Morning light slipped through the kitchen blinds in thin, pale stripes—barely enough to see by, but enough to catch the steam still rising from the forgotten coffee pot on the counter. Two mugs sat untouched, dark liquid gone cold hours ago. The house was quiet except for the soft drip of the faucet and their breathing.
She’d woken first—slipped out of bed naked, padded downstairs for water, but never made it past the table. He’d followed minutes later, still hard from dreams of her, c**k tenting his boxers. No words. Just eyes meeting across the room, then bodies closing the distance.
Now she was bent over the kitchen table—ass up high, cheek pressed to the cool wood, arms stretched forward, fingers curled around the far edge. The table was old oak, scarred from years of meals and every
