Chapter 6: The Kitchen Counter
The water from the tap tasted faintly of minerals and the ghost of yesterday’s coffee. Catriona leaned against the sink, the cool ceramic a shock against her still-warm skin. Aidan stood beside her, shoulder brushing hers, his own glass dripping condensation onto the cluttered counter. The quiet between them was a living thing, thick with the memory of leather groaning under their weight and the steam of the shower.
He watched her swallow, his eyes tracing the line of her throat. “Thirsty work,” he said, a slow smile spreading.
She elbowed him gently, a puff of air escaping her lips that was almost a laugh. “Your fault.” She set her glass down next to the chipped blue mug he never seemed to wash. The single bulb overhead cast a stark, intimate light, carving his cheekbones sharp, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone.
His gaze drifted past her, to the clear space of countertop beside the sink.A calculated look. He took her glass from her hand and set it down.Then his hands were on her hips, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. The cold stone hit the backs of her thighs, a jolt that made her gasp. He stepped between her knees, pushing them apart with his own. The faded cotton of his sweatpants brushed her inner skin.“Aidan…” Her voice was already breathy.
“Shh.” He leaned in, not kissing her mouth, but burying his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulder.He inhaled deeply.“Still smell like me,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her skin. “Under the soap.”
His mouth began a slow descent. Open kisses on her sternum, the flat of his tongue tracing the undercurve of her breast before he took her nipple, already peaked and eager, between his lips.He sucked hard, a pull that echoed straight down to her core. She arched into it, her fingers finding his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
He dropped lower, his knees hitting the linoleum with a soft thud. His hands slid up the outsides of her thighs, a firm, possessive stroke. He looked up at her, his hazel eyes dark in the low light. Then he bent her forward, just enough, and put his mouth on her.It wasn’t gentle.It was hungry, direct. His tongue speared into her, tasting her, claiming her all over again after the shower. She cried out, her head falling back. One of his hands came up to press flat against her lower belly, holding her in place, while the other hand slipped between her legs. Two fingers slid into her with no resistance, curling, finding a rhythm against a spot that made her vision spark. His mouth focused on her clit, a relentless, circling pressure.It was too much, too soon after the last time. The orgasm gathered and broke over her in a sharp, surging wave, wringing a shattered sound from her chest. He rode it, his fingers still working inside her, his tongue softening but not stopping until her thighs stopped shaking against his ears.
Before she could even slump back, he was moving. His mouth left her, trailed lower, over sensitive, quivering flesh, down to the tight furl of her ass.He pressed a soft, wet kiss there. She flinched, a full-body shiver of anticipation.
His tongue traced the clenched ring, slow, languid circles that made her gasp. Then he pressed the flat of it against her, a firm, wet pressure.She heard herself whimper, a high, needy sound in the quiet kitchen. One finger, slick with her own arousal, joined his tongue, pressing, circling, inviting. The stretch was minimal, a familiar teasing ache. He worked it in, to the first knuckle, then deeper, a slow corkscrew motion that made her toes curl against the cupboard door.
“So perfect for me,” he breathed against her skin, his voice rough. “Takes it so well.”
He added a second finger beside the first. The burn was brighter now, a clean, stretching fullness that made her breath hitch. He scissored them gently, stretching her, preparing her with a patience that felt like torture.Her whimpers were a continuous stream now, muffled by her own arm.
When he withdrew his fingers, the emptiness was profound. She heard the rustle of his sweatpants, the click of the lube bottle they’d left on the windowsill days ago. He stood up, his body lining up with hers. He guided himself, the blunt, insistent head pressing where his mouth had been.“Look at me, Cat,” he said, his voice strained.
She forced her heavy head up.Their eyes locked.He pushed.It was a slow, devastating invasion. Her body resisted for a heartbeat, that initial, shocking breach, then yielded, accepting him inch by inexorable inch. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, until she felt the coarse hair at the base of his shaft against her skin.He held there, swallowed by her, his body trembling. A sheen of sweat gleamed on his forehead under the bare bulb.“Christ,” he choked out.
Then he moved. He pulled back almost all the way and sank back in, a deep, rolling thrust that stole her air. He set a hard, driving rhythm, each stroke punctuated by the soft slap of skin and the creak of the cupboard beneath her. One hand anchored her hip, the other slipped around, his thumb finding her clit, swollen and oversensitive. The dual sensation was brutal, overwhelming. She was being unraveled from the inside out, pleasure sharp as shattered glass radiating from where they were joined.“Come on,” he gritted out, his rhythm beginning to fracture. “Let go.Milk me dry. Do it.”
The command, raw and urgent, tipped her over the edge. Her second climax tore through her, a convulsive, gripping wave that clenched around him, deep and internal.She screamed, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. It triggered his own release. With a guttural groan, he slammed into her one final, shuddering time and held, spilling heat into her depths.
He collapsed forward, his chest heaving against her back, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. They stayed like that, locked together, until their breathing slowed from ragged gasps to shallow synchrony. He softened and slipped out, his hands coming up to steady her as she wobbled on the counter.He helped her down, her legs barely holding her. They stood, foreheads touching, in the mess of their kitchen. He reached behind her, grabbed a tea towel, and dampened it under the tap. Gently, he cleaned between her legs, the rough fabric a tender contrast to the violence of moments before. Then he used a corner of it to wipe the smeared wax from the counter—the old, pooled confession now mingled with their new one.
“Burnt toast,” he said suddenly, his nose wrinkling.
She laughed, a weak, breathy sound. “That’s the romance, is it?”
“It’s our romance.” He tossed the towel into the sink.His arms came around her, just holding her. The fridge motor kicked in with a hum.Outside, a car door slammed in the street. The ordinary world was reasserting itself, but it felt different now. The flat wasn’t just a shared space.It was a mapped territory, every room a testament.The couch.The shower. Now the kitchen counter.He nuzzled into her hair. “I’ve got that lecture on nebulas tomorrow. Nine a.m.”
“And I’ve got a client who thinks magenta and lime green is a ‘dynamic combination.’” She leaned into him, the solid warmth of his chest her new center of gravity. “Real worlds versus made-up ones.”
“They’re all real,” he said quietly.“Just different scales.” He kissed her temple.“Come to bed. Actual sleep this time.”
She let him lead her, their footsteps soft on the worn floorboards, leaving the kitchen light on and the empty glasses standing sentinel over the space they had just, irrevocably, made their own.