Chapter 2: The Morning After
Yaa awoke to the distinct, unfamiliar sensation of being watched. It wasn’t a threatening feeling, but a steady, focused pressure. The grey morning light filtered through her blinds, striping the rumpled duvet. She turned her head on the pillow.
Simon was propped on one elbow, facing her. And the balaclava was gone.
Her breath caught. He was… beautiful, in a shattered, reconstructed way. Short, pale blond hair, ruffled from sleep. A strong, straight nose. That stern, perfectly sculpted mouth. And the scars. A pale, jagged line bisected his left eyebrow, another puckered the skin near his jaw. They weren’t deformities; they were a testament, a map of pain he’d survived. His blue-gray eyes, no longer shadowed by wool, held a depth of quiet intensity that made her chest ache.
“You’re staring,” he rumbled, his morning voice even rougher.
“You’re letting me,” she whispered back.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Feels wrong. Hiding it from you now.”
The raw admission, the vulnerability of him offering this secret part of himself after a lifetime of concealment, swelled in her throat. She didn’t tell him he was handsome. That felt cheap, too simple for the magnitude of his gesture. Instead, she reached out, her fingertips tracing the longest scar along his jaw. He didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes, leaning almost imperceptibly into her touch.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick.
His eyes opened. He captured her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her palm. Then he guided it lower, under the duvet, to where his cock was already thick and hard against his stomach. Heat, and a fierce, grateful tenderness, flooded her. She understood. This was his language.
“Let me,” she murmured, shifting down the bed.
She pushed the covers back, the cool air pebbling her skin. He watched her, his expression unreadable but his eyes burning. She kissed her way down his torso, over the hard ridges of his abdomen, through the coarse blond trail of hair. She took him in her hand, feeling the heavy, velvety weight of him. He was already leaking, a pearl of moisture at the tip. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over him, and looked up to meet his gaze.
Then she took him into her mouth, slowly, savoring the hot, salty taste of him.
Simon hissed, a sharp intake of breath that was the most satisfying sound she’d ever heard. She worked him with a focused, worshipful attention, her tongue swirling around the head before taking him deeper. One hand cradled his balls, rolling them gently; the other braced against his powerful thigh. She listened to his breathing fracture, felt the coiled tension in his muscles. She sucked him hard, hollowing her cheeks, reveling in the guttural, broken curses that fell from his lips.
“Fuck… Yaa… just like that… Christ…”
She was lost in the rhythm, in the power of reducing this formidable man to a trembling wreck, when a flash of movement caught her eye. From the doorway, a large, orange tabby cat sat meticulously washing a paw, its disinterested gaze fixed on the wall.
Simon followed her glance. He went still, his cock still in her mouth. “The fuck is that?”
Yaa released him with a wet pop, flustered. “Oh! That’s… that’s Garfield. He’s… shy.”
“Garfield,” Simon repeated, his voice dangerously flat.
“Yes! Garfield, out! Go on, shoo!” Yaa made a frantic waving motion, suddenly, absurdly aware of her nakedness, of Simon’s exposed state, of the entire tableau. The cat blinked slowly, unmoved.
A low, rough sound escaped Simon. It took her a second to realize it was a chuckle. He was laughing. The ice in his eyes had melted into genuine, bewildered amusement as he watched her scramble for modesty in front of a cat. “Decent sort, is he?” Simon asked, the grin tugging at his scarred mouth transforming his entire face.
“Simon,” she whined, mortified and laughing herself.
Still chuckling, he slid out of bed with that unsettling grace. Completely, unselfconsciously naked, he walked over to the cat, crouched down—a massive, scarred warrior addressing a feline—and scratched it behind the ears. “Alright, mate. Time’s up.” He gently herded the unimpressed Garfield out of the bedroom and closed the door with a soft click.
He turned back to her, the amusement still playing on his face. “Privacy restored.”
Yaa was still sitting up in bed, the duvet pooled at her waist, trying to recover her composure. He moved back to her, but didn’t get under the covers. He stood beside the bed, his cock standing proud and flushed. He gripped her hips and hauled her to the edge of the mattress in one smooth motion.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping back into that dark, delicious register. “Where were we?”
Before she could answer, he lifted her, his hands under her thighs, and impaled her on his waiting length. She gasped, the sudden, deep penetration robbing her of breath as she was sheathed fully on him. Her giggles from a moment before dissolved instantly into a sharp, needy moan. Her arms clutched his shoulders for balance.
