Chapter 5: Breakfast and a Second Round
The plates were still on the counter.
Egg yolk had dried to a yellow crust on the ceramic. Crumbs from the toast scattered across the tile like the aftermath of a small, edible explosion. The teapot sat cold now, its last wisps of steam long since dissolved into the warm afternoon air.
Kakashi set his fork down.
The sound was small—metal against ceramic—but it landed like a stone in still water. Sakura looked up from the cereal box she'd been pretending to read for the past ten minutes. Her thumb was in her mouth, chasing a smear of egg yolk that had somehow migrated from her plate to her knuckle.
She sucked it clean.
Something in his gut tightened.
Not panic. Not the familiar itch that had lived beneath his skin since childhood—the one that whispered leave, leave, leave every time he got too close. This was different. This was want. Raw and animal and completely without strategy.
He crossed the kitchen in three strides.
Sakura's eyes widened. "Kakashi—"
He didn't answer.
His hands found her waist, and he lifted her onto the counter like she weighed nothing. The cereal box tumbled from her grip and hit the floor with a wet thud. A coffee mug tipped over, rolled, and shattered somewhere near the sink.
She didn't look at it.
"What are you—"
He yanked her shorts down.
The fabric caught on her knees for half a second—then slid free, pooling around her ankles, and she kicked them off. Her underwear came next. Simple. Gray cotton. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled, and she lifted her hips to help him, and then she was bare from the waist down, sitting on her kitchen counter with her legs slightly parted and her breath already coming faster.
"Kakashi," she said again. Different tone this time. Not questioning. Anticipating.
He dropped to his knees.
The tile was hard beneath him. Cold. He didn't care. All he cared about was the sight of her—pink and wet and waiting—and the sound she made when he put his mouth on her.
She gasped.
Her hips jerked.
Her hand found the back of his head, fingers twisting into his hair, and he didn't start slow. Didn't tease. Didn't warm her up with gentle kisses or hesitant licks. He buried his face between her thighs like he was trying to suffocate himself—nose pressed to her clit, tongue flat against her, tasting and taking and refusing to come up for air.
"Oh fuck," she breathed. "Oh fuck, Kakashi—"
He dragged his tongue up her slit.
Slow. Deliberate. Learning the shape of her. The taste of her. The way she twitched and clenched and shuddered when he found the right spot.
Then he did it again.
Harder.
Faster.
His hands hooked under her thighs and pulled her closer to the edge of the counter. She braced one hand against the cabinet behind her and the other stayed in his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. He liked the pain. Wanted more of it. Wanted her to pull harder, to hold him there, to use him.
"Right there," she gasped. "Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"
He wasn't going to stop.
Two fingers slid inside her.
She was wet—soaking, really—and they went in easy. He curled them upward, searching, and found the spot that made her whole body jolt.
"There?"
"Yes—fuck—there—"
He pressed down with his tongue and crooked his fingers again, and Sakura made a sound he'd never heard before. Guttural. Ugly. The kind of sound that escaped before you could stop it, before you could pretty it up or swallow it back.
He wanted to hear it again.
He worked her clit with his tongue while his fingers kept pumping inside her, and the sounds she made grew louder and less controlled. Her thighs clamped around his ears. Her hips bucked off the counter and into his face. The cereal box crunched under his knee when he shifted, and the teapot rattled, and somewhere in the apartment a neighbor's radio played the kind of slow, soft music that had no business in a moment like this.
He didn't care.
"Kakashi—Kakashi, I'm—"
He sucked hard on her clit.
She came.
Her whole body seized—back arching, head thrown back, mouth wide in a scream she couldn't quite silence. Her nails dug into his scalp. Her thighs crushed his head. And he kept going, kept licking, kept working her through it until she collapsed against the cabinets and pushed weakly at his forehead.
"Too much," she panted. "Too—fuck—"
He pulled back.
His face was wet. Chin slick. Mouth tasting like her. He wiped it with the back of his hand—a rough, perfunctory gesture—and stood.
His knee cracked. The tile had been unforgiving. He ignored it.
Sakura looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Her chest heaved. Her legs hung off the edge of the counter, still trembling.
"You," she said. "Get inside me. Now."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He fumbled with his belt—hands less steady than they should have been—and shoved his pants down just far enough. The condom? Shit. His wallet was in the other room. Her bedroom. Too far.
Sakura reached behind her, fingers scrambling across the counter, and found a foil packet someone had left there the night before.
"Found it," she said.
"Were you expecting—"
"Shut up and put it on."
He took it. Tore it open with his teeth. Rolled it on with hands that were still slick from her.
Then he grabbed her hips and pulled her to the very edge of the counter.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Are you seriously asking me that right now?"
"I just—"
"Kakashi."
He pushed inside her.
She was hot. Tight. So fucking wet. His whole body shuddered with the effort of not coming immediately—and then Sakura wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and he lost the ability to think.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Move."
He moved.
The first thrust was hard enough to slam her back into the cabinets. The second was harder. By the third, they'd found a rhythm—fast and ruthless and completely without finesse. The kitchen filled with the sound of skin against skin, the slap of his hips against hers, and the steady, rhythmic thump of Sakura's shoulders hitting the cabinet door.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
"More."
He gave her more.
The sunlight striped across them both—golden bands that fell through the lattice windows and painted her skin in alternating strips of light and shadow. Kakashi watched the way her breasts moved with every thrust. Watched the way her mouth fell open. Watched the way her fingers scrambled for purchase on the counter, the cabinets, anything she could reach.
"Fuck, you feel good," he said. The words came out rough. Unfiltered. He didn't care.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Fuck."
"Tell me."
"You're—" He cut off. Groaned. "You're so fucking tight. So wet. I can't—"
"Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping."
He leaned forward and kissed her.
Not soft. Not gentle. Teeth and tongue and the taste of her own cunt still on his lips. She bit his lower lip hard enough to make him grunt, and he fucked her harder in retaliation, and she laughed against his mouth—breathless, broken, completely undone.
"I'm close again," she said.
"Good."
"Come with me."
"I—"
"Come with me. Please."
He couldn't say no to that.
Two more thrusts. Three. And then she was clenching around him, clenching so hard he saw stars, and he followed her over the edge with a groan that started somewhere deep in his chest.
His hips stuttered. His knees nearly buckled. He caught himself on the counter—one hand beside her hip, the other tangled in her hair—and rode it out with his forehead pressed to hers.
Minutes passed.
Maybe seconds. Time had stopped working again.
When it was over, he didn't pull out. He stayed inside her—softening now, but still there—and breathed against her mouth like he'd just run a hundred miles.
Her hands came up. Cupped his face. Her thumbs traced his cheekbones.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm just—" He shook his head. "I'm not used to this."
"To sex?"
"To staying."
She didn't say anything. Just kissed him—slow this time, gentle—and let her hands rest on his chest.
Eventually, he pulled out.
The condom went in the trash. His pants came back up. Sakura slid off the counter and stood on wobbly legs, looking at the disaster they'd made.
The cereal box was crushed. The coffee mug was in pieces on the floor. A plate had somehow made it to the floor too, in the chaos.
"We should clean this up," she said.
"In a minute."
"You're going to make me do it, aren't you?"
"I said in a minute."
She laughed. Soft. Warm. The kind of laugh that made his chest ache in ways he didn't have words for.
He pulled her into his arms.
She fit there. Like she'd always been there. Like this was where she belonged. And Kakashi—who'd spent twenty-one years believing he belonged nowhere—held on.
The dishes could wait.