Chapter 6: Kitchen Island

I went down to the kitchen at one in the morning with my phone still lit in my hand.

I wasn't going to talk to him.

I was going to get a glass of water and be furious in private.

He was sitting in the dark in a chair that faced the lake.

His thermos stood on the floor beside him.

He didn't turn around.

"It's my desk," I said.

"I saw the email."

"You own the building. Take her off it."

"I could," he said. "Then Dexter tells the studio the owner's wife got her sister fired.

"You've lost before you've started."

I stood there in his sweater and my bare feet.

He was right, and I hated it.

"Tell me one true thing," I said.

"About what?"

"About you. Anything. You know everything about me, because I jumped on a track and a stranger read my name off a form."

He was quiet a long while.

"I haven't slept in a bed since my father died," he said. "Three years. I sleep in this chair, and I get up at four."

"Another."

"I wanted to kiss you on the courthouse steps. Properly. I didn't, because you'd cried and said you weren't."

"I wasn't."

"I know."

"Another," I said, and my voice had gone strange.

He turned the chair around.

In the light off the water I could see his face, and it wasn't deadpan now.

"Right now," Ewan said, "I'm trying very hard not to stand up."

I crossed the dark kitchen.

I stopped between his knees, and I took his face in both hands and tilted it up.

"Stand up," I said.

He stood.

He was so much bigger than me that I had to put my head back, and I liked it.

I pushed his sweater up his chest, and he lifted his arms and let me take it off him.

He was thick through the shoulders and chest, with freckles all down his arms, and a long white scar over one rib.

I put my mouth on the scar.

"Rugby," he said, hoarse.

"Shut up."

I walked him backwards to the island, a slab of dark stone as long as a car, and pushed him against it.

I pulled his belt open myself.

His cock was already hard, heavy and hot in my hand, and he groaned when I closed my fingers around it.

I stroked him slow, from root to tip, watching his face.

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