milk + sugar

01

L.L. liked to think of himself as a loving person, or at the very least, a forgiving one. To anyone else, they might have even agreed with him. Jeremiah had noticed it, Suzaku had mentioned it, and even his sister had giggled over how much marriage had softened her brother, who she already considered to be the most giving and affectionate person she knew. Alas, as much as he would have liked to think of himself as the person Nunnally thought he was, even he knew how silly and at times, far off she was. Like now, as he imperiously towered over an otherwise unassuming pair of socks lying limp on the spotless pale herringbone floor.

Eyes on fire, he glowered and seethed as he bent down to choke the white woolen socks, as if they were the culprit and not the victim. Closing his eyes, L.L. tried to swallow his irritation. It wouldn't do, would it, when they'd returned from such a nice brunch? Remember how pleasing the weight of her hand had been in his as they walked, their boots crunching over snow, or how pretty she'd looked in the morning light as she perused the menu with her head bent, tucking her hair behind an ear? And that was nothing to say of her smile. Dear God, what about those eyes, sparkling gold, contrasted by the faint pink of her cheeks, as she came back home to the veritable spring garden waiting for her?

Slowly lowering his fist, L.L. opened his eyes, heaving a sigh as he released the innocent socks into the yawning mouth of the laundry basket he'd been lugging around their apartment. He supposed, reluctantly, that he could tolerate the mess for one more day. What was one more day, when it had been such a good day? As he left the laundry room, he comforted himself with the promise of tomorrow.

But with every room he passed through, the promise failed every test that had been put forth. He'd only gone through three rooms, but the study had had lavender lingerie and one of his dress shirts, the living room a wool skirt and black pantyhose, and the powder room – the powder room – an entire dress. By the time he reached the foyer, his jaw was tight, and he'd long forgotten about the pleasant day he'd been having before he'd begun looking into why the hamper was still empty.

Setting the half-full basket down, he neatly straightened her damp winter boots before clearing away the sandals and sneakers he'd asked her hours ago to put away. Scowling, he glared up at the small chandelier overhead when there was no response to her name, save for some machine that had been whirring for the past forty minutes.

Turning around, he called for her again to no more response than his first attempt had elicited, save for a pause in whatever the hell she was too preoccupied with to tidy up after herself.

"C.C.!"

Two beats of silence before the whirring resumed. At that, L.L. shot up. Furious, he retraced his steps, passing through newly spruced up rooms. It was one thing to be oblivious, what with the square footage of their penthouse, but it was another altogether to outright ignore him. Even worse, when without so much as a pretense. Swearing under his breath, he practically threw the fabric basket by the washing machine before storming the kitchen, where the noises seemed to be coming from.

The narrow French doors separating the kitchen and dining room were typically open, but they were only slightly ajar. It was all he could do from throwing them open. After all, he had a sense of pride in their home – it wouldn't do to put a hole into the wall with the ornate brass doorknobs.

"C.C.!"

"…What?"

The kitchen had been one of the selling points - though the multi-million krona apartment had had dozens - for its size and appliances. With meters of white marble countertops, stainless steel, and brass fixtures, it was one of the newlywed's favorite rooms and one they spent nearly as much time as their study. L.L. might even go as far to say that it was his pride and joy because it was one of the rooms he most easily impressed his wife, with all of the mouthwatering smells and tastes he conjured up for her.

But when he saw how all the marble real estate had been covered in a light dusting of sugar, small pools of whipping cream, puddles of whole milk, and streaks of raw egg white, there was none of the despair and grief one would expect from such a brutal show of cruelty. He only stood in the doorway, his irritation frozen on his face still but no longer in his eyes as they locked onto the one who had - was currently - terrorizing his haven.

L.L. had a wide selection of aprons, keeping at least one for everyday in the case that every night was particularly messy. They'd been collected over the years and varied just as much in their styles. Ranging from charcoal grey bib aprons with leather straps to white pinafore aprons lined with ruffles, each were well used and extremely well looked after. But C.C., whose primary duty was to oversee her husband's cooking from the center velvet barstool, had only ever needed a single apron, which was seldom used and had spent the greater part of its life hanging on the hook in their meticulously organized pantry. Save for today.

