Chapter 3: Kitchen Conquest
The smell of burnt coffee and yesterday’s microwave popcorn hit me as I shuffled into the kitchen. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Catriona was at the stove, her back to me, scrambling eggs in a pan. She was wearing my grey NYU t-shirt, the one she’d stolen weeks ago. It drowned her frame, hanging past her hips, but as she reached for the pepper grinder, the hem rode up.
It revealed the full, glorious curve of her ass, pale and soft in the morning light.
My breath caught. My body, still sleep-soft, responded instantly. A thick, heavy ache settled in my groin. I leaned against the doorway, just watching. The shirt’s neckline was stretched, slipping off one smooth shoulder. Her hair was a messy bun, little wisps escaping around her neck.
She sensed me. She always did. Her shoulders tightened slightly. Without turning, she used her free hand to tug the hem of the shirt down, covering herself.
That small, defensive gesture lit a fuse in me. A low heat, part frustration, part pure want.
I pushed off the doorway and crossed the kitchen in three quiet steps. The linoleum was cool under my bare feet. She gasped as my hands found her hips, my body pressing flush against her back. I was already hard, the proof of my attention pressing insistently against the softness of her ass through my boxers.
“Every time,” I murmured into her ear, my voice rough with sleep and want. My thumbs stroked the sharp points of her hip bones under the worn cotton.
She froze, the spatula hovering over the pan. “Aidan… the eggs.”
“Fuck the eggs.” I rocked my hips against her, a slow, deliberate grind. The friction was electric even through the layers. A shudder went through her. Her head fell back against my shoulder, exposing her throat. I kissed the pulse point there, feeling it hammer against my lips.
“You pull that shirt down like you’re hiding something,” I said, my hands sliding around to her stomach, holding her firm against me. “Like this isn’t mine to see. To touch.”
“It’s just… it’s early,” she whispered, but her body was arching back into mine, betraying her.
“It’s always something. ‘It’s early.’ ‘The light’s too bright.’ ‘I feel gross.’” I bit her earlobe, not gently. She whimpered. “Every time you try to hide, I’m going to take you right there, hard and bare, until you believe this body is fucking perfect.”
I punctuated the last word with another roll of my hips. The spatula clattered into the pan. Her hands came up to grip my forearms, her nails digging in.
“Right here?” Her voice was a thin thread of sound.
“Right here. Right now.” My fingers traced the line of her hip, then dove under the hem of the shirt. I found the warm, bare skin of her thigh, then higher. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. My gut clenched with a possessive, savage joy. “See? You were already hoping I’d catch you.”
“I wasn’t,” she breathed, but it was a lie, and we both knew it.
My hand cupped her between her legs. She was already wet, hot and slick. A low moan escaped her, and she pressed into my touch. I slid a finger inside her, curling it. Her knees buckled. I held her up, my other arm banded around her waist.
“You’re dripping for me,” I growled against her skin. “And you think I don’t crave this? Every part of it?”
I withdrew my finger, brought it to my mouth, and tasted her. Her eyes, wide and dark, watched me over her shoulder. “You taste like proof, Cat. Sweet, fucking undeniable proof.”
I turned her around roughly, lifting her by the waist until she was sitting on the edge of the cluttered counter. A half-empty coffee mug toppled over, brown liquid spreading across the laminate. She didn’t seem to notice. Her legs wrapped around my hips, pulling me in.
My hands pushed the shirt up, past her stomach, past her breasts, until it was bunched under her arms. There she was, displayed in the cruel fluorescent light. Her breasts, full and heavy. The soft swell of her stomach. The thatch of dark curls between her legs. She flinched, a reflexive move to cover herself, but I caught her wrists, pinning them gently on the counter beside her thighs.
“No. You look. You see what I see.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren’t from sadness. They were from being seen, utterly and completely, in the harsh reality of a Tuesday morning. From the sheer, terrifying vulnerability of it.
I pushed my boxers down just enough to free myself. I was thick and flushed, straining. I guided myself to her entrance, not entering, just pressing against her slick heat. “This is for you. All of it. Only for you.”
I thrust inside.
It was a slow, relentless invasion. She was so tight, so perfectly snug around me. Her head fell back, a choked cry tearing from her throat. Her legs tightened around me, heels digging into the small of my back.
