Chapter 3: Kitchen Confessions
The dawn was a grey, hesitant thing. It found them tangled in the center of the bed, AJ a warm, milk-scented lump between them. The night had been a patchwork of short, urgent feeds and long, deep stretches of sleep so profound it felt like drowning. Aoife surfaced first, the dull ache in her breasts her alarm. She slipped from the sheets, the chill of the floorboards a shock against her bare feet.
By the time Joey stumbled into the kitchen, shoving a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, she’d already fed AJ and settled him in his bouncer with a teething ring. The air held the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint, greasy scent of last night’s abandoned chicken sandwich on the counter. Aoife stood at the sink, her hair damp from a quick shower, dark tendrils clinging to the neck of her old t-shirt. Through the narrow window over the sink, the golden dusk of the Kavanaughs’ sprawling estate next door was just beginning to gild the tops of the oak trees. Shannon’s bright, careless laughter spilled through the shared wall, followed by the lower murmur of Johnny’s voice—a reminder of a world that slept uninterrupted.
Aoife felt the familiar, damp pressure in her bra. The nursing pads were soaked through. She glanced at Joey, who was staring blankly at the coffee machine, his back to her. She turned slightly, slipping a hand under her shirt, fingers fumbling with the clasp at the front of the nursing bra to adjust the sodden pad.
The floorboard didn’t creak. He was just suddenly there, a wall of heat at her back, his arms caging her against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. His hands landed on her hips, fingers digging into the softer flesh there—flesh that hadn’t been there a year ago.
“Stop hiding from me,” he said, his voice morning-rough and full of a tension that had nothing to do with sleep.
“I’m not hiding, I’m just—”
His mouth cut off her words at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, a hot, open-mouthed kiss that was more possession than affection. He ground the hard line of his erection against the cleft of her ass, a blunt, insistent promise. One hand slid around to her stomach, holding her flush against him, while the other came up and gripped the neckline of her t-shirt.
He didn’t peel it down. He tore it sideways.
The soft cotton gave way with a rip. Cool air hit her skin, followed instantly by the searing heat of his mouth. He didn’t gentle his approach. He latched onto a swollen, tender nipple, sucking hard, his tongue working roughly over the peak.
A sharp gasp tore from her. It was too much, too soon after a feed, a mix of discomfort and a lightning bolt of raw pleasure that went straight to her core. Her milk let down in a quick, hot rush. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of triumph, and she felt his throat work as he swallowed.
“Jesus, Aoife,” he mumbled against her skin, his lips wet. “Fucking perfect.”
His hand left her stomach and shoved roughly down the front of her soft pajama pants, past the elastic of her underwear. He didn’t tease. Two fingers plunged inside her, curling up hard. She was already slick, her body responding to the crude, desperate hunger in his touch despite the shock of it.
“See?” he breathed, his fingers pumping, the sound obscenely wet in the quiet kitchen. Johnny’s voice was a muffled drone next door. “This body made our son. This perfect, fucking incredible body.” He added a third finger, stretching her, his thumb finding her clit and pressing in tight, ruthless circles. “Now let me show you how much I worship it.”
Her forehead dropped against the cool fridge door with a thud. Her hands scrambled for purchase, finding nothing. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, wound itself tight in her belly. This wasn’t like the mirror. This was faster, hungrier, a claiming in the harsh light of a messy kitchen. He was stripping away the mother, the tired woman with damp hair, and finding just her. Just his.
“Joey,” she pleaded, but the word was a moan.
He withdrew his fingers, slick and gleaming. He spun her around, his eyes dark and fever-bright. Her torn shirt hung open, one breast bare and glistening. He pushed her pants and underwear down her thighs in one rough yank, then fumbled with his own sweats, freeing his cock. It was thick, hard, the tip flushed dark. He didn’t ask. He hoisted her up, her back against the fridge, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he notched himself at her entrance.
He stared into her eyes as he pushed in, a slow, brutal invasion that stole her breath. He filled her utterly, a deep, burning stretch that made her cry out. He held her there, impaled, their faces inches apart.
“No more hiding,” he growled, his breath coming in short bursts. “No more turning away. You look at me. You see me seeing you.”
Then he began to move. Hard, driving thrusts that slammed her back against the fridge with each pound. The metal rattled. Her bare breast bounced with the force. He kept one arm locked around her, the other braced against the appliance, his hips pistoning.
“This cunt,” he grunted, sweat beading on his temple. “This beautiful, tight, fucking amazing cunt. You feel how good you take me? How deep?”
She could only nod, her cries punched out of her with every thrust. The pleasure was a cresting wave, terrifying in its intensity. It was raw, undignified, sublime. He shifted his angle, hitting a spot that made her vision whiten.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm fracturing. “Gonna fill you up right here. Let it drip out of you all day so you remember.”
His words, filthy and perfect, broke her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, shattering convulsion that clamped around him like a vise. She buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her scream, her body shaking uncontrollably.
With a choked roar, he followed, his own release surging hot inside her, his hips stuttering through the final pulses as he held her tight against him.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the hum of the fridge, and Shannon Kavanaugh’s distant, sparkling laugh.
Slowly, he let her slide down until her feet touched the floor. Her legs almost buckled. He held her up, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were closed.
Her torn shirt was still open. His come was already a warm, trickling presence inside her. The reality of the kitchen—the dirty dishes, the abandoned sandwich, AJ beginning to fuss in the other room—seeped back in.
He opened his eyes. The fever was gone, replaced by a soft, weary remorse. He gently tugged her shirt closed over her breast, his thumb brushing her cheek.
“I’m a brute,” he whispered.
She leaned into his hand. “My brute.”
From the living room, AJ’s fussing turned into a full, indignant wail. The world demanded them back. But as Joey pressed a kiss to her forehead and went to their son, Aoife stood for a moment by the rattled fridge, the physical reality of him still warm between her thighs, and felt, for the first time that day, completely solid in her own skin.