***
“Oh, shit.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! I’m a goalie, alarms going off over my head are never good. But there is no goal judge to turn this one off, and I wish there was, because I think it’s about to shatter my goddamn windows. Or at least my eardrums. Or, shit, maybe HIS eardrums. Fucking hell, has anything ever been as loud as this fucking smoke alarm?
“FUCK!” Okay, maybe I am louder. But how do I turn the motherfucker off?
Shit, shit, shit, fucking shit, he’s gonna wake up, I KNOW he is… well maybe I can reach it with something…
I glace quickly around the room, and from the hall leading into the living room, one of my sticks leaning against the wall in the foyer catches my eye. I scurry quickly over to it and rush back. I try stretching the stick toward the smoke alarm, but it’s too high up.
“SHIT.” Fucking cathedral ceiling! Who the fuck puts a cathedral ceiling in the fucking kitchen? Sure, it seemed like a cool idea when I got the place…
Hmm, maybe if I stand on a chair I can reach the fucker. I drag one over as quickly as possible, glancing nervously down the hall. He’s probably waking up, I gotta get this high-pitched fucking shrieking to stop! I climb up on the chair, cursing as it wobbles under my weight. I stretch my arm as much as it will, and use the stick to poke at the small circular thing giving off the most hideous noise possible at 9:30 on a Saturday morning. I get up on tiptoes and give it a few more impatient jabs. Shut up, shut up, fucking shut up!
“Dany?”
I jump, and that’s not a good thing, because my balance fails me. I waver, and with one more loud “FUCK” I crash to the floor, upsetting the chair, and sending the stick flying from my hands. It sails in a graceful arc over my head, before landing smoothly into the garbage can, knocking it onto one side.
Wincing just as much from the pain of colliding with the floor as from embarrassment, I watch his face.
He takes in the situation very gravely. He looks first at me on the floor, my legs tangled up in those of the chair. Then he turns toward the stove, where the frying pan is sending up plumes of dark smoke that twist and turn with every push and pull of the invisible currents of air. He squints up at the source of the piercing wail. Last of all, he takes in the garbage sprawling across the floor like some obscure work of art, the stick directly in the middle. He finally looks back at me again, and there is no trace of a smile in his expression.
“Need some help?” he asks. Without waiting for a response he leans down, reaching out his arms to help me to my feet. I stumble against him, tripped up in the stupid fucking chair.
“Thanks,” I mumble. Murray’s got one hell of a poker face, but he doesn’t fool me for a second. He’s just picking the best moment to burst out laughing at my expense.
He has his arms wrapped around me still and is holding me gently.
Despite the noise and the smoke and the flushing in my cheeks, I melt a little inside, and silently curse him for it.
I do the same fucking thing after every single game I play, because he always holds me like that. On the ice it’s a brief embrace, unlike the embraces we have off the ice, which are a bit longer. But his arms are always so gentle, and the way he looks at me... He waits until last, and whether I’ve won or lost, whether I’m pissed or pumped, whether it’s been days since we had sex or if it was just before the game, I tremble as I wait for him. Bastard knows it all too well, too.
Finally he lets me go, and fetches the stick from the midst of the garbage.
“You had the right idea,” he says, speaking loudly over the noise. He rights the chair and pokes at the smoke detector. Of course, when HE does it, it stops squealing on the third or fourth jab, and he descends back to the floor without incident. Fucker.
The sudden silence seems deafening, and the sense of panic that came instinctively with the sound of the alarm is gone now as I watch him. He turns off the stove, and, using a towel, carefully moves the frying pan to the sink. I watch mutely as he gently sets it down and turns on the faucet. The noise of running water, followed by the hiss as it touches the pan, hides any noise he might be making. But he can’t hide the shaking in his shoulders.
Here it comes. I brace myself.
He shuts off the water, and as the steam bellows up softly, I can hear it. The giggling soon turns into chuckling, and finally to a full-out, wheezing laughter, the kind where you laugh hard until you reach the end of your breath, then you laugh silently, and then you draw air in with a rush and start all over again. I’m scowling by the time he’s out of breath, bent over and clutching at the counter. I wouldn’t mind watching him in that position at ALL… if he wasn’t laughing at me.
At last he turns to me, and there are tears running down his face.
“How can you POSSIBLY get into THIS much trouble, THIS early in the day?” he demands, trying to catch his breath. I don’t really have an answer to that… it was one of those situations where everything just happened to take a turn for the worse all at the same time, which was of course the precise moment someone else walked in. Those things are hard to explain.
