The Mess Between Us by Yael Maritz

“You’re the worst kind of slob, leaving your goddamn cereal bowls crusting over on the counter like some feral raccoon rummaged through my kitchen. I swear to fuck, if you don’t pick up your shit right now, I’m throwing your precious video games down the trash chute. Again.”

I slam the fridge door so hard the magnets shudder, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The kitchen is tiny, but you always find a way to take up every cubic inch of it, splayed out against the island in nothing but those gray sweatpants. The ones that barely sit above your hip bones. Your chest is bare and you’re eating dry Cheerios with your fingers, one little O at a time, like you know it’ll drive me insane. You don’t even look up. You just make a show of flicking a Cheerio into your mouth and crunching loud enough for me to hear it over the quiet hum of the fridge.

“Chill,” you say, smiling without the decency to look guilty. Some might even say it’s a smirk. “It’s just a bowl.”

“Yeah, AND the five before it!” I yank open the cabinet for a mug. “Is it so hard to rinse it out? Or put it in the fucking dishwasher?”

You pop another Cheerio, still wearing that smirk. “You really think you’re going to die if I leave a bowl on the counter?”

“No. I don’t actually. I think I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop. I’ll be just fine.” I fill the mug, then turn, glowering at you. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you haven’t choked to death on your own mess.”

You finally meet my stare, eyes glinting with that infuriating, bottomless patience you wield like some sort of freakish martial artist. “I can think of better ways to die.”

My hand shakes slightly and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from throwing my coffee mug at you. Instead, I set it down so hard the handle cracks. “You’re not funny, you know.”

You grin, and for a second I see the dimple in your cheek. The one that got me in this infuriating mess to begin with. “Never said I was.”

I take a breath through my nose, trying to summon a scrap of control. You’re a master at this: poking, needling, smirking until I’m frothing. My hands are now visibly shaking. “If you don’t clean this up—”

“You’ll what?” You swipe a Cheerio off the counter and flick it at me. It bounces off my hip and skitters across the tile. “Fight me? Or kick me out? We both know you won't do either.”

“Don’t tempt me.” I lunge, grab the box, and hurl it at your chest.

You catch it, but Cheerios explode everywhere, raining down like hail. You whistle, low and impressed. “Damn. You could have warned me.”

“That was the warning.” I grab your empty bowl and smash it into the sink. The crack echoes.

You set down the cereal box, then step into my space, so close I can smell your skin—soap, sweat, the faint chemical tang of your hair gel. “Are you always this dramatic in the morning?”

“Only when I have to be in the same room as you,” I retort angrily, refusing to let my gaze fall below the subtle cleft in his chin. I truly hate, at this moment at least, that I’m a sucker for toned abs and strong pecs on men.

You laugh, borderline mean but mostly just amused. “You’d be bored out of your mind if I left.”

I roll my eyes, but you’re right. We both know it. And I hate it. “I’d get so much more done not having to clean up after your arse all the time..”

“Like what?” You take a step forward and plant your hands on the counter behind me, caging me in. “You’d miss me. And my messes.”

I shoot you a glare, but you just smirk, eyes flicking down to my lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet here we are.”

You’re so close now I can feel the heat radiating off your bare chest. It’s maddening. I want to slap you. I want to kick you.And I want to kiss you–so hard you forget your own name. Instead, I take a step sideways to break the tension.

You follow me with that annoying grin. “Don’t walk away from me.”

“Or what?” I look over my shoulder at you through my lashes, trying to seem coy though I doubt it’s coming off that way.

You lean in, voice low. “Or I’ll make you sorry.” Normally someone saying that would seem like a threat. But coming out of your mouth, it feels more like a purr. One that sends a tingle straight between my legs.

I scoff, but my skin is tingling. “Big words for a guy who can’t wash a spoon.”

You close the distance once again, this time pressing your body against mine. My breath hitches despite myself. You see it. You always do.

“You wanna fight?” you murmur, lips a hair from my ear. “Let’s fight.”

I shove you, but you don’t budge. Instead, you grab my wrists, pinning them to the counter. Your grip is gentle, even careful, but your eyes are wild with the same hunger I feel. I should scream. I should kick. Instead, I yank one hand free and slap you across the face. The sound shocks us both.

You touch your cheek, then grin wider. “Feel better?”

I’m trembling, furious and yet strangely turned on even more. “Not even close.”

Suddenly you kiss me. A rough blend of teeth, your wet tongue, a tangle in anger and need. I can feel how bad you want this. And so do I. 

A flash glows through my mind, reminding me how irritating I find you to be. I accidently bear down in the heat of it, biting your lip until I taste blood. Surprisingly you groan, grinding me back against the counter. My ass digs into the edge, but I don’t care. I can’t care. All I want is what’s happening right here, at this moment. Roommates be damned.

 I wrap my legs around your hips, pull you closer, then break the kiss with a gasp.

“You’re still a fucking slob,” I pant.

You laugh, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot and shuddering. “You’re still beautiful when you’re pissed.”