Small and stitched of thin red thread and pink linen, the apron hung low and sagged, distorting the Cheese-gun he'd embroidered for her and hardly doing a good job of protecting her bare chest from possible splatter. In fact, if she reached up for the small jar of vanilla beans on the spice shelf on the side of the fridge, just like she was now, the apron was quite obliging, baring her breast and even part of a cute, rose-colored, and quite hard nipple.

Nor did the apron's generosity stop there. The apron, like all other aprons, didn't offer much coverage in the back - usually an innocuous and innocent aspect of an apron's construction. But it was this vulnerability that cemented this particular apron as an accessory to brazen debauchery when she turned her back on him to check on the milk and cream simmering in the saucepan. He could do nothing to quiet the groan that slipped out from him. The triangle of pink lace sitting between those perfectly round asscheeks was unbearable, even for him. Especially for him. As was the immediate question of what the front looked like and whether it was just sheer enough to offer a glimpse of that small patch of carefully manicured green.

She glanced up at him, unconcerned, as if unaware of her own nakedness, save for the smirk when she saw the stupid look on his face. Good. So he'd finally found her. Turning the mixer off, she lifted the top back. Pinching the short shaft connecting the whisk, she pressed the button for release and pulled a little too hard. She squealed as some of the thick custard was flung onto her face and chest. Shivering from its cool touch, she ran a finger along her cheek, catching some of the custard and sucking it clean. Lifting up the hem of her apron, she wiped her face carelessly, giving him only a peek of the thong that had undoubtedly piqued his interest.

"Ah..." The breath came out of him a little harder and louder than he'd have liked. But it had indeed been all lace in the front, with the most erotic shock of green. L.L. swallowed hard. But still, he hovered in the doorway, despite only faintly remembering what it was that had brought him to the kitchen. It all seemed so unimportant now, so pointless, it hardly seemed worth the hassle. Whatever it was that he'd been grumbling about...

"Well?"

His gaze flickered up as she tossed her loose ponytail over her shoulder. Hands perched on those shapely hips, she raised a brow at him. He needed no further encouragement. Crossing the room in an impossible number of steps, he immediately backed her up against the cream-colored panel of their fridge. Bending down, he licked her cheek of any stickiness. Even when she laughed and pushed against his chest, he held her tight, licking and nibbling until he made his way to her lips. He found her creamy and sweet, perfect for his palate.

C.C. gave into him easily, her lips and tongue playing with him, as she embraced the desperate force of his desire and returned it in kind. Their lips hadn't parted for long when she took hold of his shirt collar, pulling him down and meeting him halfway. His hand slammed onto the wall, catching him, before slowly crushing her with the gentle weight of his desire. Settling back down onto the flat of her soles, she whimpered into the kiss as his knee pressed even harder against the thin string of soaked fabric. Clutching at his shirt, she looked up at him, a thin line of saliva connecting her soft lips with his and her thick lashes framing her dazed gaze before fluttering shut at the curious fingers that pulled needily on the elastic of her panties.

A breathy moan from her and his hand slid inside. His lips seeking hers, he nearly lost himself in her intoxicating taste and feel and sounds, tethered only by the slick heat of her sex. Rubbing his fingers against his brush, he groaned against her smile as he pulled his knee away, setting her down solidly onto the floor and affording him a better angle to press against the swollen nub glistening between her folds. At the first brush, she shuddered. Back arching, she pressed her hips against his hand. Pushing off the fridge, she leaned against him heavily as he moved his fingers in a pattern he knew would comfort her.

Her breath was hot and uneven against his neck, stopping at times before exhaling hard. L.L. glanced down at her, craving the expression she hid from him. He'd seen it already countless times, but it was a vision he had yet to tire of and probably never would. The way she closed her eyes, crinkling her brow, as her cheeks flushed, how she bit her lip in the beginning to muffle her moans, only to inevitability cry out, loud and clear, moaning and groaning as he drove her, pushed her, to that white euphoria that would overtake her, until she squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth open in a silent scream and her nails digging deep into him, as her body shook against his.

