Chapter 9: In too deep
The scent of lilies was too sweet for the sterile air of the conference room. They sat in the center of the polished mahogany table, a vulgar burst of life amidst deposition transcripts and merger agreements. Tasha stared at the bouquet, the card propped against the glass vase. For my favorite distraction. Lunch is coming. – A
Her phone vibrated in her blazer pocket. She slipped it out under the table.
Ares: You get the flowers?
Tasha: They’re beautiful. And enormous. My entire team is staring.
Ares: Good. Let ‘em stare. Let ‘em know you’re taken by a motherfucker who knows how to treat you.
A warmth spread through her chest, momentarily diluting the residual ache between her legs from the night before, a persistent reminder of their brutal honesty. She typed back, You’re trouble.
Ares: You love my trouble. Check the front desk in 20.
True to his word, a uniformed deliveryman appeared with two large bags from Golden Phoenix, the smell of sesame oil and fried rice cutting through the office’s citrus-and-disinfectant scent. Her paralegal, Jason, peeked into her office. “Damn, Tasha. Who’s the secret admirer? This is like rom-com level stuff.”
She forced a light laugh, unpacking the containers—her usual order, down to the extra chili oil. “Just someone being thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful?” chirped Olivia from the next cubicle over, leaning in. “This is a full-scale campaign. Flowers and lunch? Honey, you finally got a good one. Is it the yoga guy? The hot one from the gym you mentioned?”
Tasha’s smile felt painted on. “That’s the one.”
“He’s a keeper,” Olivia sighed. “Steve’s idea of romance is remembering to unload the dishwasher.”
The praise, the envious looks, settled on her like a suffocating blanket. They were admiring a fiction. Ares was sweet, funny, determined. He did care for her with a fervor that left her breathless. He also fucked her with a possessive roughness that left her bruised and obsessed. And he was eighteen. The dichotomy was a live wire in her gut.
As her colleagues dispersed with their own lunches, Tasha closed her office door. The silence was a relief. She took a picture of the spread, the vibrant food beside the pale lilies, and sent it.
Tasha: You’re spoiling me. Thank you.
His reply was instant. A photo. A blurry, angled shot from under a desk, the unmistakable outline of his hard cock straining against grey sweatpants. The text below: Thinking about what you taste like. School’s a drag.
A bolt of pure, illicit lust shot through her. Her fingers moved faster than her conscience. She locked her office door, turned her back to the glass wall, and unbuttoned her crisp white blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She held her phone up, catching the swell of her breasts, the dark nipples already pebbled tight from the thrill. She snapped the picture, the cold office light stark on her skin, and sent it without a caption.
Her phone rang sixty seconds later. “Fuck, Tasha,” his voice was a husky whisper, full of noise in the background—lockers slamming, shouts. “Are you trying to get me in trouble? I’m hard as a fucking rock in the middle of econ.”
“You started it,” she murmured, leaning against the cool door.
“I’m finishing it tonight. I’m gonna tie you to that big bed of yours and eat that pussy until you forget your own name. I’m gonna make you scream so loud the neighbors call the cops.”
She squeezed her thighs together, a pulsing heat igniting low in her belly. “Promises, promises.”
“It’s a threat. A really good one. Gotta go. Coach is glaring. Later, lawyer girl.”
The line went dead. She stood there, flushed, her carefully ordered professional world tilting violently on its axis. For the rest of the afternoon, the legal briefs seemed written in a foreign language. All she could see was the dark promise in his text, feel the ghost of his hands.
At home, she poured a generous glass of Cabernet and called Michelle. Her oldest friend, the one who knew about the divorce, the burnout, the hollow quiet of the mansion.
“So,” Michelle said, her tone warm. “You’ve been quiet. Spill. Is it the boy?”
Tasha curled into the oversized sofa, the city lights twinkling beyond the windows. “He sent me flowers today. And lunch.”
“Okay, winning points. Go on.”