I set a punishing rhythm immediately, each drive of my hips pushing her back against the cabinets. The dishes rattled. The forgotten eggs smoked and burned in the pan beside us. The world shrank to this: the slap of skin, the slick sounds of our joining, her sharp, panting breaths.
“Is this hiding?” I grunted, my hands gripping her hips, holding her open for me. “Does this feel like I’m settling?”
“No!” The word was a sob.
“What does it feel like?”
“Like… like you want me.” The admission was ripped from her.
“I have you!” I roared, losing the last shred of control. I fucked her harder, deeper, my vision blurring at the edges with the intensity of it. She was clinging to me, her arms around my neck, her face buried against my shoulder. I could feel her tears, hot on my skin.
Her climax hit her suddenly, a violent, clenching wave that milked me, pulling my own release from me with a force that felt like it cracked my spine. I groaned, sinking my teeth into the fabric of the shirt on her shoulder as I emptied myself into her, pulse after pulse, claiming her all over again in the most primal way I knew.
We collapsed against each other, a tangled, sweating, shuddering mess on the kitchen counter. The smell of sex and burnt eggs filled the air. The dishwasher hummed its oblivious cycle.
Her breath was hot and ragged against my neck. I was still inside her, softening, our bodies refusing to separate. I kissed her shoulder, her throat, her jaw.
“The eggs are ruined,” she mumbled into my skin, her voice wrecked.
I let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah.”
A silence settled, comfortable this time. Heavy with truth. I smoothed her hair back from her damp forehead.
“I have a class at ten,” she said, not moving.
“Skip it.”
“I can’t. Quiz.” She finally lifted her head. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes clearer than I’d seen them in days. She looked used, thoroughly fucked, and for once, not ashamed of it.
I withdrew from her slowly, both of us wincing at the sensitivity. She slid off the counter, her legs shaky. My t-shirt fell back into place, now wrinkled and stained. She looked at the disaster around us—the spilled coffee, the ruined pan, me standing there with my boxers around my thighs.
A real smile, small and wondering, touched her lips. “You’re a menace.”
“Your menace,” I corrected, pulling my boxers up.
She padded over to the sink, ran a paper towel under the tap, and came back. Without a word, she started cleaning the coffee spill. Then she handed me the damp towel. I took it, confused, until I saw her pointed look downward. Oh. Right.
I cleaned myself up, watching her as she dumped the blackened eggs into the trash. She moved with a new kind of ease, a quiet ownership of her space, of her body.
“I’ll make more,” she said, not looking at me. “If you want.”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice soft. “I want.”
She cracked new eggs into a bowl. The simple, domestic sound was more intimate than anything we’d just done. I pulled a stool over and sat, just watching her. The sunlight through the window over the sink caught the gold in her hair.
She poured the eggs into a fresh pan. The sizzle was comforting. She glanced at me over her shoulder, a shy, fleeting look. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m allowed,” I said. “Epidemic, remember?”
She shook her head, but the smile stayed. She believed me for now. For this moment, in our wrecked kitchen smelling of sex and breakfast, she believed.
And that was enough. It had to be. For now.
For now.
The burned pan sat in the sink for two days. It became a monument, a blackened, scoured testament to that morning. We moved around it carefully, a shared, silent joke. Our routine shifted into something new and tentative. She stopped tugging her shirts down when I entered a room. I started leaving my hoodies on her chair, knowing she’d wear them.
It was a fragile, wordless negotiation.
I picked her up after her Thursday lecture. The autumn air was crisp, slicing through the crowd of students flooding out of the humanities building. She emerged, a burst of burgundy wool coat and flying chestnut hair, her face lit up from some debate inside. Seeing her like that, in her element, hit me with a fresh wave of longing.
She was talking animatedly with someone, a guy in a beanie. It was Mark, our mutual friend from the film studies cohort.
My stomach did a small, unpleasant flip. I trusted Cat. Of course I did. But the green spike was involuntary, primal. She saw me leaning against the bike rack and her smile widened, became something just for me. She said something to Mark, who clapped her shoulder and followed her over.
“Aidan! My man!” Mark grinned, shouldering his worn messenger bag. “Fancy seeing you here instead of in your dungeon of engineering.”
“The sun was blinding me,” I deadpanned. “Needed a break.”
Cat slipped her arm through mine, a casual, public gesture that sent a thrill straight to my core. “He’s my ride,” she said, squeezing my bicep.
