You don’t wait for him to make the next move.
Your fingers find the ties of his apron, yanking him forward by the fabric. The suddenness of it makes his chest rumble, a sound that vibrates against you as you crash into him. His hands come up instantly, gripping your hips, not to hold you in place, but to anchor you. His thumbs press into the soft flesh above your waistband, steady and sure. “There you are,” he murmurs, his voice warm with approval, like he’s been waiting for this moment to unfold without rush, without hesitation.
The kiss isn’t gentle, but it isn’t rough either. It’s honest, open-mouthed, your teeth brushing before you find the rhythm. His beard scratches your chin, his tongue hot and patient, tasting of sugar and something darker, something that’s purely him. You chase the flavor, your hands sliding up his chest, dragging him closer. He lets you, his body yielding just enough to meet you halfway. His other hand slides up your spine, his palm broad and heavy between your shoulder blades, not to push or pull, but to hold you as you press into him. You can feel the solid weight of him, the unhurried strength in the way he moves, like he’s savoring the weight of you against him.
You break away just long enough to tug at the apron ties again, your fingers fumbling with the knot. He chuckles, low and dark, but he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he reaches back and unties it himself. The apron loosens, and he pulls it over his head, letting it drop to the floor between you, leaving him in just his henley and jeans, the flour-dusted fabric clinging to his skin.
“Impatient,” he murmurs, but there’s no reproach in it.
His hands find the hem of his shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulls it over his head, tossing it aside. The kitchen light catches the scars on his shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on his chest, the dark trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. He’s solid, broad, real. Nothing like the polished men you’re used to.
His fingers find the button of his jeans next, his knuckles brushing the skin beneath your navel as he undoes it, slow and deliberate. The zipper comes down, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. He pushes his jeans and boxers down, letting them fall, and there he is, fully naked, his cock already thick and heavy, but not demanding attention.
He bends down, picking up the apron from the floor, and reties it around his waist, the fabric hanging loose, barely covering him. It’s not a barrier. It’s a tease, a promise of what’s underneath.
His hands move to the hem of your shirt, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he pulls the fabric up. You lift your arms, letting him strip you, the cool air of the kitchen raising goosebumps on your skin. He tosses your shirt aside, his gaze raking over you, not with hunger, but with appreciation.
His fingers trace the waistband of your jeans, his touch light, exploratory. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr.
He undoes your belt, the zipper, his movements deliberate, unhurried. When he pushes your jeans down, his hand slides inside your boxers, his palm warm against your cock.
“Been waiting to get my hands on you,” he admits, his thumb circling the head through the fabric. His touch is firm but not demanding, his fingers adjusting to your reactions, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you melt.
His other hand tugs your boxers down just enough to free you. The cool air hits your cock, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his grip, the way his calloused fingers feel against your skin.
“Look at you,” he rumbles, his thumb swiping over the head, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Already so ready for me.”
You try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken sound as he strokes you, his touch just shy of too much. His mouth finds your neck, his lips pressing there, open and wet, like he’s tasting something he’s been craving for far too long.
“Eamon—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
His free hand slides to your lower back, pulling you closer, his body heavy against yours in the best way. Not to trap you, but to cover you, to let you sink into him. His hand works you slowly, his grip adjusting to your every breath, your every shudder. His mouth is on yours again, his tongue sweeping in as his thumb smears the precum already leaking from you. The apron fabric brushes against your thigh with every shift of his hips, a reminder of how little stands between you.
“You want more?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
Your fingers find the ties of his apron, yanking him forward by the fabric. The suddenness of it makes his chest rumble, a sound that vibrates against you as you crash into him. His hands come up instantly, gripping your hips, not to hold you in place, but to anchor you. His thumbs press into the soft flesh above your waistband, steady and sure. “There you are,” he murmurs, his voice warm with approval, like he’s been waiting for this moment to unfold without rush, without hesitation.
The kiss isn’t gentle, but it isn’t rough either. It’s honest, open-mouthed, your teeth brushing before you find the rhythm. His beard scratches your chin, his tongue hot and patient, tasting of sugar and something darker, something that’s purely him. You chase the flavor, your hands sliding up his chest, dragging him closer. He lets you, his body yielding just enough to meet you halfway. His other hand slides up your spine, his palm broad and heavy between your shoulder blades, not to push or pull, but to hold you as you press into him. You can feel the solid weight of him, the unhurried strength in the way he moves, like he’s savoring the weight of you against him.
You break away just long enough to tug at the apron ties again, your fingers fumbling with the knot. He chuckles, low and dark, but he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he reaches back and unties it himself. The apron loosens, and he pulls it over his head, letting it drop to the floor between you, leaving him in just his henley and jeans, the flour-dusted fabric clinging to his skin.
“Impatient,” he murmurs, but there’s no reproach in it.
His hands find the hem of his shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulls it over his head, tossing it aside. The kitchen light catches the scars on his shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on his chest, the dark trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. He’s solid, broad, real. Nothing like the polished men you’re used to.
His fingers find the button of his jeans next, his knuckles brushing the skin beneath your navel as he undoes it, slow and deliberate. The zipper comes down, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. He pushes his jeans and boxers down, letting them fall, and there he is, fully naked, his cock already thick and heavy, but not demanding attention.
He bends down, picking up the apron from the floor, and reties it around his waist, the fabric hanging loose, barely covering him. It’s not a barrier. It’s a tease, a promise of what’s underneath.
His hands move to the hem of your shirt, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he pulls the fabric up. You lift your arms, letting him strip you, the cool air of the kitchen raising goosebumps on your skin. He tosses your shirt aside, his gaze raking over you, not with hunger, but with appreciation.
His fingers trace the waistband of your jeans, his touch light, exploratory. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr.
He undoes your belt, the zipper, his movements deliberate, unhurried. When he pushes your jeans down, his hand slides inside your boxers, his palm warm against your cock.
“Been waiting to get my hands on you,” he admits, his thumb circling the head through the fabric. His touch is firm but not demanding, his fingers adjusting to your reactions, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you melt.
His other hand tugs your boxers down just enough to free you. The cool air hits your cock, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his grip, the way his calloused fingers feel against your skin.
“Look at you,” he rumbles, his thumb swiping over the head, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Already so ready for me.”
You try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken sound as he strokes you, his touch just shy of too much. His mouth finds your neck, his lips pressing there, open and wet, like he’s tasting something he’s been craving for far too long.
“Eamon—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
His free hand slides to your lower back, pulling you closer, his body heavy against yours in the best way. Not to trap you, but to cover you, to let you sink into him. His hand works you slowly, his grip adjusting to your every breath, your every shudder. His mouth is on yours again, his tongue sweeping in as his thumb smears the precum already leaking from you. The apron fabric brushes against your thigh with every shift of his hips, a reminder of how little stands between you.
“You want more?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.