Chapter 5: Breakfast Interrupted
The gray morning light filtering through the kitchen window felt mundane, almost blasphemous, after the storm of the night before. Marly stood at the counter, the cool linoleum under her bare feet, waiting for the coffee machine to finish its sputtering gasp. She wore only one of Freddie’s discarded zip-up hoodies, the one from last night, still faintly damp in the sleeves. It hung to mid-thigh, enveloping her in his smell—rain, cheap detergent, and him.
She heard his barefoot steps on the hardwood behind her. Felt his warmth before he touched her. His hands settled on her hips, his chin on her shoulder.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Hey.” She leaned back into him, a shiver tracing her spine as his morning erection pressed against the small of her back through his boxers. The simplicity of it, this open tenderness in the harsh fluorescent light of her chaotic kitchen, was intoxicating. It was theirs. No hiding.
The coffee pot beeped. She turned in his arms, intending to reach for mugs, but he didn’t let go. His eyes, still puffy with sleep, held a lazy, heated focus that pinned her in place. Last night had been about release, about fear and victory. This was different. This was deliberate.
“You’re in my way,” she said, a smirk playing on her lips.
“I know.”
He kissed her, slow and deep, tasting of sleep and possibility. His hands slid down from her hips to cup the backs of her thighs, and then he lifted her, setting her on the edge of the cluttered counter with a casual strength that made her breath catch. A half-empty cereal box toppled over. She didn’t care.
He stepped between her legs, the rough fabric of his boxers rubbing against her inner thighs. The hoodie rode up, exposing her skin to the cool Formica. He broke the kiss, his gaze drifting down her body, taking in the exposed length of her legs, the shadow of her core hinted at beneath the hem.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” he stated, his voice dropping an octave.
“They were available.”
“I want them back.”
A thrill shot through her. She recognized the shift, the gentle morning dissolving into something hungrier. She leaned back on her palms, a deliberate pose, and watched his eyes darken. “Come and take them, then.”
For a second, he just looked at her, the possessiveness from last night flashing again in his expression. Then his hands went to the hoodie’s zipper. He tugged it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. He pushed the fabric open, revealing her bare breasts, her stomach, the thatch of dark curls below. The cool air pebbled her skin. He didn’t touch her there, not yet. He just looked, his breath coming faster.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he said, almost to himself.
He bent his head, taking one nipple into his mouth. His tongue was warm, soft, then insistently rough. She arched into him, a soft cry escaping as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak. His hand slid up her inner thigh, his fingers brushing through her curls, finding her wet and ready. He traced her slit, gathering the slickness, then circled her clit with a maddening, practiced pressure.
“Freddie…” she gasped, her head falling back. The kitchen, the morning, Spencer’s weird sculpture made of bottle caps on the table—it all blurred into a buzzing periphery. All that existed was his mouth on her breast and his fingers working her with an intimate knowledge that still felt new and overwhelming.
“How are you this wet already?” he murmured against her skin, his voice muffled. “Just from me looking at you?”
“Yes,” she breathed. It was the truth.
He added a finger, sliding deep inside her, curling upwards. She cried out, her hips bucking off the counter. He fucked her slowly with his hand, his palm grinding against her clit with each stroke, building a taut, coiling pressure in her belly. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the counter’s edge.
“I want you to come,” he said, his own breathing ragged. “I want to taste you. Right here.”
He withdrew his hand. Before she could protest the loss, he was on his knees on the kitchen floor. He pushed her thighs wider, hooking her legs over his shoulders. The position was shockingly open, vulnerable. She was completely exposed to him, to the room, her back against the cold refrigerator door covered in Carly’s smiling photos.
His breath ghosted over her core, hot and damp. Then his tongue connected, a broad, flat lick from her opening all the way up to her clit. She jerked, a strangled moan ripped from her throat. He didn’t let up. He ate her with a single-minded devotion, his tongue spearing into her, then flicking rapidly over her swollen bud. His stubble scraped the tender skin of her inner thighs, a delicious friction against the overwhelming softness of his mouth.