Ah, Cecilia... How he wanted to tear that thong off, to push it aside, as he crammed her full of himself. To fill his palms with those breasts, to nip at those hard nipples, teasing them with a flick of his tongue and feeling her squeeze him. What he wouldn't do, what he would, just for a chance to stretch her out to his size and shape, to grab that succulent ass until it bulged between his fingers as he pressed her close to him, until she spoke his name, breaking his curse and returning him into nothing more than a man who craved for his woman.

He could hardly hear her over the rush of blood and the hammering of his heart, but he knew anyway what it was that she wanted. She lifted his silken fingers up, glimmering in the orange light of the sunset, to lick them. He shivered at the feeling of her tongue against his fingers, how her lips were a suction as she slid them inside, at the softness of the inside of her cheek as she sucked her cheeks in. He groaned as her eyes stayed on his. All the times she'd given him a similar view flashed in his mind - on her knees on the floor, prostrated between his legs on their bed, clothed, naked, night or day, but all with his cock in her mouth as she took him in again and again and again, urged on by his low moans and the rogue buck of his hips, until he swept her hair back, tugging as he leaned over her, his voice strained as he poured himself into her mouth.

"Cecilia" Her name was fractured with impatience. He didn't need to speak a second time for her to kiss his fingers before placing his hand on the bow that held the apron together. Taking hold of the tail, he pulled hard. As he worked on releasing the knot behind her neck, Cecilia made quick, easy work of the buttons lining his shirt. Her apron came loose at last just as she reached the last button of his shirt, pooling at their feet. Groaning at the full sight of her, L.L. let his shirt flutter to the ground as they fumbled together over the buckle of his belt. Just loose enough, he released the clasp of his pants as she yanked the zipper down. Kicking away his pants and briefs, he swept her up, taking her into his arms before setting her on the kitchen island. Her legs stay locked at the ankles as she lay back down, her hair spilling all over the white marble, only bringing him closer to her until he was pressed against her.

Cecilia looked down, breaths shallow, as she felt a familiar heat and weight rest on her clitoris. Moving her hips closer to the edge, she beckoned him closer silently. Glancing up, he took her outstretched hand.

"Lelouch..."

"Yeah."

Lelouch was an indulgent a husband as they came. In fact, he downright spoiled her rotten, something he would occasionally grumble about but secretly took great pleasure in doing, for all matters. Regardless of where they may be. Taking hold of himself, he pressed his lips tightly together as he smeared his precum along his shaft until he slid easily between his fingers. Not that he really needed it, judging from the never-ending flow of arousal from her entrance.

With one last final pump of his hand, Lelouch glanced down to check one last time that he was lined up before leaning down. Cecilia's arms flew around him, her hand weaving through his hair and pulling gently as he smoothly slid all the way in. Sighing into his ear, she whispered his name. The hairs on his nape standing on end, he raised himself up onto his elbows. What was it?

"Do whatever you want to me."

This incorrigible woman! With so many different ways of shutting her up at his disposal, Lelouch chose all of them. Kissing her softly, he claimed her tongue as his, as he began slowly grinding his hips against hers. But the damn woman, who always drove him crazy, saying one thing and doing another, seemed determined to lead him into the abyss. Each time he drove deep into her, she squeezed down on him, the warm velvet coiling around him, as if begging him to stay. Looking down at her, he drew his brows together as she reached up to touch his cheek with a cool hand. Drawing in an uneven breath, he quickened their pace. Her back arched in pleasure, and Lelouch lowered his mouth to the unblemished skin of her neck. Kissing and suckling the sensitive skin, he breathed hard against her as he slammed his hips against hers. Ah, Cecilia... She had said to do whatever he wanted, but it seemed she would be doing whatever she wanted to him.

Lelouch clenched his jaw. He wasn't going to last much longer at this point. With the way she shook her hips to meet his and her sweet, sultry cries, he was working at a serious disadvantage, and considering how she always knew which buttons of his to push when, he'd been doomed from the start. But Lelouch was as stubborn as he was generous, and as he straightened up, he licked his hand to finish the job he'd started.

