Chapter Text
Robin wakes to an empty bed, the smell of coffee, an almost eye-watering need to piss and a pitched tent. Lovely.
For a second, he just lies there, rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns. And then he figures he ought to take care of the second two matters before he investigates the first, and forces himself up, out of bed, and across the hall.
The house is quiet, still, rather peaceful like this, with no child, no roommate. He leaves the door open out of habit, and has just taken a few deep breaths in an effort to aim properly when he hears movement on the stairs and tenses back up. A second later, he recognizes it as the dog – he’d forgotten Tuck was even here – and shakes it off, focuses again on getting a good stream going, and then sighs in relief. Emptying the tank takes care of the morning wood – which is good, because he’d much rather save it for her, and he thinks he might smell a hint of bacon now. He’ll have to wait until after breakfast.
He doesn’t really bother with clothes, just grabs his boxer briefs from the bedroom and pulls them back on (wouldn’t even do that, except it seems a bit forward to be wandering around her place completely starkers). And then he makes his way down the stairs, toward the blessed relief of her coffee. And her body, he thinks with an internal groan when he finally spies her in the kitchen.
She’s standing at the stove in nothing but a short silk robe. At least he thinks it’s nothing but that; her legs are deliciously bare, her hair still sleep-tousled. He feels that recently deflated stiffy start to stir again, and he itches to touch her, can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t after last night. And though she must have heard him come downstairs, she hasn’t turned, hasn’t acknowledged him in the slightest, so he offers a scratchy, “G’morning, gorgeous,” as he closes the distance between them.
“Morning,” she greets, a smile in her voice, and then she tells him, “There’s coffee, and I’m making eggs and bacon.”
“So I see,” he murmurs, hands finding her hips and then wrapping warmly around her middle. She always seems so small like this – flat-footed, and dressed down. He’s seen her this way time and again, but it always strikes him – perhaps more this time when he’s ducking to press a kiss into the side of her neck, smiling at her shiver before he tells her it smells wonderful.
“If you want toast, there’s bread,” she offers, but a glance to the side tells him all he needs to know about her plans for sides. She has a carton of sliced mango sitting out, and an avocado beside it just waiting to be prepped. A peek at the barely cooked eggs she’s stirring methodically bears the telltale flecks of her preferred salsa. It’s breakfast a la Regina, so quintessentially her style that he can’t help another smile and squeeze.
“I have everything I want right here,” he assures, and then he’s helping himself to the tie at the front of her robe, loosening it, and watching the way she draws a deeper breath at the action. “This is terribly sexy, you know. Do you wear this when your son is home?”
“No,” she laughs softly, shaking her head. “I can’t remember the last time I wore it, actually.” Once the tie is undone, the front gaps open and Robin wastes no time slipping his hands beneath the silk and coasting them up her belly, cupping her tits. Her voice has dropped a little when she sighs, “Haven’t had much of a reason to.”
“Mm,” he hums, thumbs circling over her nipples before he grasps both of them and starts to tug what might be considered gently for her. Firm pressure, but not too firm – enough to have her swallowing heavily and whispering his name. “I like it,” he tells her, nuzzling into the soft warmth of her hair and pressing a kiss there. She smells like morning – shampoo faded to little more than a floral whiff, and skin, and a bit of sweat from last night’s marathon fuck. He’s hard again, fully now.
“I’m trying to make eggs,” she tells him thickly, and he thinks maybe it was meant to be a scold but she doesn’t sound very firm on the point. Robin chuckles into her neck and tells her that he’s not stopping her, and then he squeezes her nipples a little harder. The same slow, rolling tugs, but firmer now, and she rewards him by rocking her ass back against his cock. “You’re distracting me.”
“Mmhmm,” Robin confirms, adding a little twist to his teasing attentions, and she drops her head back into his shoulder and writhes a bit for him.
“If I burn the bacon, it’ll be your fault,” she warns, and Robin snickers. Of all the things to threaten him with…
“I think I’ll live, babe,” he assures and then, “I want to eat you out again while you finish breakfast.”
She sucks in a breath sharply, licks her lips and swallows. And he doesn’t expect she’ll tell him no, but he doesn’t give her much of a chance to anyway, drawing her back into a heated kiss as he makes his way around to the front of her and then drops to his knees.