“Oh, god, right there,” she panted, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, just holding on. The orgasm built faster than she expected, a tightening tsunami of sensation. He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying steady, rhythmic pressure, and drove two fingers back inside her, crooking them.
It broke her. Pleasure detonated, a silent, blinding burst that made her spine bow and her throat ache from a soundless scream. Wave after wave crashed through her, milking his fingers, and he didn’t stop, drawing out every last pulse until she was shuddering and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
He rose, his lips shiny, his eyes blazing with triumph and desire. He shoved his boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and urgent. He was trembling. He hooked his hands under her knees, pulling her to the very edge of the counter. The cold metal drawer handle dug into her back. He didn’t pause.
He guided himself to her soaked entrance and pushed in with one solid, deep thrust. She was so sensitive from her climax that the fullness was almost too much, a stretch that bordered on pain before it melted into electric, mind-numbing pleasure.
“Fuck, Marly,” he choked out, his forehead dropping to hers. “You’re so… god, you’re so open.”
He began to move, short, deep strokes that made the counter rattle against the wall. The obscene, wet sound of their joining filled the kitchen, mingling with their ragged breaths. He fucked her with a desperate, driving rhythm, each thrust jolting her body. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the muscles of his ass, pulling him deeper, taking all of him.
“Harder,” she demanded, her voice guttural, foreign to her own ears.
He obeyed, his grip on her thighs tightening, slamming into her. The fridge door shuddered with every impact. A magnet with Spencer’s face on it clattered to the floor.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice ragged. “That’s me. In my kitchen. In my girl. No secrets.”
“Yes,” she hissed, the ownership in his words, the crude reality of their act in this messy, public room, sending her spiraling toward another cliff. “Freddie, I’m gonna come again.”
“Do it,” he snarled. “Come on my cock. Let your sister hear you.”
It was the taboo of it, the sheer audacity, that tipped her over. Her second orgasm was a raw, convulsive seizure, clamping down on him, pulling a sharp, shattered cry from her lungs. He shouted, a wordless release, and drove into her one final, brutal time, pulsing hot deep inside her as he came, his body shuddering against hers.
They stayed like that, locked together, panting, the smell of sex and coffee thick in the air. Slowly, the world reassembled. The hum of the refrigerator. The drip of the faucet. The distant sound of traffic from Bushwell Plaza.
He softened inside her, but didn’t pull out. He just rested his head on her shoulder, his breath cooling on her damp skin. She ran her hands through his hair, the adrenaline seeping away, leaving a bone-deep lethargy and a dizzying sense of rightness.
The creak of the apartment’s front door hinge made them both freeze.
“Hello? progeny of my loins?” Spencer’s voice echoed down the hall, accompanied by the rustle of grocery bags. “I have procured sustenance of a vaguely nutritional nature! And my clay vision quest has yielded… a very heavy ashtray.”
Freddie and Marly looked at each other, wide-eyed. They were naked. In the kitchen. On the counter. A frantic, silent communication passed between them. In a scramble of limbs, Freddie pulled out, a wince and a gasp from Marly following the sudden emptiness. He yanked up his boxers as she slid off the counter, the hoodie falling closed just as Spencer rounded the corner into the kitchen.
Spencer stopped, his artist’s eyes taking in the scene: the flushed faces, the disheveled hair, the cereal box knocked on its side, the particular and charged stillness in the air. His gaze lingered on the fridge door, then flicked to the floor where his magnet lay.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Ah. I see the ‘working on your communication’ is going well.” He held up a bag. “Eggs? I feel like we all might need some protein.”
Marly felt a blush burn from her chest to her hairline, but she also felt Freddie’s hand find hers, their fingers lacing together behind the cover of the counter. No hiding.
“Eggs sound great, Spencer,” Freddie said, his voice remarkably steady. He squeezed Marly’s hand, a silent promise, a shared secret that was finally, joyfully, not a secret at all.