Maybe he knows that, because he doesn’t seem to need an answer. He waves a hand at the mess in the sink instead. “What the hell was that?”
“It was supposed to be bacon,” I mutter finally. “And hash browns.”
“In the same pan?”
“Well… yeah.”
He shakes his head as a fresh wave of laughter takes him over. I cross my arms and glare what I assume is imposingly in his direction.
“It was for YOU,” I tell him, trying not to give in to the urge to smile. This is all very serious. I could have burned the house down around us. I could have broken my neck when I took a header off the chair. At the very least I’m sure I have some wonderful new bruises on my back from my fall. “I was making it for YOU.”
He tries to regain control of himself and mostly succeeds. He’s smiling broadly as he glances over his shoulder at the sink. The remains of the bacon and potatoes are a twisted black mush, and I’ll bet my next paycheck that it will NEVER come unstuck from that pan, not in a million years. He looks back at me, and his eyes are sparkling merrily. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”
I can feel myself trying to grin and I stop it with a pout.
“Aww…” he says, coming back over to me. He drops a light kiss on my lips, light but searing, and hugs me again. “I’m sorry I laughed. But that was quite a scene to walk in on.”
I finally give in and smile, and he smiles back gently as he pulls away. “You were making breakfast for me?”
“I was going to bring it to you in bed,” I say, looking ruefully at the mess in the kitchen.
“Really?” He’s still smiling but his eyes are a mystery.
“Yeah…” I take his hands in mine without really thinking about it. “I mean, we’ve been, well, together for awhile now… but last night was the first night we got to fall asleep in a bed somewhere in private. We’ve never woken up together and spent a morning alone before and… well, I wanted it to be special.”
Something in his expression looks a bit softer, and I feel a small thrill of victory. Ha, I’m not the only one melting here, am I? He leans in and his lips touch mine again. Okay, that thrill was not victory. My skin shivers as his hands slide around my bare skin and rub my back. The two of us are only wearing thin flannel pants, and as he presses closer to me I can feel every inch of him. He appears to be gaining inches as our kiss gets deeper.
I groan into his mouth, and pull him in tighter. He moves me backward to press me up against the nearest surface as we kiss, which would be hot as fuck, but unfortunately a row of drawer handles pushes against my newly-bruised back.
“Sorry,” he whispers, even as I hiss in pain. He moves us, almost as if we were dancing, to the island. The kitchen island that is, not the tropical island that I dreamed about last night. It isn’t that island, dark with night, with its soft waves whispering against the shore, rushing around Murray and I as we… well… it sounds really fucking cheesy when I talk about it, but dear god what a dream. I woke up next to him hard and aching for release, and I almost shook him awake to tell him about it. But I had other plans for this morning. Big plans. I let him snore away in my bed, and I snuck off. I had hoped to surprise him a little bit later with a tray full of breakfast.
Instead I surprised him with a close-up view of insanity, in kitchen form.
He doesn’t seem to be that upset, though, as he’s sliding his hands into the waistband of my pants, and pushing them down to my ankles.
“Fuuuuuuuuck…” It’s more of a breathy moan than a word, and he’s stroking my cock lightly. I rub anxiously against his hand and he gives a throaty laugh.
“Patience…”
“Has never been my strong point,” I growl back at him. I don’t have a smooth way to tell him how thinking about my dream has made me harder than I usually would be by this time, so I don’t even try. “Want you…”
He grins tightly at me, and from the tent in his pants I can see that the feeling is mutual. He backs me sharply against the island and lifts me onto it with one strong movement.
“Ow!”
“What is it?” I look up at him, because yes, I’m on my back. He has a tight grip on my thighs and he’s looking down at me, concerned.
“Syrup.”
“Huh?”
I reach behind my head and grab the syrup bottle that I landed on when he unceremoniously dumped me onto this less-than-tropical island. “I hit the bottle.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all, considering he’s pulling down his pants and grinning at me. I moan a little as his cock juts out from his body, and my hips twitch in anticipation. He reaches for me, looking at me curiously. “What did you have the syrup out for?”
“It was, oh fuck…” Murray’s stroking me again, and I shiver at every movement of his hand. “It was for the waffles… I was gonna have waffles for you with the bacon and hash browns…” I grin at him. “It was going to be a proper hot breakfast.”