It was well-timed, with even better execution. Distracted, Cecilia had made the mistake of letting Lelouch back up, keeping her from hiding behind any kiss, and now with a full view of his face and the way his hair fell over his eyes as he lost himself in his lust, his dark lashes as he closed his eyes, and with the sound of his honesty as he rutted against her... Lelouch had always been quite talented at pleasing her, but there was just something about today, how his hands grabbed at her greedily, how well he filled the emptiness inside her, how he just knew what it was that she needed...

Sitting up, she pulled him closer by the shoulder. Their lips inches apart, their ragged breath warm on their faces, she pleaded with him.

"Kiss me, Lelouch."

She didn't have to command him twice. As if it were even possible, her entire being wrapped tighter around him as their lips were crushed together. He cried out, as if announcing the beginning of the end.

"Inside," she moaned. "Every drop."

And they thought of nothing else, knew of nothing else, as he carried out her wishes with primal ruthlessness. Hugging him tight, she clung to him, her soft voice his aphrodisiac. Lelouch tightly gripped the counter, his knuckles white and breath ragged, as he chased after that feeling that had corrupted admiration to white-hot passion against the fridge to fucking on the counter, a feeling that he wanted to fracture and splinter him until he broke in her arms.

"I can't," he gasped. Resting his forehead against hers, he moaned. "Together..."

No sooner had he said that than her eyes snapped shut. Lelouch's knees nearly buckled as she clenched around him, squeezing out a guttural groan, barely stifled, from him. Cecilia trembled and shook, his name throaty on her lips. It was the final push he needed. Leaning down, he let out his own voice, her name, as bright stars spangled his vision and he poured his thick seed into her.

Spent, they fell back down onto the counter, where they lay quietly catching their breath. Lelouch dimly looked at the sugar crystals scattered around the kitchen island before turning his head away. Closing his eyes, he listened to the wild beating of her heart, mimicking his own, until it returned to its slow, comforting pace.

Reaching down, Cecilia lightly patted him. Struggling to stand, he looked at her as he helped her sit up. Sweaty and sticky, they looked a nightmare, but for whatever reason, there was only laughter. Leaning in for a sweet kiss, Cecilia held him tightly as he carefully lifted her down from the island. Wobbly, she leaned against his chest and accepted the warm washcloth to catch everything leaking from her.

Holding her steady, he ran a hand through his damp hair.

"We need a shower."

"Bath."

"Showers-"

"I can barely stand, Lelouch. But as a compromise, we can take one together, since you're so in love with all things efficient."

Lelouch defended both the virtues of showering and efficiency as he carried her to their bedroom. His argument persisted throughout a quick rinse and even as he carefully helped her into the clawfoot tub before joining her himself. After all, they were more thorough, took less resources, of which one was time, and... Finally, he quieted down as she leaned back against him. Taking his arms and placing them around her waist, she sighed, content.

"But you can't do this in a shower, can you?"

Well...

She had a point.

. . .

As it turned out, C.C. had actually been making something before he'd "practically skipped his way into her trap," though had made sure to finish beforehand. When she returned from the kitchen, L.L. returned the champagne to its bucket of ice. Setting the small tray down on the coffee table, she resumed her seat in his lap, despite the wide availability of seating on the large sofa. Behind them, snowflakes fluttered by.

The tray held a small porcelain plate, upon which glossy and golden flan gleamed. Dressed in a luxurious coat of deep, sumptuous caramel and a delicate halo of spun sugar, it jiggled slightly as she presented her gift to him. She watched him closely as he picked up the small golden spoon for his first taste.

Creamy, sweet, and soft, it practically melted on his tongue. Eyes wide, L.L. couldn't resist another spoonful, too taken by the rich delicacy.

"You like it?" she finally asked.

"It's perfect."

She smiled.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Lelouch," she said.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Cecilia."

And softly, he leaned in. She smiled to herself - sweet, just like caramel.

Happy Valentine's Day