He is a guest, I suppose. In a manner of speaking.
This is insane.
"Spares for the bathroom are in that bag," I finish awkwardly, nodding towards it. "Towels. Toiletries. Whatever you might need."
"You really did prepare."
"I said I would handle it."
"I know. I just..." Jamie trails off. He's giving me a confused look like he doesn’t even know how to finish the sentence. Maybe he doesn’t. Neither of us know how to talk to each other.
We've run out of tasks. The groceries are put away, the blankets stacked, the supplies organized. We're standing in the kitchen, maybe four feet apart, and the air between us feels charged.
Jamie shifts his weight. His cheeks are flushed, and not from embarrassment. His pupils are slightly dilated. His body isresponding to mine whether he wants it to or not, just as mine is responding to his.
"So," he says. His voice has dropped, gone slightly husky. "What now?"
I know what he means. We both know why we're here, and it's not for polite conversation or shared meals or getting-to-know-you chats. The heat hasn't fully arrived yet, but it's coming, and we're both very aware of each other's bodies.
"We could eat something," I offer. "I could make dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"You should try to eat before—"
"Carter." My name in his mouth cuts through the attempt at practicality. "I'm not hungry for food."
Something in me snaps.
I close the distance between us in two steps, my hands finding his hips, pulling him against me. Jamie makes a soft sound and then we're kissing.
This, at least, is familiar. This, I know how to do.
We don't make it out of the kitchen. I lift him onto the counter, step between his thighs, and he wraps around me immediately, his arms around my neck, legs hooking behind my back, pulling me closer. His mouth is hot and demanding.
The counter is the wrong height, but I don't care. I shove his sweater up, run my hands over the warm skin of his stomach, feel the muscles twitch under my palms. He's already hard—I can feel him through his jeans when I press forward—and he rocks against me with a desperate little sound that shoots straight to my cock.
I get his jeans open. Get mine open. The mechanics are awkward on the counter, but we figure it out the way we always do.
When I push into him, Jamie's head falls back against the cabinet with a soft thunk. His eyes are closed, his lipsparted, and he says my name—just once, barely a whisper—and something in my chest clenches at the sound of it.
The sex is a relief. Familiar territory at last. It’s just bodies and heat and the drive toward release. I know this. I'mgoodat this.
I fuck him on the kitchen counter with the groceries still half-unpacked around us, and for a few minutes, everything makes sense.
Then it's over.
We're both breathing hard. Jamie is still on the counter, and I'm still standing between his thighs.
I pull out carefully. Jamie winces slightly, and guilt flickers through me.
"Well," Jamie says. His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat. "That was..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. I don't know how I'd finish it either. Necessary? Inevitable? Nice?
I step back, tucking myself away, suddenly very aware of the cooling sweat on my skin and the mess we've made and the fact that we just had sex in my dead grandmother's kitchen like teenagers who couldn't wait five more minutes for a bed.
Jamie slides off the counter, adjusting his clothes. He's not looking at me. Neither of us seems to know where to look.
