When she comes into the kitchen it’s still early. The morning light coming through the blinds is painting the room with stripes of light and shadow, and he’s standing in front of the coffee-machine, fingers playing absently over the curves of two mugs. He’s wearing a tshirt and his oldest jeans, the pair worn thin enough they cling over the curve of his ass. There’s a hole just under the waistband where the jeans have worn thin enough she can catch a glimpse of his briefs – purple, today.
‘Hey,’ she says, and he turns around and grins, all tousled bedhead, a crease from the pillowcase still imprinted faintly on his face. She comes up to him, close enough she can press right against the crotch of his jeans, nudge his ass up against the kitchen counter. The stiffer curve of his zip with the bulkier heft of the button is right between her legs, and she rolls her hips a little, presses against him. She can feel the line of his dick shift and stiffen under the jeans.
‘Hnnng,’ he says, ‘want coffee, baby?’
She looks up in his face, dimples.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘but I want this first,’ and she fumbles between their bodies, undoes his button and zipper and pushes his jeans and briefs down over his thighs, gets down on her knees. The jeans slip down his legs, pool on the kitchen tile around his ankles, and she gets a palm against each of his hips and puts her face into the crease of his thigh, breathes in the scent of him. He makes a little noise, touches her hair, fully erect now, his swollen dick bumping up against her cheek, and she turns her head and sinks her mouth down around him, a wet suckling warmth.
The jeans get left on the floor when they go back upstairs.