“Simon… oh, god…”
“That’s it,” he growled, his hands gripping her ass, holding her still as he began to move her on him. “Take it. All of it.”
She tried to set a slow, grinding pace, wanting to savor the exquisite fullness. But he was done with patience. With a grunt, he took over, lifting and lowering her on his cock with brutal, efficient strokes. The pace was relentless, each descent a claim. The wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies filled the quiet room.
“Teased me… with that perfect mouth,” he rasped, his forehead against hers. “Got me right on the edge… then a fucking cat…”
He drove up into her, punctuating his words. She could only cling to him, her braids swinging, her cries muffled against his neck. The tension coiled again, tighter, hotter than before. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his own breath coming in ragged gusts. When she came, it was with a silent, shuddering scream, her inner muscles milking him violently. It pulled his own release from him, a raw shout against her skin as he pulsed deep inside her, his grip on her almost painful.
They slumped together, a tangled, sweating mess. He carried her the two steps back to the bed and collapsed with her beneath him, both of them spent and breathing heavily.
Later, after they’d dozed in a lazy tangle, the smell of sweat and sex prompted a mutual, wordless agreement. The shower was a slow, steasy exploration. He washed her hair, his big, scarred fingers surprisingly gentle on her scalp. She traced the roadmap of old wounds on his back as the water sluiced over them. It was intimate in a different way, quiet and profound.
Wrapped in towels, they drifted to the kitchen. The morning sun now properly illuminated her flat, bouncing off the vibrant fabric of her Kente cloth wall hanging. “I’m starving,” Simon stated, opening her fridge. He surveyed the contents with a tactical eye. “Eggs. Bacon. You sit.”
“You cook?” she asked, leaning against the counter, watching the fluid way he moved in her space.
“I can sear protein and not give anyone food poisoning. It’s a core skill.” He found a pan, set to work. The sizzle of bacon filled the kitchen, a wonderfully normal sound.
She made coffee. They moved around each other easily, a silent dance. She told him about her dream, the restaurant she wanted to open—a place mixing the rich, spicy flavors of her Ghanaian grandmother’s cooking with modern London bistronomy. He listened, really listened, asking sharp questions about suppliers and location.
“What about you?” she asked, setting two plates on her small dining table. “Besides the… soldiering. What do you do?”
He brought over the bacon and perfectly scrambled eggs. “Fix things. Broken systems. Broken situations. It’s what I’m good at.” He sat, his long frame making her dining chair look child-sized. “Quiet is good. This…” He gestured between them with his fork. “This is better.”
They ate. The conversation was easy, laced with the kind of banter that felt years old. He stole a piece of her toast. She flicked a crumb at him. He caught it, a smirk on his scarred face. But as the meal went on, she noticed his eyes darkening again, lingering on the V of her towel where it was tucked between her breasts.
He finished his last bite, put his fork down with deliberate care. His gaze was locked on her.
“Yaa.”
“Yeah?”
“Put the cat in the other room.”
A jolt of pure heat went straight to her core. Her mouth went dry. She stood on slightly unsteady legs, found Garfield sunning himself on the sofa, and deposited him in the hallway, closing the kitchen door.
When she turned back, Simon was standing. He walked to her, his eyes never leaving hers, and guided her back until her hips met the edge of the dining table. He pushed her plate aside with a sweep of his arm.
“Up,” he commanded softly.
She hoisted herself onto the table, the wood cool against her thighs. He gently pushed her back until she was lying amidst the breakfast detritus, her towel falling open. He knelt on the floor between her legs, his hands spreading her wide.
“Simon… the plates…”
“Fuck the plates,” he muttered, and then his mouth was on her.
This was different from the night before. This was slow, deliberate, worshipful. He licked and suckled with a devastating patience, exploring every fold, learning what made her back arch and her fists clench in the tablecloth. He teased her with the tip of his tongue, then flattened it to deliver broad, languid strokes that had her whimpering. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a spot that made her cry out as his mouth continued its torturous, beautiful work on her clit.
“You taste better than anything on this table,” he growled against her, the vibration pushing her closer.
She came with a soft, broken sigh, her hips lifting off the table into his relentless mouth. He didn’t stop until the last tremor subsided, until she was boneless and gasping. He rested his forehead against her inner thigh, his own breathing heavy. Then he rose, looming over her, his expression one of raw, satisfied possession. He leaned down and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips.
“Breakfast,” he said, his voice hoarse, “is served.”
