Yup, it's been another little while. And YEAH, it's another ChelseaxPierre, but what can I say? I love 'em too much to leave them alone. x3 I hope you can forgive me! I'm working with other characters too, I swear! Just know that they'll be posted one day, when I feel like I haven't been killed by writer's block... =3=

xxxxx

With a soft rustle, Chelsea's shorts dropped to the ground.

Pierre groaned at the sight of his wife's bare bottom, perked up as she leaned against the counter to support herself. No underwear. He should have been able to guess that by now. There was always an ulterior motive to those "welcome home" kisses she demanded after her long day of hard work. He really should know better.

But he would definitely tell her to let him finish dinner preparation...next time. Now he had other important matters in his hands. Like the soft but firm weight of her behind. He gave a little squeeze, and she responded with a soft sound of appreciation. He ground his still clothed erection into the crease of her thighs and closed his eyes at the friction.

"Do it..." she pleaded softly, wriggling her lower half in an enticing manner. "Please... I've wanted this all day..."

His face reddened. For all the confidence he had gained since their first time, there were still certain things she could say to get his blood surging. He could scarcely believe that she could ever want him like this to begin with, and yet here he was, the shortest and most childish looking man on the island, standing in front of a strong, beautiful brunette practically begging him to take her from behind.

That thought alone was enough to cause him to almost ruin his pants. As it was, they were tight with the strain of his hardness pushing insistently against the fabric. He freed it without a second thought, unbuttoning until he felt the cool air of the house hit him. Shoving the cloth further down his hips, he grasped his throbbing member in his hand and made to guide it between her legs. To his mild dismay, he found that in this position he'd have to get her to bend her knees to meet his lower half.

As if reading his mind, she did so, and then thrust backward into his pelvis.

With a gasping moan, he grasped her hip once again and guided himself between her legs. With one firm push, he was inside her, and they both shuddered at the sensation.

His thrusts from the start were deep and forceful, her cries punctuating each one as she felt herself bumping the counter repeatedly. Those cries accompanied the sounds of skin on skin, which reverberated through the small kitchen.

It didn't take long to reach boiling point, but it was still too early. As he felt himself approaching his peak, a hand left her hip to slide her shirt further up her back, and then so too did his hand, sliding around to her front, and then up, up, until he reached the swell of her breast.

Another groan. No bra either. He took advantage of the situation by just barely brushing the tip of her nipple with his index finger, flicking it gently until it hardened completely. The result was tightening, slickening, and even more frantic, gasping cries.

She was close. He couldn't finish yet, knowing that. He doubled his speed, rolling her now tortured nipple between his fingers. His lip suffered from the teeth that dug into it with the effort to hold on just a little longer.

Finally it happened. She tensed with a sharp cry, and her slick, heated walls pulsated around him, flexing as if they wanted to milk him dry.

He let them try their hardest as he gave one more forceful thrust and spilled into her, riding out wave after wave of pleasure by continuing the movement of his hips at a substantially slower pace, which seemed to draw out the sensation to agonizing lengths.

And then they both stilled.

After several moments of gasping breaths, Pierre backed away and let himself slide out of her. Chelsea remained in her position, however, bent over the counter with elbows supporting her as she attempted to even her breathing. But then she gave a slight pause.

"Is something...burning?" Her nose perked up to sniff the air.

The little chef's eyes bugged comically in panic, and he slowly spun around on his heel to look behind him, only to shriek in horror at the sight of the dark smoke billowing from the cracks of the oven's door.

Completely ignoring his state of undress, he rushed to the oven and shut it off. He yanked a potholder from the counter and flung it open, only to immediately jump back to let the black clouds escape to the ceiling. With sputtering coughs, he waved the potholder in front of his face, willing the smoke to dissipate.

After a few seconds, he was able to look inside to take stock of the damage. What he saw caused his shoulders to drop, and he blew out a resigned sigh. What had once been the perfect combination of ingredients for banana bread was now reduced to nothing but a hard, blackened brick.

Turning his head to look over his shoulder, he shot his wife a frown of disappointment. That had been their dessert too...

Her only response was to stand up straight and give him a sheepish, apologetic giggle.

"I can...help you make a new one?"

His frown remained plastered on his face.

"Well...there's still the rest of dinner, right?"