Breakfast Served

Tiffany Tatum stretches in the doorway and grins like she owns the day. Sun's already heating the sidewalk. Coffee sits steaming on the counter. And her boyfriend, Charlie Dean, is waiting on the couch with that familiar glint in his eye. She knows exactly how this morning is going to unfold. She slips off her slippers, pads barefoot across the wood, and parks herself in his lap. Her soles find his bare thigh first—just a light brush, toes curling, teasing. Charlie's hands go straight to her ankles, and Tiffany bites back a laugh because he never can hold back. He lifts one foot to his mouth and plants slow kisses from heel to toe while she wriggles, cheeks flushing pink. Her other foot presses lower, finding the hard line of his cock through thin cotton. She rubs him in easy circles until he groans against her instep. Socks come off. Shorts get shoved aside. Tiffany wraps her arches around his shaft and starts a lazy stroke, heat building fast, skin slick from a drop of spit she licks across her sole. When he's throbbing against her, she leans back on her elbows and spreads her legs. Charlie drags her toward him by the calves, lines himself up, and pushes in. Every thrust sends a little jolt up her thighs that makes her toes curl around his shoulders. She laughs between moans, tells him the coffee's getting cold, yet keeps pulling him deeper with her heels. The rhythm picks up—skin slapping, laughter breaking into gasped curses. Tiffany reaches down to circle her clit with two fingers, eyes half-lidded, one foot still rubbing his balls while he drives into her. Sweat beads along her ankle. His grip tightens. She comes first, legs shaking, then Charlie spills hot across her arches with a shaky breath and a muttered, “fuck, Tiff.” She wipes one foot lazily down his chest, leaves a streak, then reaches for her coffee again. Best part of the morning? Already checked off.