Chapter 8: Sticky Good Morning
The first thing I became aware of was not the light, but the weight. A warm, solid, perfect weight against my chest. The second was the smell—lavender laundry detergent, the faint dusky scent of her skin, and something deeper, musky and intimate, that was simply us from the night before. I blinked slowly. Pale gold sunlight cut through a gap in the curtains, illuminating dancing motes of dust and landing in a bright stripe across the rumpled duvet.
Pritha was still asleep, curled into me. My arm was numb beneath her, pins and needles singing a familiar tune. I didn’t dare move it. Her curls were a wild, beautiful disaster against the white pillowcase, some strands stuck to her cheek by dried drool. I smiled. My heart did that stupid, expansive thing it only did for her.
I shifted minutely, just enough to tilt my head. I pressed my lips to the warm curve of her cheek, just beside her mouth. The skin was incredibly soft, downy. “Good morning,” I breathed, the words husky with sleep.
She made a small, protesting noise in her throat, nuzzling deeper into the pillow. Then she stirred, her body stretching languidly against mine. The motion pressed her bottom firmly back into my hips.
And then she went very, very still.
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, though her eyes were still closed. She wriggled again, a deliberate, grinding little shift. My breath hitched. The evidence of my wakefulness was pressed insistently against the seam of her ass.
“Mmm,” she hummed, her voice thick and sleep-raveled. “Someone’s very happy to see me.” She finally opened one eye, a sliver of dark, mischievous gleam. “Or is that just a standard morning inspection? A structural integrity check?”
I groaned, burying my burning face in the crook of her neck. “Shut up.”
“It’s poking me,” she whispered, her tone dripping with false, wide-eyed innocence. She pushed back again, a soft, taunting pressure. “Is that a flashlight in your pocket, or are you just—”
I bit her shoulder gently. “You’re the worst.”
She laughed, the vibration humming through my lips where they touched her skin. “Am I? Or am I the best?” Her hand slid behind her, fingers skimming my hip before finding what they sought. She didn’t grab, just rested her palm against the hardened length of me, a hot, claiming weight. “Feels like a vote for ‘best’ to me.”
I shuddered, my hips twitching forward into that casual touch. Every nerve was shouting. The morning light felt suddenly brighter, sharper, highlighting the faint red scratches I knew were on my back. Her scratches. “That’s a biased poll,” I managed to say.
“All polls are biased,” she murmured, her fingers curling slightly, applying the faintest pressure. “It’s about the quality of the data.” She rolled over to face me, her movement slow and languid. The duvet slid down to her waist, revealing the pale, sleep-warm skin of her shoulders and the gentle swell of her breasts.
Morning light gilded the side of her face, catching the faint crinkle at the corner of her eye. She studied me, her expression soft and unbearably fond. Her thumb stroked a slow arc over my hipbone. “Hi.”
“Hi.” My voice was wrecked already. I lifted a hand, pushing a wild curl behind her ear. My fingers lingered on the line of her jaw. “You have drool.”
“Liar.” She turned her face to kiss my palm. “You love it.”
“I do.” I did. I loved every sleepy, unguarded, messy piece of her. The love was a physical ache, a expansion behind my ribs that made it hard to breathe. It tangled with the more urgent, pulsing ache lower down, inseparable. “I love you.”
“I know.” She said it simply, a fact as solid as the bed beneath us. Then her smile turned wicked again. “And other things, apparently.” She slid her hand away suddenly, leaving a cold absence. “I’m starving.”
She threw the duvet back in a swift motion, cool air washing over us. Before I could protest, she was sitting up, then swinging her legs out of bed. She stood, gloriously nude and illuminated in the sunbeam, a statue of pale skin and dark curls. She stretched her arms over her head, back arching, a soft pop sounding from her spine.
I just watched, propped on an elbow. The light traced the elegant line of her spine, the twin dimples at the base of her back, the full, perfect curve of her ass. My mouth went dry.
She glanced over her shoulder, catching my stare. A blush, faint and pink, bloomed across her chest. But she held the pose a second longer, a deliberate, dancer’s extension.
Then she broke the pose and walked, with that easy, hip-swaying grace of hers, to the small dresser wedged between the wall and her desk. The old floorboards creaked under her feet, a familiar soundtrack. I watched the muscles in her calves flex with each step, the shift of the powerful curves I’d held onto just hours before.