She found herself talking, the words spilling out in a nervous, grateful rush. “He’s just… he’s so alive, Chelle. He’s funny in this effortless way. He’s determined—you should see him when he talks about football, it’s like this laser focus. And confident, but not in an arrogant way. It’s just… he knows who he is. And he sees me. Not the lawyer, not the ex-wife. He cares. He remembers the little things. The way I like my coffee. That I get cold in movie theaters.”
“And?” Michelle prompted, a smile in her voice. “How’s the other thing?”
Tasha took a long sip of wine. “It’s… transformative. He doesn’t just fuck me. It’s like he’s claiming me. Every time. It’s intense. Sometimes it’s almost… scary. But in a way I need.”
“Send a pic,” Michelle laughed. “I need to see this paragon.”
Hesitating for only a second, Tasha scrolled and found a picture from the wedding. Ares, in his suit, laughing, his green eyes crinkled, his arm around her waist. He looked breathtaking. He also looked painfully young.
She sent it.
The silence on the other end stretched a beat too long. “Tasha… he’s gorgeous. But… how old is he again?”
The lie slipped out, smooth and practiced. “Twenty.”
“He looks like he just got his learner’s permit, Tasha. Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Tasha said, her voice firm with a conviction she didn’t feel. “He’s just got one of those faces. Boyish.”
Michelle hummed, a non-committal, lawyerly sound. “Well. He’s certainly beautiful. Just… be careful, okay? That kind of intensity, it can burn hot and fast.”
They talked of other things, but Michelle’s skeptical tone lingered. After hanging up, Tasha refilled her glass. The doorbell rang. She knew it was him before she saw the silhouette through the frosted glass.
She opened the door. He stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, still in his practice gear—a sleeveless shirt damp with sweat, shorts that showed the powerful cut of his thighs. He smelled of grass, salt, and youth. His eyes were dark, hungry.
“Couldn’t wait,” he said, stepping inside and kicking the door shut with his foot.
He dropped his bag and grabbed her, his mouth crashing down on hers. The taste of him, the feel of his sweat-damp skin through her silk camisole, erased Michelle’s doubts, her own fears. He walked her backwards through the living room, not breaking the kiss, until her knees hit the edge of the enormous bed.
He broke away, breathing hard. “On the bed. On your back. Now.”
She obeyed, sinking into the linen. He stood over her, pulling his shirt off, then his shorts and briefs. His cock sprang free, fully erect, curving thickly against his abdomen. He knelt on the bed, crawling over her, but didn’t lower himself. Instead, he hooked his fingers in the sides of her lace panties and tore them down her legs with a sharp rip.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded, his voice low. “Show me.”
She opened for him, feeling exposed, wanton. He looked down at her, his gaze devouring the sight of her wetness glistening in the low light. “Fucking perfect. My own personal feast.”
He didn’t use his tongue first. He leaned down and pressed his mouth over her entire cunt, sucking fiercely, drinking from her. She cried out, her hips bucking off the bed. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, fucking her with them in a steady rhythm as his mouth worked her clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a direct line to her core. She felt the orgasm building, a tight coil winding mercilessly.
“Not yet,” he growled, removing his mouth and fingers abruptly. She whimpered at the loss. He grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her stomach with effortless strength. He pulled her up onto her knees, her ass in the air. He placed a hand in the center of her back and pushed down, arching her spine, presenting her completely.
He spit into his palm, slicking his length, then pressed the fat head of his cock against her entrance. He didn’t ask. He just pushed, burying himself in one deep, relentless thrust that punched the air from her lungs. He held there, buried to the hilt, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
“This is mine,” he stated, his voice tight with strain. “Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she gasped, the feeling of total fullness a narcotic.
He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each plunge a devastating reclaiming. The slap of skin was loud in the quiet room. He leaned over, covering her back with his sweat-slick chest, his mouth at her ear.
“You showed my picture to your friend?” he whispered, punctuating the question with a hard thrust.
“Y-yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said you were beautiful.”
He chuckled, a dark sound. “She say I looked young?”
Tasha froze beneath him. He felt it and slammed into her harder. “She might have,” Tasha admitted, her voice muffled by the duvet.