“Breakfast,” he said, his voice hoarse, “is served.”
She lay splayed on the wood, utterly ruined, the cold surface a sharp contrast to the fevered skin of her back. His tongue had turned her bones to liquid. He watched her, a faint, smug tilt to his mouth as he righted a toppled salt shaker. The ordinary sound of ceramic on wood was obscene. Slowly, she pushed herself up on trembling arms. Her towel was lost somewhere on the floor.
“You’re a menace,” she breathed, her voice shaky.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, utterly serious. He picked up a strip of cold bacon and took a deliberate bite, his eyes never leaving her naked form. The domesticity of him eating while she was wrecked on the table was profoundly unsettling. She slid off, her legs barely holding.
They cleaned the kitchen in a silence that hummed. He washed, she dried. His shoulder brushed hers at the sink. Each point of contact was a brand. Garfield meowed pitifully from the hall. When the last plate was put away, Simon nodded toward the living room. “Now what?”
They ended up on her worn sofa, a blanket tangled around their legs. He found a channel showing back-to-back episodes of a loud, dramatic reality show about people fishing for crab in brutal seas. He became oddly, intently invested. “That one’s a liability,” he’d mutter, pointing at a greenhorn sailor on the screen. “Wind’s shifting. They’re not securing that gear properly.” Yaa laughed, curled into his side, his arm a solid weight around her. She felt his chest vibrate when he gave a low chuckle at a particularly spectacular swearing rant from a captain.
It was peace. A quiet, sprawling peace she hadn’t known she was starving for.
Her laptop sat on the coffee table, a silent rebuke. Monday loomed. “I should just log in,” she sighed, making a half-hearted reach for it. “Check the queue.”
His arm tightened, pinning her. “No.”
“Simon, I have to. It’s my job.”
“It’s Sunday.” His voice left no room for argument. He took the laptop, closed it, and placed it on the floor behind the sofa. “The admin for a plumbing supply company can wait twenty-four hours. They’re not saving lives.”
“Says the man who fixes ‘broken situations,’” she shot back, but there was no heat in it.
“Exactly. This is a broken situation. Your inability to switch off.” He turned her face toward him. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Day’s ours. No work.”
She surrendered, melting back into him. The next episode played. His hand drifted from her shoulder, down her arm, coming to rest on the bare skin of her thigh where her shorts had ridden up. His touch was absent, proprietary. A simple claim that made her stomach flutter.
Later, dressed in jeans and a soft jumper, they ventured out. Sainsbury’s on a Sunday afternoon was its own kind of battleground. Simon became a tactical asset. He took the trolley, his height and broad shoulders parting the crowds effortlessly. He was brutally efficient.
“You need rice. Basmati. Not that one.” He took a bag from a lower shelf. “Better grain.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve eaten rice in every conceivable hellhole on the planet. I know rice.” He said it with zero pretension, just fact. He examined tomatoes with a sniper’s focus, rejecting several before choosing the best. When a man in a hurry nearly clipped her with his cart, Simon simply shifted, placing his body as a shield, a low “Watch it” leaving his lips. The man scurried away without a word.
They bought chicken thighs, red peppers, onions, a dozen tomatoes, Scotch bonnet peppers, ginger, garlic. Spices from her own cupboard were fine, she said. He insisted on fresh stock cubes. “Foundations matter,” he grumbled, tossing a box in the trolley.
Back at the flat, music floated from her speakers—a mix of Highlife and Neo-soul. Simon unpacked groceries with a soldier’s orderly precision while Yaa changed into leggings and an old t-shirt. She pulled her braids up into a messy bun. “Right,” she announced, tying an apron around her waist. “You’re on prep duty.”
He stood attentively, like a recruit on his first detail. She guided his hands, showing him how to chop onions finely, how to dice the peppers, how to mince the ginger and garlic without crushing it. His movements were initially too forceful, designed for brutality, not finesse. “Gentle,” she said, placing her hand over his on the knife handle. “It’s not an enemy. It’s an onion.”
He huffed, but his next cuts were controlled, precise. She blended tomatoes, peppers, and onion into a smooth paste, the roar of the blender filling the kitchen. He watched the entire process, a silent, absorbing study. The paste went into a pot with hot oil. It sizzled, spitting angrily.
“Now we fry it,” she said, stirring. “You have to stand here and stir until the water cooks out. It’s the most important part. It takes time.”
He took the wooden spoon from her. “I can do time.”
