Chapter 2: Thinking of you
The steam from the coffee mug hadn’t even begun to curl before his hands were on her. Last night’s abandon—a tangle of sheets and muttered filth against her ear—was a ghost in the muscles of her thighs, a faint ache she savored. She’d felt his eyes on her all morning, a familiar, hungry pressure.
“My turn for the first sip,” she said, her voice still rough with sleep, fingers wrapping around the ceramic.
His laugh was a low vibration against her spine as his arms encircled her waist. “Too slow.”
He took the mug from her, his calloused palm scraping her knuckles, and set it down with a definitive click. The morning light caught the stainless steel of the fridge, a bright, indifferent slash across the scene. His bare chest was warm and solid against her back, the ridge of his erection a blunt, insistent truth pressed between the cheeks of her ass. He’d been hard since he woke; she’d felt it against her hip.
“Yang…” she started, a mock protest already dying in her throat.
“Fuck the coffee,” he growled, his voice a rasp of pure want. His hands slid from her waist to her hips, fingers digging in, and he hiked the soft cotton of his shirt up to her waist in one rough pull.
The cool air of the kitchen whispered over her naked skin. She was exposed, bent forward willingly, her palms flat on the cold marble of the island counter. The view from the penthouse suite was spectacular, a sprawl of waking city, but all she could see was the blurred reflection of their lower halves in the dark oven door: his tense thighs behind her, the pale curve of her ass.
“No panties,” he noted, a hint of triumph in his tone. His thumb swiped through the wetness already gathering between her legs. “Dreaming of something?”
“A decent breakfast,” she shot back, but arched her back, offering herself. A shiver ran through her.
He spat once, roughly, into his palm, the sound crude and real. He slicked himself, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. No preamble, no gentle asking. This was their language. He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth at her ear. “You were thinking about it in the shower, too. Weren’t you? After I left you last night? After I made you come with my mouth?”
His words were a key, turning the lock of her composure. She had thought about it. In her own shower, water beating down, fingers working as she recalled the thickness of him.
He pushed in, not slowly, a brutal, stunning invasion that stole her breath. He was big, and the fit was exquisite, a burning stretch that filled her completely.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, her knuckles whitening on the marble.
He began to move, a driving, relentless rhythm that shook her whole body. Each thrust slammed her hips against the counter’s edge, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it blurred. The shirt pooled around her elbows, trapping her arms. He fucked her like it was aclaiming, like he was trying to erase the memory of his own solitary release in his bathroom and rewrite it with this, with her.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his pace punishing. One hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. “This what you think about when we’re doing those chaste fucking scenes on set? When I’m supposed to just hold your hand?”
“Yes,” she hissed, the admission torn from her. “God, yes.”
“Say it.” He slammed into her, hitting a spot that made her vision star. “Say how you want it.”
“I want your cock,” she moaned, the filthy words a release in themselves. “I want you to fuck me raw over this counter. Just like this.”
He groaned, a raw, animal sound. His other hand slid around her hip, finding her clit, rubbing harsh, chaotic circles. The dual assault was overwhelming. The world narrowed to the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the counter, their ragged breaths fogging the cold marble.
She was close, a tight coil ready to snap. He felt it, the clenching of her around him. “Come on,” he urged, his voice guttural. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
His fingers worked her mercilessly, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper, losing rhythm for pure need. The orgasm ripped through her, violent and silencing. Her cry was muffled against her own arm as her knees buckled, her body clutching him in rhythmic pulses.
That was all it took. With a final, deep plunge, he stilled, burying himself to the hilt. A hot, ragged groan escaped his lips as he came, his body shuddering against hers, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades. Heat flooded her, a thick, intimate claim.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the distant hum of the city. The coffee was cold.
He softened inside her, finally slipping out. He gently lowered the shirt, covering her. His hands, now tender, rested on her hips. He pressed a soft, unexpected kiss to the nape of her neck.
“So much for breakfast,” he murmured, his usual playful tone returning, albeit rougher.
She pushed herself upright, legs trembling. Turning, she saw him—flushed, hair messy, a smug but sated smile playing on his lips. She reached for the abandoned coffee mug, took a cold, bitter swallow, and handed it to him.
“Priorities,” she said, her own smile lazy and affirmed.
He took the mug, his eyes holding hers. The understanding was there, clear and uncomplicated. It was enough. For now, it was more than enough. The phone on the counter buzzed, the assistant’s name flashing. The real world, with its scripts and schedules, was calling them back.