For anyone who’s ever crushed on a roommate—and every girl who bakes to calm her nerves, but really just needs her stress worked out by hand. Image 10!
—
I found myself bent over the kitchen counter, flour in my hair and the ghost of frustrated tears on my cheeks.
2:47 AM. The red numbers on the microwave clock seemed to mock me as I slumped against the counter, my oversized sleep shirt dusted with flour, a frilly apron tied over it like some kind of domestic armor. Finals week was killing me slowly, one organic chemistry practice exam at a time.
This was the third night this week I’d ended up here, stress baking until my hands stopped shaking. Something about the repetitive motions—measuring, mixing, kneading—quieted the anxiety spiraling in my chest. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and my quiet movements as I rolled out sugar cookie dough.
Ethan had been working double shifts at the construction site to cover rent while I buried myself in textbooks. We’d been ships passing in the night for weeks, communicating through sticky notes on the fridge and the occasional grunt when our paths crossed.
I missed him. Which was stupid, considering we lived in a tiny two-bedroom and I saw him practically every day. But I missed actually talking to him, missed the way he’d steal bites of whatever I was making while pretending to critique my technique.
Missed the way his eyes lingered on me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I was bent over the counter, using a wine bottle as a makeshift rolling pin because I was too broke to buy proper baking tools, when I heard it. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood.
“Jesus, Mia.” His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than usual. “What are you doing?”
I straightened quickly, heat flooding my face. My sleep shirt had ridden up, and I was suddenly aware of how little I was wearing under the apron. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“The smell woke me.” Ethan stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but low-hanging sweatpants. His chest was bare, marked with the tan lines from his work shirts and the kind of muscles that came from actual labor, not a gym. “Cinnamon?”
“Sugar cookies,” I said, turning back to the dough before I did something stupid like stare. “I couldn’t sleep. Biochem exam tomorrow.”
“Today,” he corrected, moving closer. “It’s after midnight.”
I could feel him behind me now, close enough to catch his scent—soap and something purely him that made my stomach flutter. We’d been dancing around this thing between us for months. Ever since I’d moved in after my last roommate bailed. Little moments, loaded glances, conversations that felt like foreplay.
“You stress-bake when you can’t sleep. I stress-eat when you can’t sleep.” His hand appeared beside mine on the counter, reaching for a piece of dough. “Fair trade?”
I smacked his hand away without thinking. “Raw dough will give you salmonella.”
“I’m willing to risk it.” He didn’t move away. If anything, he stepped closer, his chest almost brushing my back. “You’re shaking.”
I was. My hands trembled as I tried to focus on the dough, but all I could think about was the heat radiating from his body, the way his breath stirred the hair at the nape of my neck.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Bullshit.” His voice was soft, concerned. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground for weeks. When’s the last time you did something that wasn’t school-related?”
“This is school-related. Stress relief.”
“This isn’t stress relief. This is avoidance.” His hand covered mine on the rolling pin, stilling my frantic movements. “When’s the last time you actually relaxed?”
I couldn’t remember. Between classes, studying, and my part-time job at the campus bookstore, I hadn’t had a moment to breathe in months. “I don’t have time to relax.”
“You have time right now.”
I turned to face him, a mistake that put us chest to chest in the narrow space between the counter and the island. His eyes were dark in the dim kitchen light, pupils dilated as they searched my face.
“Ethan…” I started, but I didn’t know how to finish.
“I hear you,” he said quietly. “At night. Through the walls.”
My face went hot. Our apartment had thin walls, and my bed was pressed against the one we shared. If he could hear me studying, crying over failed practice exams, then he could probably hear…
“I hear you too,” I whispered.
Something shifted in his expression. “Yeah?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Those nights when he came home late, when I’d hear the shower running and then the creak of his bed. Sometimes soft sounds that made my breath catch and my hand drift between my legs.
“Good,” he said, stepping closer until I was pressed back against the counter. “Because I’ve been going crazy trying to be quiet.”
His hands settled on my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my shirt had ridden up. “I’ve been going crazy, period. Living with you, watching you walk around in those little shorts, trying to pretend I don’t want to bend you over this counter every morning when you’re making coffee.”
A whimper escaped before I could stop it. “We shouldn’t—”
“Why not?” His forehead touched mine. “We’re both adults. We both want this. And you need to relax.”
“That’s not—” But my protest died when his thumb stroked along my jaw.
“Let me help you relax,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”
When he kissed me, it was soft at first. Testing. But when I melted into him, when my hands fisted in his hair and pulled him closer, he groaned and deepened it. His mouth was hot and demanding, tasting like mint toothpaste and want.
I’d imagined this moment for months, but nothing had prepared me for the reality of his hands on my body, his tongue sliding against mine, the way he pressed me back against the counter like he couldn’t get close enough.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“Me too,” I gasped as his mouth moved to my neck, finding spots that made my knees weak. “God, me too.”
His hands slipped under my shirt, palms rough from work, and I arched into his touch. When his thumbs brushed over my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra, I cried out.
“Shh,” he whispered, but he was smiling. “Don’t want to wake the neighbors.”
“Then don’t do that,” I managed, but I was already reaching for him, fingers tracing the lines of muscle across his chest and stomach.
“Do what? This?” He did it again, rolling my nipples between his fingers until I was panting. “Or this?” His mouth found the sensitive spot just below my ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
“Ethan, please—”
“What do you need?” His hands stilled, waiting. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” I whispered. “I need you.”
