Alex’s mom has your daughter for the night and the apartment feels too still without her bright voice ricocheting off the walls and that familiar trail of giggles. Her absence feels soft and strange as the quiet settles around you in a warm, indulgent way instead of an empty one, because Alex is here, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the night belongs to the two of you alone.
He insists on cooking for you tonight, even though both of you know he’s the type to burn toast if he so much as looks away. He’s already in the kitchen when you wander in, some soft romantic playlist humming through the speakers. Alex stands at the stove wearing an apron that is, fortunately for you, enough to pass as a dress if someone were to tease him about it.
“You know,” you say, leaning against the counter with a grin curling slow and wicked, “from this angle, that apron looks exactly like a dress.”
“It’s a fashion statement,” he says, flicking the fabric with exaggerated elegance. “Chef couture. You wouldn’t get it.”
“Uh huh. Whatever you say, sweetheart.” You step behind him and tug lightly at the tied bow at the back, and your voice dips into a teasing purr. “My pretty princess,” you say, smiling because you already hear the groan that leaves him.
It gets to him. He keeps pretending nothing happened, but his shoulders stiffen in this cute guilty way that shows you how much you affect him.
He flicks you a look over his shoulder, half glare, half blush, all yours. “Stop. I’m busy being impressive.”
“You are,” you say, peering into the pan. “Look at you. Very domestic. Very princessy.”
He tries for a scoff, fails spectacularly, and stirs the pan a little harder than necessary. “You’re impossible.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, betraying him even more than the blush. “Also, if I’m a princess, you better address me properly while I’m slaving away over your dinner.”
“Oh?” you ask, drifting closer and nudging your hip against his. “How exactly should I be addressing you then, your highness?”
He flicks his eyes toward you, dark and playful. “Say ‘yes, chef.’”
You grin. “Not a chance.”
He points the fork at you like he’s threatening you with it. “Say it.”
He squints at you, then goes back to the stove muttering about disrespect in the workplace. The universe wastes no time proving your point, he immediately fumbles the fork, clattering it against the pan.
“Chef,” you say, fighting a smile, “are you sure you don’t need help?”
“No.” He squares his shoulders, absolutely determined. “I’m making this for you. I’m doing it right.”
“You’re very cute when you’re stubborn,” you say, and he pretends not to hear it even though his flush deepens.
He works a little more carefully now, but still with that intensity that always melts something tender inside your chest. The smell of garlic and butter fills the kitchen, rich and warm, swirling under the soft music. You watch him concentrate, jaw set, lashes low as he monitors the pasta water like it might betray him if he looks away too long.
When he finally lets himself turn toward you again, he doesn’t announce it. He just steps into your space, and tugs you up against him. You end up pressed to his side while he stirs the sauce with his free hand.
“You know,” you murmur, leaning into him, “chefs aren’t supposed to distract themselves while working.”
“Yeah, well.” He dips his head, eyes dragging over your face, voice softening in that way he tries not to let you notice. “I make exceptions for you.”
Your breath catches a little, not that you’d ever admit it as loudly as he denies the princess thing.
He notices anyway, smirks, then abandons the sauce entirely.
“Come here,” he says, tugging you closer, hands sliding around your waist, warm and steady. You rest your palms on his shoulders as he starts to rock you both gently.
He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You like my apron,” he murmurs.
“You like the apron,” he repeats, nuzzling your cheek.
He groans dramatically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. “You’re ruining my chef fantasy.”
“Oh no,” you tease, “is my big strong chef feeling shy?”
He lifts his head and kisses you, quick, stolen, laughing against your lips. Then again, slower. His hands slide lower, pulling you flush to him as he sways with you, slow and slightly off beat, but determined. You follow anyway, letting the music pull your bodies together. His thumb glides along your hip, soft, slow, tracing tiny circles. The apartment feels softer in moments like this, like the air goes warm around the edges.
“You’re in a mood,” you whisper, brushing your fingers up the back of his neck.
“Maybe I just missed you.” His voice dips low, honest in a way that cracks gently through all the playfulness.
Your breath falters for a moment. “We do live together, you know.”
You feel him trail soft kisses along your jawline, slow enough that they feel like a secret. His lips ghost down to the curve of your neck, warm and barely open, and you feel every breath he gives you like it’s meant to be kept.
“You’re being sweet,” you murmur.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers, and his smile brushes your skin.
He holds you tighter, one hand gliding up your spine, fingers tracing the lines of your body like he’s been waiting all day just to touch you without interruption. Then he goes quiet, not awkward quiet, but the kind of silence where he’s looking at you with a softness that makes your heart actually stutter.