You grab my tank top to drag it up over my head. My rose pink nipples pebble in the chill of the air conditioned room. You lean in, sucking one into your mouth, scraping it against your teeth before biting down in just the way I like it. Hard enough to sting but not hurtful.

“Shut up,” I hiss, but my fingers are already threading into your hair, holding your mouth against me.

You scrape your teeth again on the way off, then move to the other side, sucking and biting until the nipple aches in the best way. Your hands slide down my ribs, fingers hooking into my underwear and dragging it down my thighs, off my ankles, gone. You straighten up, step back just long enough to shove your sweats to the floor, and then you’re pressing against me again, your gorgeous cock thick and bare against the crease of my hip, leaving a wet smear of precum on my skin where the head drags across my thigh.

I reach down and wrap my hand around you, squeezing your shaft before stroking from root to tip in one slow, firm pull. Your hips buck forward into my fist as your jaw clenches tight.

“Condom,” I say.

You roll your eyes but are on the move anyway, already turning, yanking open the junk drawer, pawing past takeout menus and dead batteries until you pull out the foil packet. I watch you tear it open with your teeth–mentally reminding myself to ask how a condom got in the junk drawer later– then skillfully roll it down in one smooth motion. You step between my thighs as you take yourself in hand, rubbing the head through my silky folds, coating yourself in the slick heat there. I’m embarrassingly wet. Drenched would be the better word. And you feel it. Your eyes meet mine in wonderment but there’s nothing there for you to find except delicious want and all consuming need. I dig my fingers into your shoulders. “Fuck me.” The words come out more desperate than I wanted to sound. No sense in trying to play it cool now anyway as I feel you push inside in one long, unhurried stroke, hips not stopping until they’re flush against mine making gasp loudly as I cling to you. The stretch is more intense than anything I’ve ever felt before. I feel every inch of you–every vein, every ridge, the salaciously thick drag of it. My body has to work to take you, and I blink my eyes rapidly to adjust to your girth. And then your hips pull back before snapping forward, hard, making the counter jump. Again and again. Over and over. The rhythm you set is relentless, each thrust rocking me back against the cabinets, the edge of the counter punishing my ass, a ceramic mug tipping sideways and a spoon spinning off the edge and clattering to the tile. Normally, I’m not a fan of feeling like I’m being jack-hammered. But here in this instant, with you, it's making me realize I‘m not the only one with the desires. You want this as badly as I do, if not more so. We’re both becoming unhinged. And I couldn’t stop if I tried. It’s too good between us. For once.

You hook one of my knees higher, opening me up even wider, changing the angle so each stroke grinds against that place not many men have been able to reach on me. It sends me teetering right to that glorious edge in an instant. You snarl against my ear, breath ragged, “You love this. You love living with me.”

I want to say something cutting, but honestly I can hardly form thoughts let alone words right now. But somehow my stubbornness manages to come up with something. “Don’t kid yourself. You’re hot but you know it. That’s a turn off. And you’re the worst roommate a woman could ever ask for.” You grind forward with your teeth clenched, staring me in the eyes, thrusting deliberately slow and hard, and the words dissolve into a breath I have to fight to recover from. My fingernails dig into your shoulders. You fuck me like you’re angry, like you want to bruise me and worship me at the same time. I’m not afraid to admit I want both. ”Although at the moment,“ I say, ”you have your perks.“ You thrust again, harder making me gasp louder, my vision going white at the edges. The soundtrack of us having sex fills my ears: skin on skin, the ragged slap of your bodies, the wet, desperate noises that tear from my throat. I love all of it and only want more. I’m still clinging to you, pulling you deeper to milk you for all you are worth, and when you finally cum inside me it feels almost feral, and my body reacts as though it’s being broken into a million little pieces-deliciously so-unraveling over and over, in perfect sexual harmony. The kind that only happens when you truly want someone with the deepest, most primal need.

We stand there panting, gasping for air, my body still gripping onto yours as my knees begin to buckle. We slide to the floor with a laugh, all tangled limbs and sweat. Our eyes keep making contact but neither of us are sure of what comes next. But, of course, you find a way to take the lead.

“So, uh, about the dishes—”

I grab a Cheerio off the floor and playfully throw it at you in feigned seriousness. “Don’t push your luck.”

You grin, and I can’t help it. I laugh, too. “Fine,” you say. “But you’re cleaning up the next mess.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat left in it. “We may have to find a compromise.”

Your left eyebrow lifts, a blend of cockiness and intrigue. “Oh? Do you have a plan for said compromise?”

“Of course, I do.”

Now both brows tick up in anticipation, that smirk from earlier tugging at the corners of your luscious mouth. “Tell me. I want to hear this.”

I place my finger against your lips, “Shhhhhh….stop talking. We can negotiate later. Right now, let’s just revel in the fact we’re even getting along.” Your face softens as does the smirk. You pull me closer to you and let out an audible sigh of contented post orgasmic bliss as your head rests against the kitchen cupboard.

We lie there, sticky and spent, surrounded by the wreckage of our argument, and for the first time ever, the kitchen feels almost big enough for both of us. 

For now at least.

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