"You don't know how to make coffee. You put way too many grounds in last time."
"I'll figure it out." I pull back long enough to yank my shirt off, then go back to kissing down his neck, his collarbone, pushing his—my—shirt up to get at more skin. "Or you can make more after."
"After what?"
I drop to my knees on the kitchen floor.
"Oh," he breathes, looking down at me with dark eyes. "After that."
I hook my fingers in his boxers and pull them down, freeing his cock. He's already half-hard—morning arousal, proximity to me, the anticipation of what's coming—and when I wrap my hand around him and stroke slowly, he sucks in a sharp breath.
"God, your hands," he manages. "I love your hands."
"Noted." I lean in and lick a stripe up the underside, base to tip, and he shudders. "What else do you love?"
"Your mouth. Your—fuck—"
I take him deep, cutting off whatever he was going to say. His hands find my hair, gripping tight as I work him over—slow, deliberate, learning the rhythm that makes him gasp. He's fully hard now, thick and heavy on my tongue, and I hollow my cheeks and suck.
"Ash, fuck, that's—"
I pull off just long enough to say, "Quiet. Just feel it."
He whimpers but obeys, biting his lip hard enough to leave marks as I take him deep again. I love this—love having him at my mercy, love the sounds he makes when he's trying not to make sounds. Love knowing I'm the one who gets to do this to him, the one who gets to take him apart and put him back together.
I can feel him getting close—the trembling in his thighs, the way his grip tightens in my hair, the soft desperate sounds he can't quite swallow. I pull off completely.
"No, what—" He reaches for me, trying to guide me back. "Ash, please, I was so close—"
"I know." I stand up and kiss him, letting him taste himself on my tongue. He moans into my mouth, hands grabbing at my shoulders, my back, anywhere he can reach. "Turn around."
His breath catches. "Here? On the counter?"
"Right here." I help him down, spin him around, bend him forward over the granite. He goes willingly, eagerly, bracing himself on his forearms. "Been thinking about this since the first time I saw you in this kitchen."
I grab the lube from the nearby drawer, we've started keeping it handy.
"Hurry up," he says.
"Bossy."
"You like it."
I do. I really do.
I slick my fingers and press one inside him. He's still a little loose from last night, body remembering me, and he opens up easily with a low moan.
"More," he demands, pushing back against my hand.
Two fingers, then three, stretching him open while he gasps and moans against the countertop. I curl them to hit that spot inside him and he cries out, hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth granite.
I pull my fingers out and slick myself up, then press inside him in one slow thrust. We both groan. He's so hot and tight around me, perfect, and the angle is incredible—letting me sink in deep, feel every inch of him.
I move slowly at first, savoring the drag of him around me, the sounds he makes every time I bottom out. But he's pushing back against me, demanding more, and I've never been able to deny him anything.
I grip his hips and start fucking him harder, driving into him with enough force to make the coffee cups rattle in the cabinet.
"Yes, like that, don't stop—"