His thumb grazes your cheek, slow and reverent. He studies your face the way someone looks at a sunset they’ve seen a hundred times and still can’t get over.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, simple and direct. No teasing this time. Just truth.
Your breath catches, but before you can answer, a loud bubbling hiss from the stove breaks the moment in half. Alex groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Of course,” he mutters. “Perfect timing.”
You giggle as he scrambles back to the stove, apron swishing dramatically behind him.
“See?” you call after him. “Princess behavior.”
“Shut up,” he fires back. But he doesn’t mean it. Never with you.
He plates the pasta with exaggerated seriousness, twirling it like he’s on a cooking show. He places the shrimp perfectly on top, and steps back with his hands on his hips.
“Presentation,” he says. “Ten out of ten.”
He scoops up a bite with a fork, lifts it to your mouth, and wiggles his eyebrows. You’re already laughing by the time he gets it close.
“You’re acting like one.”
You swat his arm, but you’re laughing too hard to argue properly, so you let him feed you the bite. You try to take it seriously, you really do, but the moment the fork touches your lips you both crack up again, the sound bouncing between you in warm, silly waves.
“Well?” he asks, eyes wide, waiting, nervous in a way he tries to hide but can’t. “Is it…good?”
He’s genuinely worried. Like this bite of pasta determines his entire worth as a husband.
You swallow slowly, letting suspense drag out just long enough to make him shift on his feet.
Then you smile. “It’s really good.”
His shoulders drop in relief. His mouth curving into his brilliant, proud grin.
Before he can say anything, you slide a hand into his apron, tug him forward, and kiss him. Slow, lingering, sauce still warm on your lips as it smears softly across his.
He inhales sharply through his nose, hands finding your waist again, gripping like he needs to make sure you’re real. You stay close, your forehead brushing his, lips still tasting faintly of garlic.
“I’m so proud of you,” you murmur, the words warm against his mouth.
He smiles against your lips, the shape of it tender and a little shy.
“Only for you,” he whispers, staying close, the words brushing warmly over your lips like they’re part of the kiss itself rather than something separate. His breath mingles with yours, heavy already, and before you can even draw in your next inhale, his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, more certain, more wanting. His hands slip around your waist, fingers splaying with a kind of impatience he barely tries to hide. He pulls you closer, fitting you perfectly against him, the apron brushing your stomach as he presses forward like he’s afraid of losing even an inch of contact.
Your lips part for him automatically, a soft hungry sigh in your throat as his tongue meets yours, slow at first, tasting, savoring, then gradually pushing deeper, taking more, heat rising between you in that unmistakable way that starts in the chest and sinks lower, tightening everything inside you.
His hands roam. One finds the small of your back, dragging you flush against him, the other slides up your spine, under your shirt, greedy for bare skin. You can feel how much he wants you, his body speaks far louder than his words ever do.
You barely realize he’s backing you toward the kitchen counter until your hip brushes it, and he’s still kissing you, still breathing you in like you’re the only air he needs. His hands sweep out, pushing everything off the counter with a slow deliberate motion, never once breaking the kiss. A soft clatter of utensils and a container skittering across the surface doesn’t faze him at all. His mouth stays locked on yours, tongue stroking, breath hitching, his fingers tightening around your waist.
Then he lifts you, effortless, hungry, guided by instinct more than intention. You gasp into his mouth as he settles you onto the counter, his body pressing between your knees immediately, as if the space there belongs to him by default.
You lean back slightly, bracing your hands behind you, giving him more room to hover above you. His lips follow yours even as you pull away, like he can’t stand the idea of a gap forming.
You smile against his mouth, amused by the intensity gleaming in his eyes. “Alex,” you murmur, brushing your lips along his in a teasing graze, “I haven’t even finished eating.”
He groans, low and already too breathless for how early it is. “I’ll make you whatever you want after,” he says, voice ragged, barely more than warm air against your lips. “Anything. Just…” His forehead rests against yours, and he pulls in a shaky inhale. “Right now I want you.”
The last word breaks in his throat like he’s already a little undone.
He kisses you again before you can tease him for it, mouth urgent and eager, a soft desperate sound rising from him as his hands slide up your sides. His lips trail from your mouth to your cheek, down to your jaw. Slow at first, then hungrier, more open, more claiming. He kisses and nips along the line of your jaw, then down to the tender spot just under your ear. You tilt your head back for him without thinking, a silent invitation he takes advantage of immediately.
His breath stutters against your neck as he starts kissing lower, a messy wet line of mouth and tongue moving down to where your pulse flutters. You feel his lips part against you, feel the heat of him, the barely contained need trembling in his exhale.
“God,” he mutters against your skin, voice muffled, “you taste so good.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. He shivers, then presses even closer, like he’s trying to climb inside your skin. Each kiss grows messier, needier, his mouth dragging openly along your neck, leaving warm slick traces that make you clutch him tighter.
