Chapter 6: The Countertop Surprise
The key turned in the lock with a soft click, and the door swung open on silent hinges. Tim stepped into the penthouse and let the weight of the day fall off his shoulders with the closing door.
The smell hit him first. Garlic and olive oil, something with tomatoes simmering on the stove. The golden hour light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the white marble counters in shades of amber and honey. He hadn't taken his shoes off. He didn't care.
Lucy stood at the stove, back to him, stirring something in a cast-iron pan. She wore a thin sweater the color of pale wine, and the afternoon sun caught the curve of her shoulder as she moved. She hadn't heard him come in. He let himself watch her for one long second, cataloguing the shape of her, the way her hair was pulled back in a loose knot that left the back of her neck bare.
Then he crossed the room in three strides.
She turned at the sound, at the sudden warmth of him moving behind her, and her mouth opened in surprise. He caught her face in his hands before she could speak. Kissed her hard, with all the hunger he'd been hoarding since the moment she'd walked out of his apartment wearing his shirt.
She made a sound against his mouth. Not protest. Not alarm. Something low and grateful, like she'd been waiting for this too.
"You've been stuck in my head all day," he murmured against her lips. "I couldn't grade. I couldn't eat. I just kept thinking about you."
Her hands found his shoulders. Gripped the fabric of his jacket. "How did you get in?"
"The key. The one you gave me."
"I gave you that for emergencies."
"This is an emergency." He kissed her again, deeper, and she melted into him with a soft, yielding sound. "I thought about you during my entire office hours. I said 'see me after class' to a student who just wanted directions to the bathroom. I am a disaster."
"An adorable disaster."
"Don't patronize me. I'm being very serious."
She laughed, breathless and warm against his mouth. Her hands slid up his chest, over his collar, into the hair at the back of his neck. The spatula clattered into the pan, forgotten.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. You came all the way up here to kiss me in my kitchen?"
"Among other things."
"What other things?"
He answered her by lifting her.
Her startled gasp turned into a breathless laugh as he hoisted her onto the marble counter. The surface was cool and smooth under her thighs, and he stepped between her parted legs, pressing close, feeling the heat of her through the layers of fabric.
She pulled at his jacket. He shrugged it off. It fell to the floor with the sound of keys and a wallet hitting marble.
"Tim."
"Yes?"
"Your list. What number is this?"
He kissed her throat. "I stopped counting."
"Should I be worried?"
"Extremely."
Her legs hooked around his waist, pulling him closer. Her sweater had ridden up, baring a strip of skin above the waistband of her jeans. He pressed his mouth there, felt her stomach muscles flinch under his lips.
He didn't ask permission. He didn't wait for an invitation. The thought had been burning in him all day, crawling under his skin through every graduate seminar and faculty lunch, and he needed to be here, now, giving her everything he'd held back the last time.
He dropped to his knees.
Lucy made a sound above him, half laugh, half question. "Tim, what are you—"
He didn't answer. He dragged his hands up her thighs, over the denim, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her jeans. Her hips lifted off the counter to help him work them down her legs. They fell to the floor with the jacket.
The sight of her stopped him. Her thighs bare in the golden light, the dark fabric of her underwear the only thing between them. He wanted to look at her. Wanted to memorize every line of her. But the wanting was too loud for that.
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the wet heat of her through the thin cotton.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He pulled the fabric aside. She was already slick, already swollen for him, and the sight of that, the proof of her wanting, made his mouth go dry. He looked up the length of her body, found her eyes dark and fixed on him.
"Tell me to stop if you want me to," he said.
"Don't you dare."
He didn't.
He pressed his tongue flat against her, dragging upward from her entrance to her clit in one long, deliberate stroke. She tasted like salt and heat and something purely her. Her thighs clenched around his head, and he felt her fingers fall to his hair, gripping hard.
"Jesus," she said. "Where did you learn—"
"Read about it."
"That's a lot of reading."
"Shut up."
He found her clit and closed his lips around it, sucking gently. Her hips bucked off the counter. The marble was cold under his knees, and he barely felt it. All of him was focused on the way she moved, the quiet sounds she kept swallowing, the way her fingers twisted in his hair like she was trying to keep herself tethered to the earth.
He pulled her legs over his shoulders. Opened her wider. Drove his tongue into her, tasting her deeply, and she made a sound that was almost a sob.
"Don't stop," she said. "Please don't stop."
He didn't. He brought his fingers to her entrance, slid one inside her, felt her clench around it like a fist. Her head fell back against the cabinet door behind her, and her hips started moving against his mouth in a rhythm she knew and he didn't, and he let her guide him.
"Like that," she gasped. "Yeah, exactly like that. Don't change it."
He curled his tongue against her, pressed another finger inside her, and watched the way her stomach tightened. The golden light caught the sheen of sweat on her collarbone. Her sweater bunched around her ribs. Her nipples showed dark through the thin fabric, and he wanted to tear it off her, wanted to feel her skin against his lips until neither of them could breathe.
"Tim, I'm close. I'm so close, don't stop, please—"
He doubled down. Worked her harder. And when she came, it was with a long, shaking cry that ended in his name. Her thighs clamped around his head so hard he thought his ears might ring. Her hand fisted in his hair, pulling him against her, holding him there while she rode the wave of it.
He kept his mouth on her until her grip loosened. Until her legs slid weakly off his shoulders. Until she was breathing in short, unsteady gasps.
He looked up at her, mouth slick and chin wet, and found her staring down at him with an expression he couldn't read.
"That was," she said, and stopped. Started again. "That was a very good reason for an emergency."
"I'm glad you approve."
"Approve is a strong word." She pulled him up by the collar of his shirt, dragged him close, and kissed him hard enough that he tasted himself on her tongue. "I think I need to lock the door. And cancel everything I had planned for tonight."