“Lucky you,” Mark said, his eyes flicking between us with mild curiosity. “Hey, you both free? I’m dying for a caffeine hit and my treat is burning a hole in my pocket from my grandma.”
Cat looked up at me, a question in her eyes. I wanted to say no. I wanted her alone in my car, her hand on my thigh, the quiet intimacy of the drive home. But this was normal. This was what a boyfriend would do.
“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. “Coffee sounds good.”
The student union coffee shop was a cacophony of grinding beans and shrieking milk steamers. We found a small table tucked near a window overlooking the dying quad. Mark dumped his bag and went to order.
Cat slid into the chair beside me, not across. Her knee pressed against mine under the small table. She was watching me, reading the tension in my jaw.
“You okay?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I said, covering her hand with mine. “Just thinking about that pan.”
A faint blush colored her cheeks. She smiled, looking down at our joined hands. Mark returned, balancing three overfilled mugs. “One black tar for the engineer,” he said, sliding one to me. “A sugar-with-some-coffee for the lady.” He gave Cat hers. “And a sensible latte for me.”
He slumped into his chair, took a long sip, and sighed. “Okay, immediate observation.” He pointed his finger at me, then at Cat. “You two are being weirdly quiet. And Aidan, you look… relaxed. Actually relaxed. It’s disturbing.”
“I’m always relaxed,” I said.
“You’re as relaxed as a cornered badger,” Mark snorted. “Usually. Today you’re practically glowing. What’s up? Did you finally crack that fluid dynamics problem set?”
I felt Cat’s hand tense under mine. I gave it a reassuring squeeze. This was it. The first test.
“Nah,” I said, keeping my tone light. I leaned back in my chair, aiming for casual. “I’m seeing someone new. And it’s… it’s incredible.”
Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit! That’s awesome, dude.” He leaned forward, his interest genuine. “Tell me about her. Who’s the lucky girl who’s finally melted the ice king?”
Cat went perfectly still beside me. I could feel the intensity of her focus, a laser beam drilling into the side of my face. She was holding her breath.
I looked at Mark, then deliberately took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the bitter liquid buy me a second. I set the mug down with a soft clink.
“I can’t,” I said simply.
Mark blinked. “What, is she a secret agent? Witness protection?”
“No,” I said, a smile playing on my lips. I didn’t look at Cat. I kept my eyes on Mark, but my words were for her. “She doesn’t trust that I want a relationship with her, not just sex. She’s been hurt before. She needs to know I’m serious.”
Mark’s playful smirk faded into something more sincere. “Oh. Heavy.”
“Yeah,” I said. “So I’m not telling anyone anything until she’s ready. I don’t want to break her trust. I need to prove to her I can be a good boyfriend first. That it’s real.”
The silence at our table was a thick, alive thing. The noise of the coffee shop faded into a distant buzz. Mark nodded slowly, respectfully.
“That’s… really decent of you, man,” he said finally. “Good luck. She sounds like she’s worth it.”
“She is,” I said, my voice quiet with conviction. “She absolutely is.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cat’s free hand come up to her mouth. Her fingers were trembling. Mark, thankfully, didn’t notice. He launched into a story about his disastrous film project. I nodded along, barely hearing him.
Under the table, Cat’s hand turned in mine. She laced her fingers through mine, gripping me with a sudden, desperate strength. Her knee pressed harder against mine.
When Mark finally got up to leave, citing another class, the air between us crackled. We waved him off, remaining at the table. The moment his back was turned, Cat turned to me.
Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but they were shining. Not with sadness. With a raw, stunned hope.
“You meant that,” she whispered. It wasn’t a question.
“Every word.”
“Mark would have kept it secret if you’d asked.”
“It’s not about him keeping a secret,” I said, reaching over to wipe a tear that escaped down her cheek. “It’s about me keeping my word. To you.”
She inhaled a shaky breath, her lower lip quivering. She looked out the window at the students crossing the quad, lives intersecting and moving on. Then she looked back at me, and something in her face had settled. Softened.
“Take me home,” she said, her voice low and thick.
“Your place or mine?” I asked, a faint smile touching my lips.
She stood up, pulling her coat tight around her. She didn’t let go of my hand. She leaned down, her lips brushing my ear, her breath warm. “Anywhere you are.”