You hook your legs behind him and pull him in by the waist, grinding him closer. He gasps sharply against your throat.
Your lips brush his ear as you murmur, slow and wicked, “You have such a slutty waist, you know that?”
He makes a strangled sound, half laugh, half something deeper, something that hits him right in the center. He pulls back only far enough to shoot you a look, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but his voice betrays him completely, soft cracking edges of arousal woven through every word.
Your fingers slide down to grip the apron around his waist, tugging him even closer. “Slutty,” you repeat, hushed and possessive. “All for me.”
His breath catches, he tries to roll his eyes, tries to play it off with a scoff. “You love saying shit like that.” But he can’t hide the shiver that runs through him, can’t hide how flustered he is, because the way his hips press forward gives him away entirely. The apron cinching his waist makes the effect even filthier, even prettier, and he knows you see it.
“And you,” you counter, dragging a finger down the curve of his waist, “love hearing it.”
He doesn’t deny it. He just surges forward to kiss you again, hard and messy, like he’s trying to stop himself from reacting too visibly. But every part of him betrays him, his breath, the way his fingers tremble against your ribs, the way he leans into your touch like he’s starving.
Clothes start coming off in frantic pieces, your shirt lifted over your head, his apron untied and tossed somewhere behind him, his hands trembling as he fumbles with your bra clasp only to mutter, “Fuck- hold on, hold on-” before finally getting it undone. The second it’s off, he’s kissing down your collarbone, down the center of your chest, his hands cupping your tits as if he’s relearning them all over again. You’re both breathless and eager, acting like horny teenagers with no responsibilities.
He lowers his mouth, kissing softly, then sucking just enough to make your breath catch. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. Dark, wanting, waiting for your reaction. When your lips part on a quiet gasp, his pupils blow wide.
“There it is,” he whispers against your skin, then nips lightly at your nipple, pulling a sharper sound from your throat. He groans in approval and does it again, then switches sides, giving the other one the same greedy devotion.
You sink your fingers into his hair again, tugging, and he moans, a raw eager sound vibrating right against your skin. He kisses lower, down your stomach, slow dragging lips that leave your skin warm and damp everywhere he passes. He looks up at you each time he moves, like he needs to watch what his touch does to you.
By the time he drops to his knees between your thighs, your breath is already uneven.
He spreads your legs open with both hands, and kisses the inside of your thigh first, slow, wet, adoring. Then the other. Then higher. And higher.
“Alex,” you breathe, but he doesn’t answer, not with words.
His mouth meets you gently at first, tongue slow, tasting you, savoring you like he’s been thinking about this all night. His hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter, angling you just right for him. When you grind against him, his breath breaks, and he groans into you, the vibration sending a jolt through your entire body.
You fist your hand in his hair harder, tugging. He whimpers, an honest sound, and pushes his mouth deeper between your legs, tongue circling, lips sealing around you, consuming you with hungry reverence.
“Fuck-” you gasp, grinding against his face, and he just moans into you, holding you steadier, dragging you closer. You can feel him breathing you in, desperate, shameless, the sounds wet and messy and unrestrained. His tongue moves faster when you tug his hair again. He lets you use him, lets you guide him, eating you out like he was made for this, made for you.
You’re close, too close, and he feels it. You know he feels it by the way he tightens his grip, by the eager way he tries to keep you right there, by the way he murmurs something against you that vibrates deep.
You swallow hard, fighting back the wave threatening to break over you.
“Alex-” your voice breaks, desperate but firm, “wait-”
He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips shiny, chest heaving. “What?” His voice is rougher than you’ve heard it all night.
You meet his eyes, pull his hair, and lean forward with a breathless whisper.
“I want to feel you inside me,” you breathe, the words breaking slightly at the edges, need curling through every syllable.
Alex freezes for half a second, like the words go straight to his spine and short circuit him, then he rises slowly from between your thighs, licking your taste from his lips as he stands. His chest is heaving, flushed, his hair a wild mess from your hands.
He steps in close, between your knees again, grabbing your hips with both hands like he’s grounding himself. His voice is unsteady, low, almost reverent. “Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yeah… okay.”
His cock is already hard, flushed, twitching with need. You feel him line himself up with a shaky exhale, the thick heat of him nudging against you. His breath catches, teeth parting, eyes flicking down to watch. Then he pushes in, slow, deliberate, making you cling to him immediately.
Your moan spills out first, soft but raw, and his follows right after, helpless and broken.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice trembling. “God, you feel- you feel so warm-”
He sinks all the way in until his hips press flush against yours, and he stays there for a moment, chest pressed to yours, foreheads touching, sharing the same unsteady breath. His fingers dig into your waist as if he’s bracing himself not to lose control right away.