He mutters, “Don’t burn the bacon,” and she laughs until he draws her hips closer and drags his tongue over her clit. She hitches off into a gasp, then, and he grins smugly and does it again.
.::.
Well, this is… is pleasantly… distracting. Her nipples are still tingling slightly from his attention, and now his tongue is doing delightfully teasing things between her thighs, his hands firm on her hips where he’s parked between her and the oven. Thank God it’s off.
The stove, though, that is most definitely hot, and – she hisses softly and urges, “too much,” when he switches to those firm taps with his tongue he’d discovered she likes (and she does, but she’s just getting warmed up, and right now they feel too sharp, too intense, uncomfortably so instead of maddeningly so) and he switches back to the slow licks that were doing such a good job before. What was she thinking about?
Oh, the stove. The stove is hot, two burners going, scrambled eggs on one that she has to remember to keep stirring, and bacon sizzling over another. She really does need to flip it, the bacon, but she’s exposed from sternum to sex now, and it sounds a bit precarious, and—
“Mm, oh, that’s good…” He’s started sucking, but softly. Lazy, tongue-filled, sucking kisses right over her clit, his tongue dragging, his lips pulling and it’s… it’s really… fuck the bacon, she wants him now. She fumbles for the knob and cranks it off, cranks both of them off, abandons the eggs, they can burn, too. She has more.
And then she steps back, or tries to, but he tightens his hold on her hips, increases the rhythm of those warm, sucking kisses, and her thighs start to feel a little liquid and trembly.
“Robin, the stove is hot, and I can’t pay attention when you’re doing that,” she scolds (it’s more of a whine, and that’s just embarrassing), and he finally lets her go. She sinks down to her knees, presses her lips to his and tastes herself, pulling back after a second and actually managing to sound admonishing when she asks, “You couldn’t have waited until after breakfast?”
But he’s pushing her robe off her shoulders, shaking his head, and telling her, “Nope,” and then they’re shifting, adjusting, shoving his underwear down and moving until he’s bareassed on her kitchen rug, her knees on either side of him as she grinds against his cock.
Robin just grins at her, grasps her hips and guides her over him; she’s wetter than she’d realized, the friction between them is already starting to go slick and slippery. She grins back and leans in to kiss him again, grinding a little faster, a little harder, thoroughly enjoying the way one of his hands roams down to grope her ass.
She wants him. Badly. Had come more times last night than she can count (okay, that’s not true, it had been nine. Nine times, she can count to nine), but still wants him in the morning. Right here on her kitchen floor, propriety be damned, and breakfast be ruined.
The hand that isn’t presently kneading her ass goes on the move as well, rises and finds her breast, kneads and thumbs the nipple, and she’s a little sore from last night, but not too sore, and she’s wet enough, she thinks. She could take him inside right now, even with the foreplay a little rushed.
And then her brain catches up with what they’re doing and she pulls back out of the kiss to ask, “Did you bring a condom down with you?”
Robin drops his head back to the oven door and mutters, “Fuck,” dropping a hand to still her hips. “I forgot.”
Damnit.
“Shit,” she sighs, slouching a little and scowling.
“We could go without again…” he suggests, trying (and failing) not to look too hopeful, but they’ve already done that more times that she’d like in the last twenty-four hours.
She bites her lip, shakes her head at him. “I really don’t want to do that again; it feels like tempting fate.”
Robin pouts for half a second, and then he seems to rally, taking a deep breath in and out, and shrugging as he says, “We’ll make do.”
She mm?s in question as he draws her into another kiss, but then he’s rocking her against his cock again and she realizes that as much as she wants to fuck him into the floor right now, she certainly doesn’t need to to get off, and neither does he. So okay, they’ll just… work around it. It’s not as though they can’t fuck properly later.
And for now this is good, this was good, was working, so she slides and rocks, and adds in a little swivel to the motion for good measure, smiling when it makes him groan. He still has one hand in her hair, and the one on her ass hasn’t moved, starts kneading and caressing again, and then moving in, and in, and if he tries to stick a finger up her ass this whole thing is off.