That was all it took. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, under my shirt, skimming along my thighs. He lifted me onto the counter, flour scattering, and stepped between my legs.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, fingers working at the ties of my apron. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this? About you?”
The apron ties knotted together as he tried to pull it off, and we both laughed nervously as I had to help untangle them. Then my shirt was gone too, leaving me in just my sleep shorts and bra. His eyes were dark with hunger as they roamed over me.
“Every night,” he continued, hands sliding up my thighs. “Every fucking night I’d lie in bed and think about touching you like this.”
When his fingers slipped inside my shorts, I gasped at the contact. I was already wet, already desperate for him.
“God, you’re soaked,” he groaned, voice rough. “Is this all for me?”
I nodded, beyond words as his fingers moved in slow circles. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” He pulled my shorts and panties down in one smooth motion, then stepped back to look at me. “Fuck, Mia.”
I should have felt exposed, sitting naked on our kitchen counter at three in the morning. Instead, I felt powerful. The way he looked at me—like I was something precious and dirty at the same time—made heat pool low in my belly.
“Your turn,” I said, reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants.
He helped me push them down, and when he sprang free, thick and hard, I bit my lip. My mouth went dry at the sight of him—bigger than I’d imagined during all those nights I’d touched myself thinking about this moment.
“We don’t have—”
“I’m clean,” he said quickly. “Had a physical last month. And I know you’re on the pill.”
I was. And the thought of feeling him inside me with nothing between us made me clench around nothing.
“I want to feel you,” I whispered. “All of you.”
He stepped closer, the tip of him brushing against me, and we both groaned. “Are you sure?”
Instead of answering, I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer. He understood, lining himself up and pushing forward slowly.
The stretch was intense, perfect. I dropped my head back against the cabinet, overwhelmed by the sensation of being filled completely.
“Fuck,” he breathed, holding still. “You feel incredible.”
I could only whimper in response, adjusting to his size. When I finally relaxed, when the initial intensity faded to pure pleasure, I rolled my hips.
“Move,” I gasped. “Please move.”
He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. The angle was perfect, hitting something inside me that made sparks shoot through my limbs. I was already close, wound too tight from weeks of stress and months of wanting.
“Not yet,” he said, reading my face. “I want to feel you come apart.”
His pace was maddening—slow, deep strokes that had me gasping and clinging to his shoulders. But when I tried to hurry him, to pull him deeper, he caught my hands.
“Let me,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”
And he did. He fucked me with a patience that was both torture and bliss, building me up slowly until I was shaking with need. When his thumb found my clit, circling in time with his thrusts, I couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Ethan, I’m going to—”
“Come for me,” he said, voice rough. “I want to feel you.”
The orgasm hit me like a wave, stealing my breath and my vision. I clenched around him, back arching, and he groaned at the sensation.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, not stopping his movements. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”
But he wasn’t done with me. As the aftershocks faded, he helped me down from the counter, and I had to grab his arm when my legs almost gave out.
“Okay?” he asked, steadying me.
I nodded, still catching my breath. “Just… wow.”
He grinned. “We’re not done yet. Turn around.”
I did, bracing my hands on the granite surface. The cold stone against my palms was a shock after all that heat. This was it—the position from my fantasies, the one I’d imagined every time I heard him moving around the kitchen in the mornings.
He stepped up behind me, one hand on my hip, the other gathering the discarded apron ties. When he pushed back inside me, deeper than before, I cried out.
A door slammed somewhere in the building and we both froze, listening. After a moment of silence, he started moving again, slower this time.
“Quiet,” he whispered, lips against my ear.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, setting a rhythm that had me rising onto my toes. “Is this how you imagined it?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “God, yes.”
He used the apron ties like reins, pulling me back against him with each thrust. The angle was perfect, hitting spots that made me see stars. I was climbing again, faster this time, my body already primed from the first orgasm.
“I’m close,” he warned, his rhythm faltering.
“Inside me,” I said quickly, voice breathless. “I want to—fuck—I need to feel you come inside me.”
That broke his control. His pace turned desperate, and I felt him swell inside me just before he buried himself deep with a groan that echoed through the quiet kitchen.
The sound was raw. Broken. Nothing like the careful way he’d been holding back.
The warmth of his release triggered my own climax—softer this time but deeper. Like something in me recognized him. Had been waiting for this moment in our shared kitchen, surrounded by flour and the ghost of all those nights we’d pretended not to want each other.
I came with my face pressed against the granite, his name caught in my throat, finally understanding what it meant to be taken care of.
We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. I could feel flour still dusting my arms where they’d been pressed against the counter.
“Feel better?” he asked finally, voice rough with satisfaction.
I laughed, surprised by how light I felt. “Much better. Though I think my cookies are ruined.” I gestured at the abandoned dough, now probably too warm to work with.
“Worth it,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. He paused, seeming to consider something. “This doesn’t… this doesn’t make things weird, does it?”
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight. “Only if we let it.”
I turned in his arms, surprised by how badly I already wanted him again. “Yeah?”
“Positive reinforcement,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite hide his own uncertainty. “For every practice exam you pass, I’ll reward you.”
“What kind of reward?”
He lifted me back onto the counter, settling between my legs with a look that made my pulse race all over again.
“The kind that’ll keep you coming back for more.”
submitted by /u/Velvet_Ruinx
[link] [comments]
Leave a Reply