you baby, need to be inside you now”
He runs his hand down your leg, grabbing the back of your knee and hooking it over his hip, making you grind upwards, pressing your hips to his. his swollen tip rubbing against your folds.
“Please” you gasp, fingers clenching around his shoulders and nails digging into his back.
“Please Rafe” you repeat.
Letting your velvety walls envelope his aching hard cock. His forehead falling to your shoulder like its the first time. Savoring the feel of you swallowing him inch by inch.
His breath hitched in his throat, eyes squeezing shut as he stays there, unmoving, filling you to the brim with one long, heavy, shuddering sigh against the skin of your neck.
“Perfect— my perfect girl”
He draws back, almost all the way out, slowly, feeling every bit of you clenching around his cock but he doesn’t stop right away, only to slide right back in, all the way to your glistering hole, all the way home.
You don’t know what sound you make or if you’re even making any noise, it could be his name or a moan or a combination of both but they’re the only two syllables in the whole world that have any meaning right now.
“Harder” you gasp, gripping his shoulders like they’re your only lifeline.
His hand slides down your waist and cups your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh, lifting your legs off the bed and spreading them even more, lifting your bottom up off the bed and changing the angle with an ease that makes your head spin.
“Oh god” you whine, eyes rolling to the back of your head
“oh fuuuck” he mutters, grunting in your ear, pulling out just to slam back into you even harder, deeper, balls slapping against your ass
Everything he throws at you.
He’s already throbbing inside you and you cant help but clench around him too. Its like a dance. A dance of sensations and muttered praises against your ear while he ruins you in the best way possible.
“Mm just like that!” You moan, hips lifting up to meet his in a desperate movement. “Rafe, fuck!”
He reaches between your bodies, still thrusting in and out of you in a brutal rhythm, and circles your sensitive clit with his thumb. “Taking me so fucking well”
“Give it to me baby” he pants in your ear, “shit—cum all over my cock”
With a broken moan and an arch of your back off the bed and onto his chest, you do. Your orgasm hits you like a delicious full body sneeze you’ve been chasing after all night. You clench around him repeatedly. Milking his cock dry, letting every last drop of his cum paint your walls.
He grunts into your neck, trailing hot lazy kisses up your mouth, his thrusts slowing down, turning sloppy yet deep and possessive. His cock pulling out just enough to fuck his cum back into you.
He collapses on top of you, just holding you like that for a long moment, before rolling off you and onto his back, puling you with him so your head was resting on his sweaty heaving chest.
