Chapter 3: Caught in the Act
The cold of the garden had seeped into Danny’s bones, but the memory of her heat was a brand under his skin. He’d stood in the shadows for ten minutes, watching the kitchen light go off, hearing the muffled voices of Tucker and Sam heading to the front door. He’d waited until the house was silent again, until every window but one was dark.
Jade’s window.
It glowed a soft, illicit amber against the winter night. The blinds were up.
He told himself he was just checking. Just making sure the coast was clear so he could slip out the front door and walk home. That’s what he told his feet as they carried him back inside, through the silent first floor, up the carpeted stairs that creaked in all the wrong places. That’s what he told the hammering in his chest as he stood outside her door, which was open a crack.
A low, rhythmic moaning filtered out. Not her voice. A synthetic, overlapping chorus of grunts and gasps.
He pushed the door open slowly.
Her room was a explosion of color in the dark. Band posters, vintage neon signs, a tapestry of some cosmic eclipse. Clothes everywhere. The air smelled like sandalwood incense and her.
She was on the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, laptop open beside her. The screen cast a blue-white glow on her naked body. On the screen, a tangle of limbs moved with vulgar, mechanized intensity. The sound was turned low, but the desperate slapping of skin, the graphic, slurred commands, were unmistakable.
Jade’s head was back, eyes closed, one hand tangled in her violet hair. The other was between her legs. Her fingers moved with a furious, practiced rhythm, glistening wet in the dim light. A small, pink vibrator lay buzzing against her inner thigh, neglected.
She wasn’t subtle. She was fucking herself, her hips rocking off the mattress, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow. A low, continuous hum vibrated in her throat.
Danny’s mouth went dry. He should leave. Now.
Her eyes snapped open. She didn’t startle. She didn’t cover herself. Her fingers didn’t stop. They dug deeper, her breath catching as she found a specific spot. She held his gaze, her own dark and bottomless.
“Door,” she panted. “Shut it.”
He obeyed, the click of the latch sounding final. He leaned back against it, as if it could hold back the torrent in his head.
“Enjoying the show?” Her voice was ragged. She gestured lazily to the laptop. “Or that one?”
“Jade.”
“I’m busy.” She arched her back, her breasts taut. “Unless you’re here to help.”
He was across the room in three strides. He grabbed the laptop and slammed it shut, plunging the room into near-darkness, lit only by a salt lamp in the corner. The sudden silence was heavier than the noise.
“Fuck you,” she hissed, her hand finally stilling.
“That’s the idea.” His voice was rough. He grabbed her ankle, pulling her down the bed toward him. Her skin was hot. She didn’t resist. She let her legs fall open, a blatant, challenging invitation.
The scent of her arousal hit him, rich and musky, mingling with the incense. He could see everything, the slick, swollen folds, the proof of her own solo frenzy. It was for him. He knew it. Even with the porn, even alone, she’d been thinking of the kitchen. Of him.
“You’re a mess,” he said, dropping to his knees beside the bed.
“You made me this way.” She reached down, spread herself wider with two fingers. “Look what you did. Now fix it.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue spear-driving straight into her core. She cried out, her hands fisting in his hair. She tasted exactly as he remembered, but stronger, deeper, addicted. He lapped at her, drinking her in, his tongue circling her clit with relentless pressure.
“Yes! Right there, you fucking—oh god—” Her hips churned against his mouth. The vibrator hummed to life, having been jostled. She grabbed it, pressed it hard against her clit where his tongue worked. The combined vibration was devastating. She screamed, a raw, shattered sound, her body bowing off the bed. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, I’m gonna—”
Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing. He held her through it, his tongue softening to gentle laps as she trembled and whimpered, her inner muscles clenching around nothing.
When the last tremor subsided, she pushed his head away, breathless. “Clothes. Off. Now.”
He stood, shucking his jeans and boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and aching. She stared at it, her eyes hungrier than they’d been in the kitchen. She sat up, wrapped a hand around him, squeezed at the base.
