Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up.
“That’s a really impressive oven,” you blurt, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your shirt. The words sound stupid even to you, but Eamon doesn’t laugh. His lips quirk, just a little, his dark eyes warm with amusement.
“We’re past small talk,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble.
His hand finds the ties of his apron, unknotting them with slow deliberation. The apron loosens, and he pulls it over his head, letting it drop to the floor between you. Then his hand is on your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip, and his mouth is on yours before you can stumble over another word.
The kiss swallows your nervous energy whole. His lips are warm, his beard rough against your skin, and for a second, you forget to be self-conscious. His other hand finds your hip, his grip gentle but unyielding, grounding you.
“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Just me. Just you. Nothing complicated.”
You try to pull back, to say something else, anything else, but he follows, his mouth chasing yours, his tongue sweeping in slow and deep. His hands move to your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tension there, kneading until you feel your body relax beneath his touch.
“There you go,” he rumbles, his voice a vibration against your lips. “That’s it.”
His fingers find the hem of your shirt, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he pulls the fabric up. You tense for half a second, but his touch is steady, his movements unhurried.
“Relax,” he murmurs, stripping the shirt off and tossing it aside. “I’ve got you.”
The cool air of the kitchen raises goosebumps on your skin, but Eamon’s hands are there, warm and sure, mapping the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist.
“No one’s watching,” he says, his voice a rough purr. “No one’s judging. Just you and me.”
He reaches for the buttons of his henley next, undoing them one by one. 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 to the floor.
“You talk when you’re nervous,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “But you don’t need to be.”
His mouth finds your collarbone, his lips pressing there, open and wet. You shudder, your breath hitching as his hands move 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.
He bends down, picking up the apron from the floor, and reties it around his waist, the fabric hanging loose, barely covering him.
“There,” he says, his voice a rough tease. “Now you’ve got something to hold onto if you need it.”
His fingers trace the outline of your chest, his touch light but sure.
“You’re safe here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your nipple. “No rush. No expectations. Just this.”
You exhale, your body relaxing into his touch, but your mind still races.
“I don’t usually—”
“I know,” he says again, his voice quiet.
His hands slide to your belt, his fingers deft as he undoes the buckle. “But you’re here now. And I’ve got you.”
The zipper comes next, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. His palm presses flat against your stomach, his touch grounding as he pushes your jeans down. They pool at your feet. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your boxers, tugging them 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.”
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.
“You want me to keep going?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
“That’s a really impressive oven,” you blurt, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your shirt. The words sound stupid even to you, but Eamon doesn’t laugh. His lips quirk, just a little, his dark eyes warm with amusement.
“We’re past small talk,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble.
His hand finds the ties of his apron, unknotting them with slow deliberation. The apron loosens, and he pulls it over his head, letting it drop to the floor between you. Then his hand is on your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip, and his mouth is on yours before you can stumble over another word.
The kiss swallows your nervous energy whole. His lips are warm, his beard rough against your skin, and for a second, you forget to be self-conscious. His other hand finds your hip, his grip gentle but unyielding, grounding you.
“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Just me. Just you. Nothing complicated.”
You try to pull back, to say something else, anything else, but he follows, his mouth chasing yours, his tongue sweeping in slow and deep. His hands move to your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tension there, kneading until you feel your body relax beneath his touch.
“There you go,” he rumbles, his voice a vibration against your lips. “That’s it.”
His fingers find the hem of your shirt, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he pulls the fabric up. You tense for half a second, but his touch is steady, his movements unhurried.
“Relax,” he murmurs, stripping the shirt off and tossing it aside. “I’ve got you.”
The cool air of the kitchen raises goosebumps on your skin, but Eamon’s hands are there, warm and sure, mapping the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist.
“No one’s watching,” he says, his voice a rough purr. “No one’s judging. Just you and me.”
He reaches for the buttons of his henley next, undoing them one by one. 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 to the floor.
“You talk when you’re nervous,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “But you don’t need to be.”
His mouth finds your collarbone, his lips pressing there, open and wet. You shudder, your breath hitching as his hands move 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.
He bends down, picking up the apron from the floor, and reties it around his waist, the fabric hanging loose, barely covering him.
“There,” he says, his voice a rough tease. “Now you’ve got something to hold onto if you need it.”
His fingers trace the outline of your chest, his touch light but sure.
“You’re safe here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your nipple. “No rush. No expectations. Just this.”
You exhale, your body relaxing into his touch, but your mind still races.
“I don’t usually—”
“I know,” he says again, his voice quiet.
His hands slide to your belt, his fingers deft as he undoes the buckle. “But you’re here now. And I’ve got you.”
The zipper comes next, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. His palm presses flat against your stomach, his touch grounding as he pushes your jeans down. They pool at your feet. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your boxers, tugging them 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.”
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.
“You want me to keep going?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.