“Me neither.”
Now his eyes were up, meeting hers, steady and unsure at the same time. She wanted to climb across the table, pull him into her. She wanted to say something. But she said nothing. Finished her coffee. Stood, and pulled the curtain wider to let the sunrise in.
She heard the chair behind her, his steps on the linoleum. She kept her back turned until she felt him there, hovering in the kitchen’s silence. Jack’s hands were close, but not touching. She could feel the heat radiating off him, could sense the tension in him as he stood just behind her.
Rachel didn’t trust herself to turn around, not yet. Instead she pressed her palm to the windowpane and leaned back into Jack. His breath, warm and uneven, against her neck. The kitchen clock ticked fiercely in the quiet. She wanted to drag him upstairs and fuck him until his cock gave out, but instead she waited, letting him find the courage to reach for her.
He did. First a hand, settling at the narrowest part of her waist. Then the other, just above her breastbone. He slid her back against his chest, his erection grinding into the curve of her ass, and for a moment she imagined losing herself in the kitchen, right there between the sink and the fridge. She let her head fall against his shoulder. She made herself wait, count to five before she kissed.
This kiss was nothing like the one in the tractor, slower, deeper, deliberate. He opened his mouth against hers and let her taste the coffee on his tongue. When she turned, he staggered a little, and she caught the tremor in his hands as they fumbled for the buttons on her shirt. She was already unfastening his belt, feeling the hard length of him, the impossible heat and hardness. She needed him inside. Needed it more than she needed anything.
She guided him to the kitchen table and bent over it, flattening her palms against the wood, letting her hair spill to one side. She wasn’t even pretending at modesty: her skin tingled with the cold morning air, nipples hard under the thin cotton, ass flexing in anticipation as Jack yanked her jeans down and fumbled with his own. He hooked a finger into the waistband of her underwear and tugged, hard enough to snap the elastic. She couldn’t help the sound she made; it was low, guttural, nothing she recognized as her own.
He pressed up against her. She felt the hot, thick head of his cock slide through her folds, slick already, and then he pushed into her in one frantic, shuddering thrust. She wasn’t sure who groaned louder. He leaned over her, a hand braced on either side, his chest pressed to her back, teeth grazing the side of her jaw. Nothing about it was gentle or cautious. He fucked her like he was scared it might be the last time, every movement was frantic and hungry, uncoiling weeks of tension. She braced for pain, but there wasn’t any; she was wet enough that he slid in deep and easy. It was filthy and perfect.
She heard the creak of the table legs and remembered Tom, for the briefest, guilt-stained second, the last time she’d used this table for anything but bills and rationed space for the ledgers. But what took over was the impossible present, need made manifest, the way Jack’s hands clung to her hips, the way he moved, no shyness left, all of it replaced by the promise of what she knew was coming.