Chapter 7: Breakfast Service
The chill of the ceramic mug was a poor anchor. Maria held onto it, her knuckles white, while Chloe’s words–sharp, logical, and terrifyingly right–echoed in the silent space between them. The warmth of the coffee shop felt suffocating now, the golden light exposing every flicker of guilt on her face.
“I have to go,” Maria said, the words scraping her throat.
Chloe didn’t try to stop her. She just watched, a mixture of pity and frustration in her eyes, as Maria gathered her bag and fled the cloying scent of vanilla and roasted beans.
The autumn air outside was a slap. It did nothing to clear her head. Instead, it seemed to fill with the memory of Joe—his smell, the weight of him, the rasp of his stubble against her inner thigh. Her body hummed with a wretched, insistent need that shamed her even as it propelled her feet forward. She wasn’t thinking. She was walking. Her car was parked in the opposite direction, but her feet carried her down familiar sidewalks, past the dry cleaner they used, the newsstand where he’d buy his Sunday paper.
Before her mind could form a coherent protest, she was standing outside his building. Her finger pressed the buzzer for his apartment, a sound that seemed to vibrate up through the bones of her hand.
The intercom crackled. “Yeah?” His voice was cautious, rough.
“It’s me.”
There was a long pause, filled only with the distant traffic noise. Then the door lock released with a heavy, metallic clunk that felt like the sealing of a fate.
She took the stairs, each step a hammering echo of her heartbeat. He was waiting at his open door, leaning against the frame. He wore a worn grey t-shirt and soft-looking sweatpants. His hair was damp, as if he’d just showered. His blue eyes were wide, searching hers, and she saw the war in them: hope, concern, a mirrored hunger.
“Maria,” he started, his voice low.
She didn’t let him finish. She pushed past him into the apartment, the familiar space assaulting her senses. It smelled of him, of clean laundry and the faint, nutty aroma of his morning coffee. The silence was different now, charged and waiting.
He closed the door softly. “What’s wrong?”
She turned to face him, her back against the cool wall of his entryway. “Chloe knows.”
He blinked. “Knows what?”
“About yesterday. She saw the marks.” Maria’s hand went unconsciously to her collar, where the high neck of her sweater hid the bruise. “She thinks I’m an idiot.”
Joe took a step closer, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Aren’t I?” The question was a plea. She needed him to convince her. She needed him to pull her under so she could stop thinking. “I ended it, Joe. I walked away from eight years because it wasn’t… it wasn’t right. And now I’m here, smelling you on my skin from a day ago, and I can’t fucking breathe without wanting you.”
His jaw tightened. The careful restraint he always wore was fraying at the edges. She could see the pulse in his neck. “What do you want, Maria?”
“I don’t want to talk.” The words were guttural, stripped bare. “I don’t want to think. I just need…”
“What?” he pressed, moving closer again, now only a foot away. The space between them crackled.
“I need you to make it stop.” She wasn’t even sure what ‘it’ was—the pain, the confusion, the relentless, physical ache.
He understood. His eyes darkened, the blue turning stormy. He reached out, his thumb brushing her lower lip. It was a tender gesture that ignited something feral in her gut.
“You came back,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
She captured his thumb in her mouth, sucking lightly, watching his pupils blow wide with desire. It was an answer.
That simple, filthy act broke the last of his control. He growled, a low sound from deep in his chest, and his hands were on her, turning her, pressing her front against the wall. His body covered hers, his hard warmth a shock through her clothes. One hand fisted in her curls, gently tilting her head to the side, exposing her neck. His lips found the same spot he’d marked before, and he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make her cry out, a sharp, wanton sound that echoed in the quiet hall.
“Joe,” she gasped.
“Shhh,” he whispered against her skin, his other hand sliding down her side, over her hip. “You don’t get to think here. You said so.”
His hand pushed her jeans and underwear down in one rough, efficient movement. The cold air of the apartment kissed her exposed skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his palm cupping her. She was soaked. He groaned, the sound vibrating through her back.
“Fuck, Maria. You’re dripping.”
His fingers slid through her folds, finding her clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles that made her legs shake. She pushed back against him, seeking more pressure, more friction, anything to quell the fire he’d stoked.
“Not here,” he said, his voice thick. He pulled his hand away, making her whimper at the loss. He guided her, stumbling, through the short hallway and into the kitchen.
The space was washed in pale afternoon light. The cracked mug she’d loved sat discarded by the sink. The floor was cold, unforgiving linoleum. He led her to the center of the room.
“Kneel,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate.
A shiver, part fear, part devastating arousal, ran through her. She obeyed, lowering herself onto the hard, cold tiles. The discomfort was a sharp, grounding counterpoint to the haze of need clouding her mind. He stood before her, his erection visible through the soft fabric of his sweatpants.
He didn’t speak. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down, his cock springing free. It was fully hard, the head flushed dark and leaking. He wrapped a hand around the base, holding it steady before her face.
“Open,” he said.
She did, leaning forward, and he guided himself into her mouth. The taste of him, clean skin and salt, flooded her senses. He was bigger than she remembered, or perhaps her memory had dulled the overwhelming reality of him. Her lips stretched wide to accommodate him, and she heard his sharp intake of breath above her.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Just like that.”
He began to move, shallow at first, then deeper, his grip in her hair tightening just enough to steer her. He set a relentless, pounding rhythm, his hips driving forward, filling her throat until her eyes watered. She relaxed her jaw, letting him use her, the submission a perverse relief. All she had to do was take it. Take him.
The sounds were obscene: wet, choking gulps, his ragged groans, the soft slap of his skin against hers. He looked down at her, his face a mask of awed lust.
“You look so good like this,” he panted. “On your knees for me. Taking my cock so deep.” He thrust harder, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, tears spilling over, and he didn’t stop. “Swallow it. Take all of me.”
He was losing his rhythm, his thrusts becoming erratic, brutal. She could feel the tension coiling in his thighs, hear the change in his breathing. He pulled almost all the way out, just the tip resting on her tongue.
“You always swallow for me, don’t you, baby?” he gritted out, the question a ragged plea.
She looked up at him, her eyes streaming, and gave the smallest nod she could manage.
It was all the permission he needed. With a guttural cry that wasn’t fully a word, he plunged back in, one final, deep thrust, and came. Hot, bitter pulses flooded her mouth, one after another, more than she expected. She swallowed convulsively, her throat working around him, taking every drop as he shuddered above her, his body bowed over hers.
When he was spent, he slid from her lips with a soft, wet pop. He sagged against the kitchen counter, his breath coming in heavy gasps. Maria stayed on her knees, the cold seeping into her bones, the taste of him lingering on her tongue. The silence returned, but it was different now—sated, heavy, fragile.
He looked down at her, his expression softening into something like remorse. He slowly sank to the floor in front of her, ignoring his own discarded clothes. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs wiping the tears and spit from her cheeks.
“Maria,” he whispered, his voice wrecked.
She didn’t speak. She just leaned into his touch, the warmth of his palms a stark contrast to the cold floor. In the quiet hum of the refrigerator, she felt the first, cold trickle of understanding. This wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just need. It was a language they’d never forgotten, and now they were speaking it fluently again, with a vocabulary that was tearing them both apart.