Oh, they're fucking on the counter. And maybe again elsewhere. On the rubbish couch bed thing she's got going on in her sitting room? Probably not in the washroom as he assumes it's horrible, though they've both likely seen worse. It's a world of possibilities (if by that he means a world of semi awkward, largely rickety surfaces - and he does).

--But one thing at a time and currently his version of planning for the future gets about as far as catching his other hand at her knee, fingers digging at her thigh at hip as she draws him in. There's nothing about the slick, wet heat of her that prompts hesitation. His cock jumps in her hand at the initial contact, the tight press and Charlie breathes raw across her mouth. "Christ," he swears, bracing himself against her - to push into her. And he does, aching, grasping after her. After the initial slide, just enough to make sure, he abruptly drags her to him - to the edge of the counter - on to him. He makes a low, low noise at her mouth as they settle together.