She yanked open the second drawer, rummaging without looking. Her back was still to me, a landscape of smooth skin and subtle shadows. “You’re staring,” she said, her voice singsong.
“I’m documenting,” I replied, my voice still rough. “For historical accuracy.”
She laughed, a short, bright sound. Her hand emerged from the drawer clutching a small, intricate scrap of black lace. She held it up by a single strap, letting it dangle from her finger. “This one,” she announced, as if choosing a weapon.
She stepped into it with a practiced bend, pulling the lace up over her thighs, over the swell of her hips. The motion was fluid, a private performance. The underwear was indeed small, just a delicate web of black against her pale skin, framing more than concealing. She smoothed it with her palms, a quick, efficient gesture, then turned.
The morning light hit her fully now. The black lace stark against her skin, the gentle curve of her belly, the faint, shadowed hollows of her hip bones. She put her hands on her hips, her head tilted. “Presentable for breakfast?”
I couldn’t speak. I just shook my head, a slow, helpless movement. She was a vision of contradictions—the cute glasses she wasn’t wearing, the shy smile warring with the boldness of her stance, the intimate lace against the casual morning light.
“Cat got your tongue?” She walked back toward the bed, stopping just out of arm’s reach. Her scent, sleep-warm and uniquely her, washed over me. “Or is all your blood busy somewhere else?”
She leaned over then, bracing her hands on the mattress beside my hips. Her curls fell forward, a curtain brushing my chest. “You,” she whispered, her breath warm on my lips, “look very stranded.”
I finally found my voice, a low groan. “You’re torturing me.”
“Am I?” Her eyes widened, feigning innocence. She leaned in that last inch and kissed me, a soft, closed-mouth press that lasted three agonizingly chaste seconds. Then she pulled back, grinning at my dazed expression. “Good.”
With that, she straightened up and spun on her heel, heading for the door. “Pancakes,” she declared, not looking back. “I’m making pancakes. Try not to combust before you join me.”
She slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind her. I was left alone in the sunlit quiet, the ghost of her kiss on my lips, the imprint of her black lace burning behind my eyes.
The distance she’d just created hummed in the air, charged and inevitable. I flung the duvet aside, the cool morning air hitting my skin like a slap. My body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming from her brief touch, her deliberate performance.
I stood, the wood floor cold under my feet. The house was silent except for the distant, liquid sound of a cabinet closing. A pan clattered lightly. I pulled on my briefs from the heap on the floor and padded out of the room, following the trail of domestic noise.
The hallway was dim, the morning light still contained to her bedroom. I turned into the short corridor leading to the small, galley-style kitchen. And stopped.
The sight hit me with a physical force.
She stood at the counter, her back to me, framed by the window overlooking the narrow alley. She was wearing the black lace panties and nothing else except for a short, tight apron. It was a faded, checkered thing, the strings tied in a precise bow at the small of her back. The fabric stretched taut across the perfect, plump curve of her ass, the hem barely skimming the lace’s edge. The morning sun wrapped around her, highlighting the delicate knobs of her spine, the slope of her shoulders, the way the apron’s neckline dipped just enough to hint at the side of one breast.
“Hope you’re hungry,” she said without turning, her voice a melody of false innocence. She was whisking something in a bowl, her wrist flicking with a precise, dancer’s grace. The muscles in her bare forearm shifted under her skin.
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. The cold from the floor was leaching up through my soles, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling in my gut. “Starving.”
She glanced over her shoulder, her glasses perched on her nose now. The frames glinted in the light. “Good. Because I’m making a mess.” She gestured with the whisk, a drop of pale batter flying onto the counter. “It’s a very demanding recipe.”
“I can see that.” I pushed off the doorframe and walked into the kitchen. The space was narrow, forcing proximity. I could smell the vanilla extract, the warm nuttiness of melting butter in a pan on the stove, and underneath it all, her—clean skin and sleep.
I stopped behind her, not touching. My breath stirred the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. She shivered, but her whisking never faltered. The rhythm was steady, swish-swish-thump against the ceramic bowl.
“Need a sous-chef?” I murmured, my voice low near her ear.
“Maybe.” She tilted her head, exposing more of her neck. “The blueberries need washing.”
I reached around her, my front brushing against the back of the apron. My hands found the colander of blueberries in the sink. I turned on the faucet, the water roaring cold and loud. My movements were slow, deliberate. As I shook the colander, my left hand drifted from the sink’s edge to rest on the counter beside her hip, caging her in.