She tenses, but he bypasses, reaches further until she feels his touch ghost against her wetness from behind. Okay, that’s good, that’s acceptable, a little awkward maybe, but she shifts, they both do, he scoots down a little, and she leans forward a little more, and then he seems to have better access, awkwardly slips a finger into her, and then a second. It’s not the best angle, he’s not really hitting her g-spot or much of anything of use, but it’s nice enough, feels good in combination with the sharper pleasure from her clit dragging over him again and again.
She could come like this, no problem.
Their kisses break for a moment, brows pressing, stale breath mingling between them as they both rock and pant.
“You’re so wet,” he breathes into the space between them, and she is, now – people underestimate the effectiveness of a good grinding friction, she thinks. It goes a long way toward warming everything up. She nods, breathes, yeah, and then he’s reaching a little further, adjusting, and on her next grind back, there’s a third finger joining the first two inside her and oh.
He can’t get terribly deep, but suddenly it doesn’t matter, because two fingers were nice, but three stretch deliciously, and this is definitely going places now. She moans harshly, jaw dropping, and he asks, “Good?” before she nods eagerly.
“So good,” she confirms needlessly, rocking harder, pushing back into his fingers as her clit drags against his cock, and oh, this is really not so bad at all. It’s not his cock inside her, but it’s surprisingly productive, and she feels shivers race up her spine, goosebumps rippling across her skin. She moves faster, fucks back into his fingers again, again, again, and every time her clit slides more smoothly, drags more firmly.
Shit, oh this is… this is… “Robin…”
.::.
She’s so bloody stunning like this, he thinks, momentarily glad for the awkward angle of his arm and the way it makes his wrist ache – the discomfort keeping him from getting too far gone to appreciate the sight of her chasing her orgasm.
She’s riding his cock, slick and warm and sexy as all hell, that third finger he wasn’t sure he could manage like this making all the difference. She takes his fingers in again and again, and it’s a bit like torture, because he can feel how hot and soaked she is, can imagine just how good she’d feel all wrapped around his cock and he can’t have it, can he?
But he can watch her, and that’s almost as good. (It’s not, but it’s its own sort of pleasure.) Can watch as she gasps and moans and bites her bottom lip and scrunches her nose up, and he steals her lips for a moment, gives her a searing kiss and then asks, “Are you going to come, gorgeous?”
She nods, lets out an “Uh huh,” and rocks harder, faster. Fuck, she’s gorgeous, that flush rising up her chest now, her cheeks going pink, she’s about to come on his cock, about to grind herself off on him, and it’s hot as hell.
“That’s it, babe, let go,” he urges her, and her eyes flutter open, deep and dark and on the verge as she meets his gaze. Robin nods another encouragement, whispers, “Grind yourself off on me, just let go, let it happen…”
She moans and tips her head back, her rhythm faltering a little as she starts to quake, so Robin brings the hand not currently inside her to her hip and uses it to keep her rhythm, makes a point to fuck up against her harder from below, and has her biting her lips together hard as she moans harshly.
“No, no, let me hear,” he tells her, his wrist twingeing painfully, “I want to hear you come, gorgeous, you’re getting so tight on my fingers, let me hear, babe, come on...”
She moans again, still tight-lipped, frantic this time, she’s so close, and then her jaw drops open and she lets loose another sound, and another, a little shout as she finally pitches over into orgasm, her face screwing up adorably as she moves against him and jerks and trembles.
He draws his fingers away as soon as he thinks she’s finished, rolls his wrist surreptitiously behind her back as he draws her in for another kiss and keeps up the rocking rhythm of their hips. She jerks again, moaning into his mouth, her hands sliding up his chest, tangling in his hair as she kisses and kisses, and whimpers, and draws her hips away.
The air in the kitchen is by no means cold, they’re both a bit sweaty, but after her heat against him for so long the cool touch of air against his damp cock makes him shiver.
“Too much?” he murmurs against her mouth, and she nods, reaches between them and wraps her fingers around him. She pumps once, twice, three times, a fourth, and then she’s scooting back, and bending down, a pulse of anticipatory pleasure blooming through him as he realizes her intent. “You sure?” he rasps, because he has no illusions about the state of things - stale latex and a long night of fucking don’t exactly leave anyone daisy fresh.
But she nods, and strokes again, eases his foreskin back gently and swirls her tongue around the head in a way that makes his thighs clench. And then she wraps her lips around him and bobs down, and up, down and up, again, another, and it feels bloody fantastic until she stops after the next pass, licks her lips with a barely concealed grimace and tightens the grip of her strokes.