“Ohh, I think I’m having that now,” he almost purrs, and he takes the syrup bottle out of my hand. He pulls the cap off and, grinning wickedly, squeezes a fair amount of syrup onto my stomach.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, already knowing. His only answer is a wider and more wicked grin. Oh please don’t let him stop there…
And wouldn’t you know it, sometimes silent pleas are answered, and he squeezes some more of the syrup onto my cock. It’s cool and it’s sticky, and I’ve never been as turned on as when he lowers his mouth to my body and begins to lick me.
I groan and arch my body off the island, running my fingers through his hair as he licks and sucks the liquid from my skin. He slips slowly across my body, sipping the syrup from my abs, then my navel, and sloping downward toward where I desperately want his lips to be.
“So sweet,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “So fuckin’ sweet.” I can feel his breath on my cock, and I’m so hard now I can’t even think straight. I bite my lip. He takes me into his mouth, and holy fuck I thought him sucking the syrup off of my stomach was hot…
He’s sucking me so slowly it’s fucking torture, and I can’t stop myself from thrusting into his mouth. He doesn’t take the hint; he just shoves my hips down to the island countertop and continues to suck as slowly as he can. Sometimes silent pleas aren’t answered. Then you have to resort to non-silent pleas.
“Fuck, Murray, faster,” is the best I can manage.
“Mmmm…” he says, and the vibration makes me clench my teeth and will myself not to come. He pulls away from me and grins. Evil bastard.
He sticks his finger in his mouth, mimicking what he was doing seconds earlier with my cock. That deserves an extra-special glare from me, but I’m pretty sure I just look desperate. My cock throbs in the open air and he reaches beneath my ass, stroking the skin lightly. My hips lift off the island almost on their own, and he slips his slick finger inside of me. I slam my body toward him, trying to get more of him in. He arches an eyebrow.
“Ready so soon? You really aren’t very patient, are you?”
“We fucked all last night Murray,” I say, whimpering. “I expected to be fucked after I served you breakfast, too. So if you don’t mind…”
Now it’s his turn to whimper, and his finger leaves me. He spits on his hand and quickly coats his dick, before he reaches for the small of my back. He slides the lower half of my body off the island, lifts my legs onto his shoulders and is inside me in one quick motion.
I only notice the pain of the edge of the counter digging into me for a second or two, and then everything is lost in beautiful, delicious pleasure. Last night I dreamed Murray was inside of me, making love to me on a beautiful island of paradise. I look with blurry eyes around my kitchen, which I wouldn’t exactly describe as beautiful. But whether it’s that kind of island or this kind, what the fuck’s the difference? The love is here, HE is here. I look up at him instead. He’s frowning, mouth open and panting with his efforts. I wouldn’t exactly describe him as beautiful, either, but he’s mine, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A surge of something deeper runs through me along with the humming of my nerves, and suddenly I notice that I’m more than horny as hell, I’m fucking happy. It’s nice when dreams come true.
I hear someone moaning Murray’s name, and just as I realize that it’s me, I’m coming. My stomach is now sticky with something other than syrup, and by the time I realize someone is crying out my name, Murray is shuddering as he spurts inside of me.
Murray scoots me back up onto the island, not the one in my dream but this one turned out so much better, less water and sand and all that, and pulls out. He lets go of my legs, braces his hands against the counter, and leans his face tiredly against my knee for a minute.
“You’re a good breakfast,” he says finally in a voice that shakes. He grins down at me. “A proper hot breakfast.”
I laugh. “Most important motherfucking meal of the day, and I aim to satisfy. Hey, Murray?”
“Yes?”
“There’s something I want to ask you.”
He stands on his own and looks down at me seriously. “Go ahead.”
I open my mouth to speak, and then I stop. Something isn’t right here.
“Well?”
“Do you smell that?”
“THAT’S what you wanted to ask me?”
“No, it isn’t, but do you?”
He frowns and sniffs the air. “Yeah, smells like smoke. You almost burned the house down trying to make bacon, remember?”
“And hash browns,” I add defensively. “But that smoke went away. This is new.”
“Maybe it was us, we were smokin’ hot,” Murray jokes. His forehead scrunches up again, and suddenly his eyes widen. “Dany? Were you cooking anything else?”
My eyes widen too, and we both look quickly to the innocent bottle of syrup, dripping next to us onto the surface of the island. Then we look behind us, across the room, where angry-looking smoke is billowing out of a small appliance. Fuck.
Murray has that grave, trying-not-to-laugh look again. Fucker shouldn’t worry about controlling his laugh right now. Because I’d say we have maybe five seconds before he’ll have to climb up on that chair and turn off the alarm again. And this time naked.
“Waffles?” His voice is deceptively calm.
I sigh.
“Oh, shit.”
***