I felt her breath catch. Her whisking slowed. The water splashed, a bright, chaotic sound.
I shut the faucet off. The silence that followed was thick, filled only with the soft sizzle of butter in the pan. I let my hand, damp and cool, settle on her bare waist, just above the apron’s tie. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. My thumb stroked a slow arc.
“Hardik,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. It wasn’t a protest. It was a recognition.
“Hmm?” I nuzzled the space behind her ear, my lips just ghosting over her skin. My other hand came up, my fingers tracing the path of one apron string from the bow at her back, up along the ridge of her spine, to where it looped around her neck. I followed it all the way to the nape, my touch feather-light.
She shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the lace of her panties shift against my briefs. The whisk clattered into the bowl, forgotten. She braced her hands on the counter, her head bowing forward. “You’re… you’re not helping.”
“I am helping.” I pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the top knob of her spine. My hands slid around to her front, splaying possessively over her lower stomach, just above the lace. I could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my palm. “I’m ensuring the chef is properly motivated.”
She laughed, a breathy, shaky sound. “You’re a menace.” She leaned back into me, her weight a sweet surrender. “The butter’s going to burn.”
“Let it.” But I released her, reluctantly. I took the bowl from in front of her, our fingers brushing. “You cook. I’ll watch.”
I moved to the other side of the narrow kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator. The cool metal seeped through my thin shirt. I watched her. Every movement was a studied torture.
She poured the batter with a steady hand, the liquid hitting the hot pan with a definitive hsssss. She adjusted the flame with a precise click. She waited, her head tilted, watching for bubbles to form on the pancake’s surface. The confidence she had in this small domain was intoxicating. The apron strings drew my eye, leading down to that bow, to the shadowed space between fabric and skin.
“Flip,” she commanded softly, to herself.
The pancake sailed, a perfect golden-brown disc, landing with a soft plop. A small, triumphant smile touched her lips. She glanced at me, catching my stare. A blush crept up her chest again, visible above the apron’s neckline.
“See something you like?” she asked, her old teasing tone returning, though it was softer now.
“Everything.” The word was simple, absolute.
We fell into a rhythm. She cooked. I fetched the maple syrup from the cupboard, my hand lingering on the small of her back as I reached past her. I set plates on the small, rickety kitchen table, my fingers trailing over her shoulder blade. Each touch was a punctuation, a stolen secret in the sunny room.
When the stack was finished, tall and steaming, she turned off the stove. She lifted the pan, shaking the last pancake onto the plate. A smear of batter was on her wrist. Without thinking, I caught her hand, brought her wrist to my mouth, and licked it clean.
The taste was sweet, raw, of vanilla and her.
Her eyes went dark behind her glasses. She watched me, utterly still. Then she pulled her hand back, swatting my chest lightly. “Animal.” But she was smiling.
We sat at the small table, our knees knocking underneath. She was perched in her lace and apron, looking both utterly domestic and wildly indecent. I was in just my briefs and a t-shirt. It was the most normal, most surreal breakfast of my life.
The pancakes were perfect. Light, fluffy, bursting with warm blueberries. The syrup was a river of amber. We ate in a comfortable silence punctuated by the clink of forks, the soft, satisfied sounds she made with each bite.
“Good?” she asked, watching me over her glasses.
“Incredible.” I speared a last bite. “The best.”
She kicked my foot under the table. “You’re just saying that because you can see my butt.”
“I can see your butt,” I agreed, nodding seriously. “And they’re still the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”
She rolled her eyes, but her pleased smile gave her away. She finished her last mouthful and pushed her plate away, leaning back in her chair. The motion stretched the apron fabric across her chest. The morning sun had climbed higher, flooding the kitchen with a clear, honest light. It caught the dust on the windowpane, the steam rising from our empty mugs, the tiny, satisfied crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
I looked at her—really looked. At the batter speck on her cheekbone, the sleep still lingering in the softness of her expression, the powerful, quiet ownership in her posture even dressed in lace and checkered cotton. The scratches on my back tingled, a pleasant, remembered burn.
Last night had been a earthquake, a continent shifting. This morning was the new, quiet world it created. The air itself felt different in my lungs. She was different in my eyes. Not changed, but revealed, like a landscape seen in a new, decisive light.
Not changed, but revealed, like a landscape seen in a new, decisive light. The silence between us was no longer just comfortable. It was textured, layered with the echoes of her screams into my shoulder and the raw, honest way she’d just eaten pancakes in her underwear.