She busied herself beside him, seasoning the chicken, washing the rice. They didn’t speak much. The kitchen filled with the incredible, mouth-watering aroma of frying tomato paste and spices—the deep, earthy scent of thyme, the sharp kick of ginger, the smoky heat of the paprika. Steam fogged the windows.
He stirred, his profile focused in the cloud of fragrant steam. A scar on his temple gleamed under the kitchen light. This felt monumental. More intimate than anything they’d done with their bodies. She was letting him into her history, into her grandmother’s hands, into the very core of what made her feel like herself. And he was treating it with a reverence he reserved for survival.
After what seemed like an age, the oil began to separate from the paste. “There,” she said, pointing. “See that? That’s when you know.” He nodded, a student who had mastered the lesson.
She added the stock and water, then the chicken. Later, the rice went in. He watched as she covered the pot with foil, then the lid. “Now, we wait. No peeking. It steams. It cooks in its own ambition.”
He pulled her to him, his arms wrapping around her from behind, his chin resting on her head. They stood like that, watching the pot, as if something precious was being forged inside it. His hands slid down her stomach, palms warm through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
“This is the best smell in the world,” he murmured into her hair.
“It’s home,” she said simply.
When the jollof was done, they ate straight from the pot, standing at the kitchen counter, too hungry to bother with plates. The rice was a perfect, vivid orange, each grain separate, infused with the rich, smoky, peppery sauce. The chicken fell from the bone. He ate two heaping bowlfuls, his silence the highest compliment.
“Fucking hell,” he finally said, wiping his mouth. “That’s… operatives would kill for that. Literally.”
She beamed, pride swelling in her chest.
The dishes were done. The light faded to a deep blue evening. The domestic engine of the day had wound down, and a new, familiar tension took its place. It pulsed in the air between them, thick as the scent of spices.
She was putting away a dried pot when his hands landed on her hips, spinning her gently to face him. The counter dug into her back. His eyes were dark, the blue almost swallowed by black.
“You taught me your grandmother’s jollof,” he said, his voice low.
“I did.”
“I want to know what else you taste like now. With that on your tongue.”
He kissed her, deep and searching, and she could taste the subtle heat of the Scotch bonnet and ginger on his lips, mixing with her own. It was intoxicating. He pushed her leggings and underwear down in one rough motion, the fabric catching at her knees. The cool air hit her skin, then the scorching heat of his hands. He lifted her, sitting her on the edge of the counter, sending a clean bowl clattering into the sink.
He stepped between her spread legs, his jeans rough against her inner thighs. He unfastened his own trousers, freeing his cock, already thick and eager. He didn’t wait. He guided himself to her entrance, wet and ready from the kiss, from the whole, long, delicious day.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gritted.
She opened her eyes, locked onto his. He pushed inside with a slow, inexorable thrust that stole her breath. He filled her completely, a relentless, stretching fullness that was becoming addictively familiar. He set a deep, grinding rhythm, his hips rolling against hers, the counter shaking with each deliberate movement.
“This,” he grunted, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open for him. “This fucking peace. It’s in you.”
He fucked her with a purposeful, driving intensity, each thrust pushing her further back on the counter. The kitchen was dark now, lit only by the dim light over the stove. Their grunts and the wet, rhythmic sounds of their joining were loud in the quiet. He leaned forward, bracing one hand beside her, his other hand tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Tell me,” he rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “Tell me this is yours.”
“It’s mine,” she gasped, the words breaking as he hit a devastating spot inside her. “You’re mine.”
A savage growl escaped him. His pace became frantic, brutal, losing its measured control. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I am.” He was pounding into her now, his body slamming against hers, the countertop biting into her thighs. The sheer force of it, the raw ownership in his words, tipped her over the edge. Her climax ripped through her, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clamped down on him like a vice.
He followed with a choked-off shout, his body shuddering as he spilled into her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. He stayed there, buried inside her, their sweat-slicked bodies heaving in the dark kitchen.
A long time later, he softened and slipped out. He helped her off the counter, her legs unsteady. They didn’t speak. They navigated the dark flat by touch, falling into her bed, the sheets cool. He pulled her against him, her back to his chest, his arm heavy across her waist. The last of the day’s warmth bled from the room.
She listened to his breathing even out into sleep. The ghost of spices clung to her skin, mixed with the smell of him, of sex, of shared peace. The quiet was absolute, and for the first time in a very long time, it felt like a promise, not a threat.