“And you lied,” he said, not missing a beat. He wrapped a hand in her hair, pulling her head back. “You told her I was twenty. You lied for me.” He fucked her with a new, brutal intensity. “That’s how deep you are in this. You’re a liar for me, Tasha. Your fancy friends, your big job… none of it matters when you’re getting your ass fucked by a teenager, does it?”
The obscene truth of it unlocked something feral in her. “No,” she moaned. “It doesn’t. Fuck me harder. Please.”
He released her hair, bracing both hands on the bed for leverage. He drilled into her, his pace becoming frantic, animalistic. The bed rocked against the wall. She felt the swell of another climax, drawn from a deep, shameful place that thrilled at his words.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm shattering.
“Inside me,” she begged, the ultimate surrender. “Fill me up.”
With a guttural shout that was pure triumph, he obeyed, plunging deep as he pulsed inside her. The hot rush triggered her own release, a secondary shockwave that milked him, clenching around his still-throbbing cock until he shuddered and collapsed half on top of her.
They lay there, a mess of limbs and sweat and cooling come. His breathing slowed against her back. He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder blade, a tender contrast to the violence of moments before.
“I love you,” he mumbled into her skin, the words sleepy, unguarded.
Her heart seized. She couldn’t say it back. The words stuck in her throat, trapped behind the mountain of lies. She just reached back, her fingers finding his where they rested on her hip, and tangled them together. In the silence, with the evidence of their mutually assured destruction drying on her thighs, she held on. It was all she could do.
It was all she could do. The confession hung in the dark room, a ghost between them she couldn’t yet touch. She fell asleep to the rhythm of his breath, the words etching themselves into her skin alongside the bruises his hands had left.
A sharp, wet sensation pulled her from a shallow sleep just past dawn. The room was pale grey with pre-light. Ares was already awake, propped on one elbow, his mouth fastened around her nipple. He wasn’t gentle. He sucked the soft, brown peak deep into the heat of his mouth, his tongue lapping roughly at the stiffening flesh. A low groan vibrated through her breastbone.
“Morning,” he mumbled, switching to the other without stopping, his hand taking over on the wet, aching nipple he’d just abandoned.
He was relentless. He groped and kneaded the full, heavy weight of her breast, his fingers digging in as he licked and sucked. He treated them like his personal toys, biting just enough to make her gasp, then soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue. The sensation was raw, primitive, a claiming that began the moment his eyes opened. He nuzzled between them, inhaling deeply, before dragging his tongue up her sternum to capture her mouth. She could taste herself, salty and faint, on his lips.
“You’re obsessed,” she whispered against his mouth, her own hands tangling in his wild black curls.
“With these?” He palmed both breasts, squeezing them together. “Fuck yeah, I am. Perfect fucking handfuls.” He dipped his head again, sucking a dark mark high on the curve, a brand above her heart.
When he finally pulled away, the room was brighter. Her chest was mapped with red marks and saliva. He looked at his work, his green eyes dark with satisfaction. “Now I’m hungry for real.”
The Huddle House was a symphony of clattering plates and raucous laughter, a world away from her silent marble kitchen. They slid into a sticky vinyl booth. Ares immediately stole the plastic menu from her hands. “You’re getting the cheeseburger omelet. And hash browns, scattered, covered, and chunked. And a side of pancake.”
“I was thinking of a fruit bowl,” she said, knowing it was futile.
He gave her a look of pure disgust. “This is a temple of grease, Tasha. You don’t order fruit in a temple. It’s blasphemy.” He flagged down a weary-looking waitress. “Hey, Darlene. Two of the All-Star Specials, extra bacon on both, and a chocolate milk for the lady.”
“I’m not five,” Tasha laughed.
“You drink that white wine shit all the time. You need calcium. For the bones.” He winked, his dimples carving deep canyons in his cheeks. “And for other assets.”
He was absurd. He told her stories about his coach, a man named Coach Riggs who apparently snorted like a warthog when angry. Ares imitated him, scrunching his face and emitting a series of alarming snorts that made her spit her chocolate milk, which he’d been right about—it was delicious. He described a failed play at practice with the physical comedy of a silent film star, sliding halfway out of the booth to demonstrate a spectacular fumble.