She stood, taking both our plates. The china clinked softly as she stacked them. “So,” she said, turning to the sink. The tap squeaked, then water roared, drowning out whatever else she might have said.
I watched her shoulders work as she scrubbed. The apron strings had come slightly loose. I wanted to retie them. I wanted to press my mouth to the newly exposed patch of skin. I stayed seated. The wooden chair creaked under my shift.
“I feel sticky,” she announced over the splash of water. “Maple syrup. Everywhere.” She said it with a strange emphasis, a glance tossed over her shoulder that wasn’t about syrup at all.
“I know the feeling.” My voice was low. I ran a hand through my hair, which was probably a disaster. I could still smell us, a faint, persistent musk beneath the vanilla and coffee. It was a good smell. A claiming smell. But the morning demanded a reset.
The water shut off. Dripping. She dried her hands on a dish towel, the movement slow and deliberate. She turned, leaning back against the counter, the edge digging into the base of her spine. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, the teasing facade dissolved. What was left was a soft, vulnerable openness that made my chest ache.
“We should…” she started, then gestured vaguely, encompassing the room, us, the state of things.
“Yeah.” I stood. My joints popped. “Separately.”
A flicker of something—relief?—crossed her face, followed immediately by a smirk. “What, you don’t want to conserve water? Be environmentally conscious?”
“The environment can handle it today,” I said, walking toward her. I stopped just out of touching range. The space between us vibrated. “I don’t trust myself not to… rush.”
Her blush was instant, a beautiful spill of color. She looked down, biting her lip to hide a smile. “Oh. Right.” She nodded, curls bouncing. “Okay. You first. I’ll… find clothes. Real clothes.”
I brushed past her, my bare arm grazing hers. A static spark leapt, or maybe I imagined it. “Don’t put on anything too real,” I murmured into her ear as I passed.
Her breath hitched. A soft laugh escaped her. “Go.”
The bathroom was still humid from her shower last night. Our wet towel from the early hours was a damp, cold heap on the floor. I picked it up, the rough texture familiar, and dropped it in the hamper. The mirror was fogged at the edges. I wiped a clear patch with my palm.
My reflection was a stranger. My hair was wild. There were deep shadows under my eyes, but the eyes themselves were clearer, quieter, than I’d seen them in months. I turned, craning my neck. Four parallel lines, red and raised, tracked from my right shoulder blade down to the middle of my back. Receipts. I smiled at my foggy reflection.
The shower was quick, efficient. I didn’t let the water get too hot. The spray needled my skin, washing away the salt-sweat of sleep and the ghost of her touch. I used her soap, the coconut bar that lathered into a rich foam. I scrubbed every inch, the ritual cleansing away the physical remnants but sealing the memory deeper into my bones. The scratches stung under the stream, a bright, pleasant pain.
I emerged into the steamy room, a towel around my waist. The clean scent of soap and steam replaced everything else. I brushed my teeth with my finger and a dab of her paste, the mint shockingly sharp. When I opened the door, a plume of vapor escaped into the cooler hallway.
She was perched on the edge of her stripped bed, now dressed in soft, grey cotton shorts and an oversized university sweatshirt. Her hair was piled in a chaotic bun on top of her head. She looked up, her glasses sliding down her nose. She pushed them up.
“All yours,” I said, my voice echoing slightly in the hall.
She stood, a bundle of her own clothes in her arms. She paused as she passed me. Her nose wrinkled subtly as she inhaled the clean, steamy air clinging to me. “You used my good soap.”
“It was the closest.”
“It smells better on you,” she said, and slipped into the bathroom before I could reply. The lock clicked, a soft, definitive sound.
I stood there for a moment, towel-drying my hair. The apartment was silent but for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the new, muffled rush of water through the pipes in the wall. I walked back into her bedroom. The sun was higher now, bleaching the warmth from the light. The evidence of the night was gone, the sheets bundled away, but the room held its history in the quiet air.
Dressing felt mundane, I didn't bother with it, I just sat in my towel. I sat on the armchair by the lamp, the one with the stack of film magazines. I picked one up, not reading, just feeling the glossy pages under my thumbs. The shower ran for a long time.
When it stopped, the silence felt larger. I heard the faint squeak of the shower curtain rings. The hum of her electric toothbrush. Small, private sounds. There was no urgency to disrupt them. The night had been a flood; this was the slow, soaking in.