"I was going to get coffee," I say. It comes out breathless, immediately ruining my casual vibe.
He dips his head, burying his nose against the fresh bite on my neck. He doesn't kiss it. He just breathes against it. An electric shiver rips through me, and slick immediately pools between my thighs.
"You put this on for me," he murmurs against my skin, a smile in his voice. "You walked in here wearing my shirt and absolutely nothing else, and you want me to believe you came for coffee."
"Maybe I just like the shirt."
"Milo." He pulls back just enough to catch my eye. The corners of his eyes crinkle, amused and starving all at once. "The eggs are burning."
"You should probably do something about that."
His mouth goes right back to my neck. I grip the edge of the counter because my knees are rapidly turning to liquid. My other hand lands flat on his chest, trailing down the coarse hair of his stomach until I hit the waistband of his briefs.
He's rock hard. The sheer size of him through the thin fabric makes my breath hitch. I felt all of this inside me last night, but the daylight reality of wrapping my fingers around his cock through his sweatpants hits entirely different.
Callum groans, a low, rumbling sound, but he keeps his hands flat on the counter. The restraint radiating off him is maddening.
"What do you want, Milo?" he asks, his voice gravel.
"Whatever you—"
He shakes his head, his nose brushing my jaw. "No."
My face burns. The instinct to defer—whatever you want, I'm easy, I don't mind—is practically muscle memory. But he's not letting me hide behind it. I grip his waistband.
"Take these off," I force out, my voice tight. "Please. I want you inside me. Right now."
The second the words leave my mouth, his restraint snaps. His calloused hands slide under the shirt, pressing flat against my bare hips. I gasp at the contact and arch into him, tilting my hips so he can feel exactly how wet I am through his sweatpants. He groans, spinning me around so my chest hits the counter.
"That's all you had to say," he rumbles against my ear.
His hand slides down between my thighs, finding the slick already dripping there. He curses under his breath, deeply impressed, and pushes two fingers inside me. I'm still loose from last night, but the stretch makes me whimper. I drop my forehead against the cool countertop while he works me open.
"You sore?" he asks, even as he grinds his hard cock against my ass.
I am. The deep, specific ache of his knot stretching me wide is definitely still there. "I don't care," I bite out. "I want you."
He lets out a ragged sound, shoving his briefs down. Then he's pushing into me, thick and hot, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs. The counter edge digs into my hips. He grips my waist, thrusting hard and fast. This isn't the slow, reverentclaiming from last night. This is frantic, morning-urgent, breakfast-burning sex.
"You walked in here wearing my shirt," he grunts against my ear, his breath hot, "and expected me to make you breakfast." His hips snap forward. I cry out, my fingers white-knuckling the counter edge.
"Harder," I beg.
He obeys instantly. The wet smack of our bodies echoes in the kitchen. The eggs are absolutely ruined, and I couldn't care less. I'm lost in the friction, the heavy weight of him, the way my bite mark pulses with every single thrust.
He reaches around, wrapping his large hand around my cock. My brain whites out. His calloused palm strokes me in time with his thrusts, slick with my own pre-come. At the base of his cock, his knot is starting to swell, thickening as my hole clenches greedily around it.
And then he pulls out.
The loss is so sudden my hips jerk backward on instinct, chasing him. A pathetic, desperate whine rips out of my throat. I know why he did it—a knot means we're stuck for thirty minutes, and I'd miss my shift—but right now, I want to kill him.
His come hits my lower back in hot, heavy spurts. His fist tightens on my cock, pumping me ruthlessly until I shatter right there against the counter, my legs shaking so badly I'd collapse if he wasn't holding me up. A broken sob tears out of me.
For a long minute, the only sound in the kitchen is our ragged breathing. He rests his forehead between my shoulder blades, his hand still gripping my hip.
"I hate you," I wheeze into the counter.
He lets out a surprised laugh that vibrates against my spine. "No, you don't."