Robin snorts a little and murmurs, “Come here,” wrapping a hand around her bicep and urging her back up into his lap.
She bites her bottom lip, winces a, “Sorry,” but he shakes his head.
“Don’t be; I should’ve cleaned up a bit,” he assures, drawing her into another kiss, and wrapping his hand around hers until she’s gripping snugly and tugging just right, just the right rhythm. Then he tips his head down and brings his hand up, both of them, cupping her tits and rubbing her nipples lightly, watching the way they pucker again, goosebumps flaring over her breasts. He could look at her all damn day and be satisfied, he thinks (and then he thinks he’s really too far gone, and this nebulous grey area they’re in is going to kill him).
He focuses on the friction of her grip, focuses on the sweat on her belly, the softness of her tits in his hands, the way she looked when she was coming a minute ago, the way she felt against him, wet and hot. And he groans, and nods, licks his lips and watches her hand work him over.
And then, oh yes, please, she’s shifting a little closer, using that grip to line him up just right against her clit and rocking against him again. That too-sensitive point seems to have passed, at least enough that the friction has her sighing and moaning softly instead of pulling away, and this is better, more enticing than her hand, being this close to her, so close to being inside her, and she likes the friction, likes the feel of it all, too, he knows she does. She’d gotten so bloody wet before, so slick as she rocked on him, he knows this turns her on, and so he grasps her hips again and urges her a little faster, a little harder, until it’s good, great, bloody perfect, and then he moans and nods. They can get off like this; they’ve proven that before.
She presses her forehead to his again, ruts and rocks and drags her heat all over him and God she’s so perfect, this woman, his woman, his Regina, she’s his, right now she’s sure as hell his. And she’s moaning now, too, moaning with him, and slipping up, up, grinding all the way up to the head of his cock and then rocking there, making Robin grit his teeth and huff out a groan, fuck, this feels good…
“Want you inside me,” she gasps, and he tightens his grip on her hips, and nods, please god yes, screw the condoms, he doesn’t even know why they bloody need them, he just wants her wet heat around him. But she doesn’t take pity on him, just breathes, “This is torture,” and has him nodding frantically again.
“God, I need you,” he pleads, “Eat the damn cookie.”
She laughs at that, a light, airy little thing. But all she does is kiss him and give that sinful swerve of her hips, rock and slide and rut against him. It’s not what they both want, but it gets the job done, and it’s not long before he feels everything tighten, pleasure radiating out from every delicious wet bit of friction.
“Gonna come, babe,” he breathes against her mouth and she reaches quickly between them, shifts back a little, grabs his cock again and works it just the way he’d had her before. The switch jars him for a second, but only one, and then he’s moaning and grunting, “Oh, that’s it, love,” before everything surges and spills, and his mind goes pleasantly blank for a second while his body pulses with pleasure.
And then he relaxes, and so does she, leaning forward a little to press her brow to his shoulder. Once again, he’s gotten cum all over her hand, or dripping down his belly at the very least. It’s a relatively messy affair, a hand job, but at least this time they’re nearish a roll of kitchen towel. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, seems perfectly content to linger here a moment, so Robin wraps his arms around her waist and turns his head to press a kiss to the nearest part of her head he can reach.
After a full minute or so, she sighs, “Bacon’s probably okay, but I think we ruined the eggs,” against his shoulder and Robin chuckles, shaking his head and giving her a squeeze. Her shoulders shake a little, a breathy laugh of her own, and he feels far too much affection for someone he’s not supposed to be in love with for another month at least (what on earth was he thinking with that suggestion?).
“I’m sure we can salvage them,” he tells her as she lifts her head. She’s smirking, and gorgeous, and he’s so in love with her it pains him.
They get cleaned up, and she tugs that delightfully sexy robe on again, and then sets about trying to finish said breakfast. In the end, they manage to make the eggs palatable, the bacon sufficient. The juicy mango and creamy avocado make up for their shortcomings anyway, and hot, strong coffee washes it all down as they sit at her kitchen table, her feet in his lap, dopey afterglow smiles on their faces as they eat and talk.
It’s a damn good way to start a morning, if you ask him.