You don’t move. You don’t reach for him. You don’t pull him closer.
You just stand there, your breath shallow, your body thrumming with the effort of stillness. Eamon’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb still pressed into the dip of your waist. He doesn’t rush. He never does.
His hand slides up, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw. His thumb brushes your lower lip, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet hum. Then his mouth is on yours, soft at first, just the barest press of his lips, the faintest taste of sugar and heat. You exhale against him, your body relaxing into the kiss as his other hand finds your hip, his grip firm but not demanding.
He takes his time. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing rather than claiming, and when you open for him, it’s with a quiet surrender. The kiss deepens gradually, his beard scratching your skin, his breath warm against your mouth. His free hand slides up your side, his fingers mapping the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the way your muscles tense and release beneath his touch. He’s not in a hurry. He’s learning you.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to study your face, his dark eyes searching yours. “You’re tense,” he observes, though it’s not a criticism. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, his touch grounding. “Let me fix that.”
His hands move to the hem of your shirt, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he pulls the fabric up, slow enough that you could stop him. You don’t. You lift your arms, letting him strip you, the cool air of the kitchen raising goosebumps on your skin. He tosses the shirt aside, his gaze raking over you, your chest, your arms, the way your breath hitches when his fingers trace the waistband of your jeans.
Then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to put space between you, his eyes never leaving yours as he unties the apron, letting it drop to the floor. He reaches for the buttons of his henley next, undoing them one by one, his movements unhurried, his fingers steady. The fabric parts, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the dark hair dusted with flour, the scars that tell stories you don’t know yet. He shrugs the shirt off, letting it fall beside the apron.
His hands go to his belt, undoing it with the same deliberate slowness. His jeans follow, pooling at his feet, and then his boxers, until he stands fully naked before you, his cock thick and heavy, his body warm and unselfconscious.
He bends down, picking the apron back up and retying it around his waist, the fabric hanging loose, barely covering him. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice a smooth drawl as he adjusts the ties. “You’ll get your hands on me soon enough.”
His fingers find the top button of your jeans next, his knuckles brushing the skin beneath your navel. You swallow hard, your cock already heavy, aching. He notices. Of course he does.
“Patience,” he murmurs, popping the button free.
His hand slides inside your jeans, his palm hot against your stomach, his fingers teasing the trail of hair below your belly button. “You’ll like what comes next better if you wait for it.”
He undoes your belt, the zipper, his movements deliberate, unhurried. When he pushes your jeans and boxers down, they pool at your feet, leaving you as bare as he is. You step out of them, and his hands are immediately on you again. His mouth finds your collarbone, his lips pressing there, open and wet. You shudder, your hands curling into fists at your sides, resisting the urge to touch him.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”
His fingers dip lower, tracing the line of your cock, his touch light but sure. You gasp, your hips jerking forward, but his other hand presses flat against your stomach, holding you still.
“Easy,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “I’ve got you.”
His hand wraps around you, his grip just tight enough to make you whimper. His thumb swipes over the head, smearing the precum already leaking from you. “Look at you,” he rumbles, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Already so ready.”
His touch is maddening, slow, exploratory, like he’s savoring every reaction. His mouth finds your neck, his lips pressing there, open and wet, as his fingers work you with deliberate strokes.
“Ready for more?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
You just stand there, your breath shallow, your body thrumming with the effort of stillness. Eamon’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb still pressed into the dip of your waist. He doesn’t rush. He never does.
His hand slides up, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw. His thumb brushes your lower lip, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet hum. Then his mouth is on yours, soft at first, just the barest press of his lips, the faintest taste of sugar and heat. You exhale against him, your body relaxing into the kiss as his other hand finds your hip, his grip firm but not demanding.
He takes his time. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing rather than claiming, and when you open for him, it’s with a quiet surrender. The kiss deepens gradually, his beard scratching your skin, his breath warm against your mouth. His free hand slides up your side, his fingers mapping the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the way your muscles tense and release beneath his touch. He’s not in a hurry. He’s learning you.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to study your face, his dark eyes searching yours. “You’re tense,” he observes, though it’s not a criticism. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, his touch grounding. “Let me fix that.”
His hands move to the hem of your shirt, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he pulls the fabric up, slow enough that you could stop him. You don’t. You lift your arms, letting him strip you, the cool air of the kitchen raising goosebumps on your skin. He tosses the shirt aside, his gaze raking over you, your chest, your arms, the way your breath hitches when his fingers trace the waistband of your jeans.
Then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to put space between you, his eyes never leaving yours as he unties the apron, letting it drop to the floor. He reaches for the buttons of his henley next, undoing them one by one, his movements unhurried, his fingers steady. The fabric parts, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the dark hair dusted with flour, the scars that tell stories you don’t know yet. He shrugs the shirt off, letting it fall beside the apron.
His hands go to his belt, undoing it with the same deliberate slowness. His jeans follow, pooling at his feet, and then his boxers, until he stands fully naked before you, his cock thick and heavy, his body warm and unselfconscious.
He bends down, picking the apron back up and retying it around his waist, the fabric hanging loose, barely covering him. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice a smooth drawl as he adjusts the ties. “You’ll get your hands on me soon enough.”
His fingers find the top button of your jeans next, his knuckles brushing the skin beneath your navel. You swallow hard, your cock already heavy, aching. He notices. Of course he does.
“Patience,” he murmurs, popping the button free.
His hand slides inside your jeans, his palm hot against your stomach, his fingers teasing the trail of hair below your belly button. “You’ll like what comes next better if you wait for it.”
He undoes your belt, the zipper, his movements deliberate, unhurried. When he pushes your jeans and boxers down, they pool at your feet, leaving you as bare as he is. You step out of them, and his hands are immediately on you again. His mouth finds your collarbone, his lips pressing there, open and wet. You shudder, your hands curling into fists at your sides, resisting the urge to touch him.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”
His fingers dip lower, tracing the line of your cock, his touch light but sure. You gasp, your hips jerking forward, but his other hand presses flat against your stomach, holding you still.
“Easy,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “I’ve got you.”
His hand wraps around you, his grip just tight enough to make you whimper. His thumb swipes over the head, smearing the precum already leaking from you. “Look at you,” he rumbles, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Already so ready.”
His touch is maddening, slow, exploratory, like he’s savoring every reaction. His mouth finds your neck, his lips pressing there, open and wet, as his fingers work you with deliberate strokes.
“Ready for more?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.