The water was still heating. I was measuring the coffee grounds out because he actually likes it strong, which is sweet of him to pretend, when he came up behind me and shoved his shorts down.
No preamble. No asking. Just his hand on the back of my neck bending me forward over the counter so the edge was digging into my hips. I was still holding the coffee scoop.
“Keep going,” he said, but how was I supposed to pour when he was already pushing into me, already thrusting hard enough to rattle the kettle? I set the scoop down, gripped the counter, and he got even rougher about it.
My shorts went to my thighs. The counter was cold and he was hot and the kitchen smelled like coffee and his cologne and sex, and I was trying to think about the stupid water heating—was it hot enough yet?—because if I thought about what he was doing to me I’d lose it too fast and he doesn’t like it when I come before he does.
Too late.
He had both hands on my waist now, slamming in like he owned it, which technically. I made this noise I didn’t know I could make. The kettle clicked off just as he pushed deep and stopped moving, and I felt it, felt him filling me up while the water cooled.
He pulled out, fixed his shorts, and walked to the bedroom like he hadn’t just demolished me in the kitchen.
“Coffee’s still on,” he called back.
The water had gone lukewarm. He drank it anyway.
