Kiss Me Like You Mean the Morning

The ferry was late and so was the apology.

Nina was forty. Patrick was forty-three. They had split in June over nothing that mattered and everything that did, and the rain on the quay had put them under the same shelter. He offered coffee. She said only if he stopped being careful.

In his kitchen she kissed him first. It was not soft. He lifted her onto the counter and went down on her until she came with a hand in his hair, then fucked her there, deep, eyes on hers, saying her name like a fact. She came again. He came inside her and did not pull away.

"Stay," he said.

"I'm staying. Make it mean the morning too."

He woke her with his mouth and then his cock, slow, a hand on her face. She came and kissed him after, which was the brave part. Coffee burned. Neither of them moved to save it.

Nina stayed. Patrick fucked her again at dawn, her leg over his hip, his mouth on hers, no speech. She came and kissed him after. Coffee burned a second time. They drank the next pot on the step and he put his hand under her shirt like a man who had been allowed a morning. She said she was still angry about June and still here. He said stay angry. She booked nothing. She just did not leave. At noon she rode him on the sofa and made him say he wanted the morning as much as the counter. He said it. She believed him because he was still there.

Nina did not go home on Sunday. Patrick fucked her in the shower and on the sofa and once, ridiculous, against the fridge. She came each time and kissed him after, which was the rule she had set without saying. He made eggs. She ate them in his shirt and put his hand back between her legs. He said June was a fight, not a finish. She said then finish this. He carried her to bed and did, slow, deep, her name in his mouth. She stayed Monday morning too. The ferry could be late. They were not.

Nina stayed through Monday. Patrick fucked her before work, her heel on his calf, his mouth on hers, and she came and kissed him after because that was the proof. She met him at lunch and sucked him in the car park of a supermarket, then went back to his flat and rode him on the sofa until the morning was not a one-off. He said June was a fight. She said this was the rest of the sentence. He came inside her and made eggs that did not burn. She ate them in his shirt. The ferry ran. They did not catch it. That felt like the romance, explicit and stayed-for.

The morning became the test and the prize. Nina woke with Patrick already hard against her hip and put him inside her before either of them spoke. She came with her mouth on his. He came and stayed. Eggs, then a walk, then his hand under her coat on the quay like a man who had been allowed. She said she would keep a drawer. He cleared it. That night she rode him and made him say he meant the morning. He said it into her neck. She believed him. The June fight stayed a fight. The bed did not. She missed another ferry on purpose and called that romance with her cunt still full of him.

Nina cleared a drawer and Patrick fucked her against it, laughing, her shirt his, his cock deep, the morning already won. She came and kissed him. He made coffee that survived. They walked the quay and he said stay tonight without making it a speech. She stayed. In the dark she put him in her mouth and then in her cunt and made him say he meant it. He said it. She believed the eggs and the drawer and the kiss after. June could stay a scar. The bed was the new sentence. She missed the ferry and did not check the time.

She kissed him after, as promised, and stayed for the burnt toast and the good toast and the hand on her thigh at the quay.

Another reunion unfolds in The Last Train Home.