Breakfast

Sunday morning. He sips his coffee and watches as she rinses cutlery in the sink. It is ten o’ clock, and the house is quiet and sleepy. They have just finished breakfast, and have yet to form plans for the day. It is raining softly outside – one of those summer showers that tends to last all day.

She is pretty, he thinks, in the light from the kitchen window. The patchy shadow of the elm tree that stands at the foot of their garden patterns her skin. Her hair is tied back. She wears her dressing gown with the sleeves rolled up. Her slender arms are slicked with water and glassy bubbles of soap.

She seems almost a different woman from the one he fucked last night. Back then she was animal: hair loose, eyes burning. Her body lithe and muscular, all skin. She was wild in a way that’s hidden now, tucked away now beneath a layer of domesticity.

He drains the last of his coffee and realises with surprise that he is hard. Rock hard. Painfully hard. He sits for a moment, feeling himself pulse. She is unaware of him, of his sudden swell of desire. He stands up. Reaches into his own dressing gown to feel his hardness for himself, to confirm it. He sets down the empty coffee cup. Approaches her quietly, heart hammering.

She senses him when he’s standing right behind her and half turns her head, smiling, her mouth opening – perhaps to ask him if he wants another cup. But he puts a hand on her back and pushes her forwards. Her question, whatever it was, halts in her throat. Her hips are against the edge of the counter, and he keeps pushing so that she bends at the waist, her arms braced on either side of the sink.

He’s inside her so quickly that it surprises even him. It takes no time at all to move her gown aside, to pull down the crumpled shorts she wears to bed. There is a brief glimpse of her naked arse, the definition of her legs. Then he is pushing against her and she’s not quite wet enough yet – not around the lips of her cunt anyway. He pushes through anyway and there, inside her body, she is wet after all.

She gasps, in pain or surprise. He puts an arm around her. Feels her chest swell and shrink as she breathes. Her tied back hair tickles his neck. She half turns her head again, as if she had something to say. She doesn’t speak.

Their fucking doesn’t break the stillness. He’s hard with her, pinning her in place and pushing in deep. She spreads her legs, clutches the edges of the sink, raises herself on tiptoes. No squeals or screams or shuddering yelps like the night before, but hitched breaths and long, low moans. Murmurs. Rising in pitch as her wetness spreads and his thrusts become easier, longer, deeper.

As he comes, he pushes deep inside her and clutches her body tight against his. He shuts his eyes and inhales her sleepy morning scent. Feels the softness of her gown and the softness of her skin. One hand of hers releases the edge of the sink and clutches his arm where it crosses her chest. He empties himself into her. Long, hot, urgent spurts that make him feel like he’s floating.

For a while afterwards they stand there, still engaged. Regaining breath, he kisses the back of her neck, the place behind her ear. She strokes his arm. Outside the window the rain still falls and the elm tree sways, making the shadows move on their skin.

Eventually, when he begins to soften, he pulls out of her and steps back. The two of them straighten up, face one another, fasten their gowns, smile coyly. Her hands are still wet from the washing up. The taste of coffee is still strong on his tongue.

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