The Perfect Cunnilingus and Cake Day (April 14)

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April 14th isn’t just another date on the calendar in our house. It’s a holiday—a sacred, highly anticipated, and passionately celebrated event: National Cunnilingus and Cake Day. This year, my husband decided to mark the occasion with a campaign of seduction that began long before the evening’s festivities.

The first shot was fired at 11:30 AM.

**11:30 AM – Him**
Happy National Cunnilingus and Cake Day, my love. I hope you’re prepared to be worshipped. I’ve already called my mom to get the kids. Tonight, you’re all mine.

My breath hitched. The mundane spreadsheet on my screen dissolved into a meaningless blur. He wasn’t just suggesting a nice evening; he was declaring a sensual siege.

**11:32 AM – Me**
Is that so? And what, exactly, does this “worship” entail? I’m suddenly very interested in my holiday plans.

**11:33 AM – Him**
It entails me, you, and zero distractions. I want you in that black lace set I love. The one that ties at the hips. I want to be the one to untie it, slowly.

**11:35 AM – Me**
You’re playing dirty today. I love it. I’ll be wearing it. What else does my master of ceremonies require?

**11:36 AM – Him**
That little red silk robe over it. I want the thrill of unwrapping my present. And one more thing . . . the vanilla oil. I want you glistening and sweet for me. I plan on having my fill.

**11:38 AM – Me**
Consider me your personal feast. You’re making this workday absolutely impossible.

**11:40 AM – Him**
Good. I want you thinking about me all day. I want you aching for me by the time you walk through that door. Because tonight, I’m not stopping until you’re completely spent.

The rest of the day was a delicious torture. Every email notification made me jump. Every thought was consumed by the promise of the evening. By the time I pulled into the driveway, my heart was pounding a frantic, excited rhythm against my ribs.

The house was quiet, the kids successfully dispatched to grandma’s house. Just inside the door, on the side table, were the items he had described earlier: the black lace bra-and-panty set, red silk robe, and a container of the vanilla body oil. There was also a note: “Before you do anything else, put these on. Change right where you stand, and oil up. When you’re ready, come to me.” The demanding instructions sent a thrill through me. I glanced around, looking for him. I knew he was home, but couldn’t hear him. I did as the note said and stripped down, discarding my professional attire slowly and sensually, settling into the mood of the evening—and putting on a bit of a show, just in case he was watching from a hidden place. I slipped into the soft, lightweight garments, feeling sexier by the moment. Then with a quick application of the vanilla oil to my limbs, torso and special places, I was ready to present myself to the man who so desired me.

I followed the rich scent of melting chocolate to the kitchen, where he was standing, a wicked grin on his face as he poured batter into a pan.

“Chocolate lava cakes,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “They need twenty minutes to cool . . . which gives me just enough time to devour my first dessert.”

He didn’t wait. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, closed the distance between us in two long strides, and crushed his mouth to mine. It wasn’t a tender hello; it was a passionate, demanding kiss that claimed me. His hands were everywhere, tangling in my hair, gripping my waist, pulling me hard against him.

He backed me toward the bedroom, his lips never leaving mine, kicking the door shut behind us. The room was lit by a dozen flickering candles, casting dancing shadows on the walls—he must’ve seen me pulling up and lit them as I made my way inside and changed. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull the red silk robe from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes, dark with fire, roamed over the black lace.

“Perfect,” he growled, before scooping me up and laying me on the bed.

He didn’t waste a second on preliminaries. He knelt at the foot of the bed, hooked his fingers into the delicate ties at my hips, and pulled the lace away with a decisive tug. The air was cool on my heated skin. He spread my legs wide, his gaze intense and possessive.

“I’ve been starving for this all day,” he said, and then he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue was electric. It was a firm, confident stroke, and he groaned in both hunger and satisfaction. I’m sure the combined taste of my arousal and the sweet vanilla was a heady cocktail. He started with a relentless, focused rhythm, his tongue circling my sensitive nub with a pressure that sent jolts of pleasure straight through me. There was nothing slow or teasing about it; this was a hungry, determined assault on my senses.

He alternated between firm, sweeping licks and quick, precise flicks that made my back arch off the bed. Then he closed his mouth over me, sucking hard, and a guttural moan escaped my lips. The dual sensations of his wet heat and the powerful suction were almost too much to bear. He slid two fingers inside me, curving them to find that sensitive spot deep within, and began to pump them in time with the rhythm of his mouth.

The building pressure was immense, a coiling spring of pure sensation winding tighter and tighter in my core. He was reading every tremor, every gasp, pushing me closer to the edge with expert precision. When I was right there, trembling on the precipice, he locked his mouth over my clit and sucked with a fierce intensity while his fingers drove into me, hard and fast.

The orgasm that tore through me was violent and absolute. I cried out, my hands fisting in the sheets as wave after wave of raw pleasure crashed over me, leaving me shaking and utterly breathless.

He gave me a moment, a few seconds to float back down to earth, before he kissed his way back up my body, his face glistening. He claimed my mouth in another searing kiss, letting me taste my own passion. “Now,” he murmured against my lips, “for the cake.”

We ate the warm, gooey lava cakes in bed, feeding each other with our fingers, the rich chocolate a decadent contrast to the primal intensity of what had just happened.

But the night was far from over.

Afterwards, he pulled me into his arms, our bodies still humming with energy. The snuggling was anything but innocent. His hands roamed my body with a renewed possessiveness, gripping my bottom, pulling me against his already hardening length. I rolled to face him, draping a leg over his hips, and he took the invitation, grinding against me in a slow, deliberate rhythm that promised another round. His mouth found my neck, his teeth grazing my skin.

“We’re not done celebrating,” he whispered, his voice a raw, sexy promise in the candlelight. “Not by a long shot.”

And I knew, with a thrill that ran all the way to my toes, that he was right.