“You’re still so hard for me,” she murmured, almost wondering. She leaned forward and took him into her mouth without hesitation.
The heat was breathtaking. She swallowed him deep, her throat relaxing around the head. Her tongue worked the underside, her lips created a tight, wet seal. She bobbed her head, messy and eager, saliva slicking his length. The obscene, wet sounds filled the quiet room. She looked up at him, her mascara smudged, her lips stretched wide, and he almost came right then.
“Jade… wait…”
She pulled off with a pop. “No waiting.” She shoved him backward. He landed sitting on the edge of her cluttered desk, pens and notebooks scattering. She stalked over to him, a goddess of chaotic energy. “My turn.”
She climbed onto him, straddling his lap. She guided him to her entrance, but didn’t sink down. She rubbed the head through her slickness, coating him, tormenting them both.
“Tell me you want it,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear.
“I want it.”
“Tell me you’ve been thinking about this pussy since you slunk out into the garden.”
“Every fucking second.”
“Show me.”
She impaled herself in one slow, excruciating drop. They groaned in unison. She was so tight, so incredibly hot and wet. She took a moment, seated fully, her forehead against his. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest.
Then she began to move. Not just up and down, but rolling her hips in a filthy, grinding circle. She rode him with a focused, carnal purpose, her nails digging into his shoulders. Each downward stroke dragged her clit against his pelvis. He could feel every internal spasm, every gasp that shook her frame.
“Fuck,” she chanted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Her pace increased, becoming desperate, slamming down onto him, taking him so deep he saw stars. The desk rattled against the wall.
He gripped her hips, helping her, meeting her thrust for thrust. His own control was a frayed wire. The sight of her, the feel of her, the sheer fucking audacity of her—in her childhood bedroom, with Sam’s room down the hall—it was too much.
“I’m close,” he warned, his voice a strangled rasp.
“Come in me,” she demanded, her own rhythm becoming erratic. “Fill me up again. Do it.”
It was the same command from the kitchen, but now it was a shared addiction. He thrust up into her one final, brutal time as his release tore through him. He emptied himself inside her with a guttural cry, his vision whiting out. The pulses seemed endless.
It triggered her own climax. She stiffened, her mouth open in a silent scream, her internal muscles milking him in fierce, rhythmic clenches. She collapsed against him, boneless, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing slowing. The salt lamp cast long, weird shadows. A car passed on the street outside, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling.
Slowly, she lifted her head. She didn’t kiss him. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable. Then she slid off him, hissing slightly at the sensation. She padded, naked, to her ensuite bathroom. He heard the sink run.
He sat on the desk, spent, dripping onto the wood. The guilt came then, cold and nauseating. It wrapped around the afterglow and squeezed. Sam. His best friend. Down the hall.
Jade emerged, a towel wrapped around her torso. She tossed another towel at him. It hit his chest and fell to the floor.
“You should go,” she said. Her voice was flat. The fever had broken.
He cleaned himself up numbly, pulled on his clothes. Every movement felt like a betrayal. He turned to the door.
“Danny.”
He looked back.
She was standing by the bed, the towel held tight. The vulnerability he saw was so fleeting he might have imagined it.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said. But her eyes betrayed the words. They were full of the same war he felt. “It can’t.”
He nodded, because he knew she was right, and because he knew it was already a lie. He had left part of himself inside her, twice now. A piece of him was in this room, and it wouldn’t be leaving with him.
He opened the door and slipped into the dark hall. As he passed Sam’s door, he saw a thin line of light under it. His stomach dropped.
From inside Sam’s room, he heard the clear, distinct sound of someone crying.
He froze, his hand on the banister. The sound was muffled, heartbroken. It was Sam.
He stood there in the dark, trapped between the room where he’d just lost his soul and the room where he was betraying his oldest friend. The salt from Jade’s skin was still on his lips. The sound of Sam’s tears filled his ears.
He went downstairs and out the front door into the freezing night, the weight of it all crushing him with every step.