Your lips brush his. “Move,” you whisper.
He answers with a desperate moan. He starts thrusting slowly, deep, his rhythm needy but controlled, each movement pulling another sound from the two of you. The counter creaks under the weight of his body pushing into yours, the kitchen warm and echoing with breath and soft filthy noises neither of you even try to quiet because you finally have the place to yourselves.
He stays close, so close his mouth keeps brushing yours with every thrust, your breaths mingling, your moans spilling into each other.
You rake your nails lightly down his chest, slow enough to make him feel every inch of it. His breath shudders, eyes squeezing shut for a moment.
You drag your hand down his torso again, then grip his waist with both hands, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Guiding him. Controlling him. Owning him. Making him whine into your mouth because he loves how you take control even when he’s the one above you.
He groans loud, head dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck- god- keep doing that-”
You tighten your grip on his waist, fingers digging in possessively, pulling him in harder. His hips stutter and his breath breaks in a ragged cry against your neck.
You lean into his ear, voice low and devastatingly slow. “Look at you. You look like such a pretty slut when you’re fucking me.”
A sharp, helpless sound rips from his throat, and his hips slam forward harder, needier. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted in sheer want.
“Don’t-” he chokes on the word, thrust faltering for a second, “don’t say that unless you want me to- fuck-”
You grip his waist tighter. “Want you to what?”
His jaw clenches, breath hitching. “Give you another baby.”
The words hit you low and hot, and your moans makes his eyes roll back for a second. His thrusts get rougher, deeper, his hands sliding to your lower back to pull you forward to meet him, as if he’s trying to melt your bodies together.
“Alex-” you gasp, back arching.
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice shaky, “I got you- fuck, I got you- just hold onto me-”
You wrap your arms around him, pulling him tight against you, chest to chest, skin to skin. He fits his mouth to yours again, not a kiss exactly, more like you’re breathing into each other, moaning into each other, too close to separate.
Your legs tighten around his waist and he groans into your mouth, the sound wet and desperate. He thrusts faster, hips slamming into yours, sweat starting to bead along his hairline. Your nails drag down his back and he nearly folds over you, trembling.
“Harder,” you whisper against his lips.
He obeys immediately, rhythm breaking into something hungry and messy, each thrust sending heat shooting through your spine.
Your moans get louder without you even meaning to, finally alone, finally unrestrained, and he matches them, voice raw with pleasure, forehead still pressed to yours as if he needs the contact to stay grounded.
“God- you’re squeezing me so tight- fuck-” he gasps, thrusts faltering. “I’m- I’m close-”
“Me too,” you breathe, clinging to him.
“Cum with me,” he breathes against your lips, voice breaking. “Please- please-”
He bites your lip gently, desperately, and that, combined with the deep relentless rhythm of his hips, tips you right over. Your climax crashes through you in a hot overwhelming wave, your body tightening around him, pulling him in deeper.
Your moan breaks into his mouth, and the second he feels you clench around him, he loses it.
His hips slam forward once, twice, and then he’s coming with you, gasping your name, burying himself deep as his whole body shudders through the release, his arms wrapping tight around you, holding you like he can’t bear to let any distance exist between you.
You hold each other through it, bodies trembling, breaths tangled, sweaty hair sticking to skin. His face stays pressed to your neck as he rides it out, kissing your skin in soft trembling presses, like he can’t stop, like worship has become reflex.
You stroke his hair gently, kissing his temple as the two of you come down slowly together.
Minutes pass in the warm, quiet heaviness. Eventually, when your breathing evens out and your bodies stop shaking, he pulls back with a soft, exhausted smile. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
You clean each other up, soft, tired touches, a few sleepy kisses exchanged between movements. He helps you step into your clothes, fingers brushing your skin intentionally slow, leaning in to kiss your shoulder, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. You tug his shirt over his head for him, smoothing it down while he kisses your wrist.
When you’re both dressed again, he slips an arm around your waist and pulls you close. The music is still playing, soft and warm, and without a word he guides you into another slow dance, swaying with you while you melt into him.
You rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, breathing him in, the warmth of him wrapping around you like a blanket.
After a long, quiet moment, you murmur, almost sleepily, “I miss our baby.”
His hand traces up and down your spine, steady and comforting. “Yeah,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I miss her too.”
He keeps you close, swaying with you a little longer before tilting his head just enough to brush his lips against your temple. “Come on,” he teases gently, voice low and warm, “we should finish the amazing dinner your incredible chef made for you.”
You smile, slow and lazy, not bothering to lift your head. “Yes, chef.”
next fic coming out in 2027 ❤️
