Dinner

When Berwald comes home it's to the smell of something delicious wafting out from the kitchen. He is immediately suspicious.

"Hello? Are you planting a bomb in the house?"

"No, stupid!" a woman shouts back as he takes his coat off, the Swede dropping his briefcase on his couch before moving on. "I'm poisoning you, much more elegant, don't cha think?" Entering the kitchen he finds something on the stove cooking on low heat and the woman bent over in front of the oven, her ass in a pair of shorts sticking up in the air tantalizingly.

"Mmm, yeah," Berwald agrees absent-mindedly. He steps forward, placing his hands on either side of the woman's hips before pressing against her.

"Oh!" Immediately the woman snaps up, slamming the oven shut before spinning and slapping Berwald hard across the face. "The fuck do you think you're doing Mister?" With her hands on her hips, hair flipped over a shoulder, and a look of determination on her face, the Danish nation looks incredible. "I'm waiting for your answer."

"Oh yeah?" Berwald steps forward, trapping Kirsten between the counter and himself. "Here's an answer for you then." With one hand snaking through her hair, the other pulls the Dane's hips to his. Their lips meet in a kiss that's heated but unhurried, the Swede enjoying the mewls of his girlfriend. Her hands claw at the Swede's chest, pulling loose his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, as he massages her ass. "How's that for an answer, Frøken Densen?"

Kirsten, never one to be outdone, shoves Berwald back. Her smirk is promising as he awkwardly tries to find a chair to sit on, not daring to take his eyes from her. With that lack of subtlety she's made her own, the Dane pulls her shirt over her head and throws it at him before turning and opening the oven again. She takes out whatever she had been baking, setting it on the stove to cool and turning down the heat under the pot. He hears the timer being set before the woman turns back in her bra and shorts only, walking to him with an air of confidence.

Leaning over him, Berwald's eyes drawn to her breasts as his cock twitches and his breathing becomes uneven, Kirsten whispers in his ear, "You've ten minutes to make me come or you're not eating tonight." Then she straddles his hips, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt to smash his lips to hers once more.

Confident that he could make his lady happy with ease and then some, the Swede takes control, thrusting up against Kirsten until he rubs against something sensitive. With her head rolling back he unclasps her bra, pushing those tantalizing thin black straps down with his nose as he kisses across her skin. The lacy nonsense he'd bought her last month is tossed over Berwald's shoulder; hands and lips set to work, wasting no time exploring, as Kirsten pushes his shirt aside. She tugs his undershirt up, rolling his nipples with her thumbs and grinding down on him as he sucks at her breasts. When her hips start moving in that telling, sporadic way she gets, the Swede knows it's time.

Wrapping his arms around her and standing suddenly, Berwald kicks the chair aside so he can turn quickly, dropping the Danish kingdom onto the table. Her legs still around him he has to fight to get her to let go, Kirsten sitting in a hurried frenzy, trying to undo and get off her pants as fast as she can. The Swede has to fight the urge to laugh, pulling his undershirt off before shoving his girlfriend back down on the table.

"What are you doing?" Kirsten demands, eyebrows together. Berwald kisses her gently before pinning her arms above her head on the table, kissing all down her neck and stomach. His hands slide down her thin arms to pull her shorts and panties off and adjust her legs, prying her thighs apart and setting them over his shoulders as he kneels on the floor. "Berwald," Kirsten moans before screaming as he fingers her.

Aware that time is ticking away and that ten minutes was probably how long the timer had been set for, Berwald gets to work doing what he does best: pleasing his lady.

The sounds above him could best be described as a combination of someone praising forgotten gods and forgetting how to breath at once. Hands grip his short hair, pulling and twisting and directing, Berwald alternating between lapping at Kirsten's sensitive center and using his long fingers to tease her to the edge. And just when he's sure she's about to come, just when the trembling thighs around his head signal Berwald has more than succeeded in his time allotted, he pulls back.

"Fuck you!" Kirsten immediately yells in anger, slamming her hands on the table. "You always–"

Her words fall silent as Berwald thrusts into her, both nations groaning at the sensation.

"Fuck me," the Dane shouts, making her boyfriend grin as he leans over her, positioning himself to get better leverage as he pulls out to thrust back in. He doesn't care about trying to be gentle, much preferring the way her breasts bounce as he slams into her, pushing Kirsten across the table little by little.

Into her ear he whispers, "That is what I'm doing, love," before their lips meet, tongues dueling for supremacy. Her hands claw at Berwald's back as his play with her breasts, flicking her nipples between his fingers. Danish legs wrap around the Swedish waist and any more speaking ceases, the room reverberating with the sound of groans and moans and table creaks.

So hot and slick around Berwald, the Swede burying his head in the crook of Kirsten's neck, he feels the first few sought-after spasms before the Dane gives in, coming around him, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure. Satisfied Berwald thrusts quickly to keep that tight squeeze until he comes too, biting Kirsten's shoulder until his penis goes flaccid and he pulls out.

There's a gentle shift as Kirsten lifts her head before laying it back down. "I guess I will have to feed you tonight."

Berwald laughs.