“So I’m on the ground, right? And the ball just lands on my stomach. Plop. Like a fucking gift from God. Coach is screaming, ‘Morales, you look like a flipped turtle!’” He was laughing so hard tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. The sound was infectious, pure, unfiltered joy that turned heads in the diner. For the first time in years, Tasha laughed until her stomach hurt, until the lingering soreness between her legs felt like a badge from a different, more honest life.
He ate with a shocking, focused intensity, devouring eggs, bacon, and three pancakes in what seemed like minutes. She picked at her food, mostly watching him, this beautiful, kinetic boy who quoted Step Brothers between bites and stole her hash browns when he thought she wasn’t looking.
His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, and the light in his face banked for just a second. He flipped it over, screen down.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Just my mom. Reminding me about something.” He reached across the table, spearing a piece of her untouched sausage with his fork. “So. You gonna finish that or can I help?”
Later, in her car, the greasy, good smell of the diner clinging to their clothes, he was quiet. He stared out the window, his thumb rubbing absently over the crucifix on his chain. She pulled into her driveway, the mansion’s blank windows looking down like judgmental eyes.
“The scholarship paperwork,” she said softly, cutting the engine. The silence expanded. “It’s due soon, right?”
He didn’t look at her. “Monday.”
“And after that?” She hated the need in her voice, the fear. “You’ll be off to college. Somewhere with a D1 program. Probably not here.”
He finally turned. The morning’s laughter was gone, replaced by a stubborn, defensive set to his jaw. “We don’t know that.”
“We do know that, Ares.” Her voice was firmer now, the lawyer emerging. “That’s how it works. They don’t give those scholarships so you can stay home.”
“Then I won’t go.” The words were impulsive, reckless.
“Don’t be stupid. This is your future.” Even as she said it, a treacherous part of her thrilled at the declaration.
He unbuckled his seatbelt with a sharp click and turned fully to her. “You’re my future.” He said it with such absolute, teenage conviction it stole her breath. He climbed across the console, his body awkward and large in the confined space, and settled heavily onto her lap, facing her. The steering wheel dug into his back. “I’m not losing you over some fucking geography.”
“Ares—”
He kissed her, swallowing her protest. His hands framed her face, holding her still. It was a kiss of pure, desperate possession. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. “I need you. Right now. Not in the house. Here.”
He fumbled with the button of her linen trousers, his fingers clumsy with urgency. He got them open, yanked the zipper down, and shoved the fabric and her panties roughly to her knees. He didn’t bother with his own jeans, just unfastened them and freed his cock, already thick and ready. He was crushing her, the gearshift digging into her thigh, the car filled with the sounds of their ragged breathing.
“Lift up,” he ordered, his voice rough. She raised her hips, and he positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her. He was still dry. He spat into his own hand, slicked himself roughly, and pressed.
The angle was brutal, deep and impossibly intimate. He filled her completely in the cramped space, a raw, claiming invasion. He began to move, short, grinding thrusts that rocked the entire car. His eyes were locked on hers, fierce, almost angry.
“You.Are. Mine.” Each word was punctuated by a sharp, deep plunge. “You don’t get to send me away. You don’t get to be logical about this.”
She was pinned, speared, utterly at his mercy. The console bit into her back. The windows were fogging. Anyone could walk by. The danger, the illegality of it all, mixed with the physical overwhelm and ignited a climax so sudden it ripped through her with a silent, open-mouthed scream. Her inner muscles clamped around him in violent, rhythmic pulses.
He felt it, and his control shattered. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the root and came, his hot release flooding her as his body shuddered against hers. He collapsed forward, his head falling onto her shoulder, his breath hot and fast in her ear.
They stayed like that, entangled in the front seat of her car, in her pristine driveway, bound together by come and deception and something frighteningly real. The future was a cliff edge, rushing toward them. For now, in the fogged-glass silence, they were suspended in the fall.