Chapter 6: Suite Submission
The silence in the taxi was a physical thing, thick and charged like the air before a storm. Ryan watched the Chicago skyline rise, a jagged forest of glass and steel, but his world had narrowed to the woman beside him. The scent of her—lavender, sex, him—filled the space between them. Her head was turned, watching the city blur past. The stain on her blouse, a dull, off-white map of their transgression, was just visible beneath her open coat.
“You should have taken the exit,” she said, her voice quiet, almost lost in the city’s drone. “You had your out. Back at the airport.”
“I wasn’t looking for an out.”
She turned then, her green eyes searching his face. “What are you looking for, Ryan?”
“I don’t know yet.” It was the truest thing he’d said all day.
The hotel was all cool marble and hushed tones. They walked through the lobby without touching, a space of electric inches separating them. The ride in the elevator was worse. Mirrors on every side reflected endless versions of them, standing apart, their clothes rumpled, their faces etched with shared exhaustion and something darker, hungrier. He’d booked the suite on his phone during the flight, a spur-of-the-moment insanity charged to a credit card that would soon protest.
The suite was a study in neutral wealth. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic gasp of the city. A bottle of champagne sat in a silver bucket beside two glasses on a low table. He’d ordered it. A gesture from a different script, one they were already tearing to pieces.
Channah walked to the window, shedding her coat and letting it fall to the floor. She stood with her back to him, her silhouette framed by the vast, twinkling grid of the city. The stain on her blouse was a blatant accusation.
“Look at me,” he said.
She didn’t turn. “I can feel you looking.”
He crossed the room, the plush carpet muffling his steps. He stopped behind her, close enough to feel the heat coming off her body. He saw their reflection in the dark glass—a professor and a therapist, middle-aged, framed by a million city lights, their story written in the tension of their shoulders, the set of their jaws.
He reached out and brushed his fingers over the stain on her blouse. She flinched, then leaned back into the touch. His other hand came up, his fingers tangling in the vibrant red of her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back against his shoulder. He found her throat with his mouth, kissing the frantic pulse there. “This is ruined,” he murmured against her skin, his fingers pulling at the buttons of the blouse.
“You ruined it.” Her voice was breathless.
“I’ll buy you ten more.”
He pushed the blouse off her shoulders. It slithered to the floor. She wore only a simple lace bra beneath. He unclasped it with a single, practiced flick. Her breasts spilled into his hands, heavy and warm. He squeezed, his thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened into tight peaks. She arched into his touch, a low moan escaping her lips, her head lolling back against him.
“You followed me,” she breathed, her eyes closed. “Like a stray dog.”
“You wanted to be followed.” He turned her roughly to face him. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown with desire. “You got on that plane knowing. You got in that bathroom knowing.”
“Knowing what?”
“That I wouldn’t let you go. Not again.” His mouth came down on hers, a kiss that was all teeth and claiming tongue. It was nothing like the kisses they’d shared decades ago. This was a consumption. Her hands came up, clawing at his back, pulling his shirt from his waistband.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “The bed. Now.”
A challenge flickered in her eyes. A ghost of the stubborn girl he’d known. She didn’t move. So he bent, hooked an arm behind her knees, and lifted her. She gasped, clutching his shoulders as he carried her the few feet to the vast bed and threw her down onto the crisp linen. She bounced once, her hair fanning out around her, her body gloriously naked from the waist up.
He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. He stripped off his own shirt, the tattoos on his arms shifting with the flex of muscle. He unbuckled his belt, the sound loud in the quiet room. He saw her eyes track the movement, saw the quick dart of her tongue over her lower lip.
“Spread your legs.”
She did, slowly, the lace of her panties the only barrier left. He knelt on the bed between them, his hands sliding up the inside of her thighs, pushing them wider. He leaned down and inhaled deeply, the musky, intimate scent of her filling his head. He didn’t kiss her there. Not yet. He looked up, meeting her gaze. “You taste like me,” he said, his voice rough. “You smell like me. You’re fucking painted with me, Channah.”
Then he lowered his mouth.
His tongue was flat and broad, licking a wet stripe from her entrance to her clit. She cried out, her hips jolting off the bed. He held her down, his hands firm on her stomach. He focused on her clit, circling it, flicking it, sucking it into his mouth with a ruthless rhythm. He was relentless, worshipful and brutal all at once. Her sounds were animalistic, broken curses and pleas that dissolved into whimpers.
“Ryan… please…”
“Please what?” he growled, not lifting his head.
“I need… I need your cock. Please, fuck me.”
He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that sweet, spongy spot deep within. She bucked violently, a scream tearing from her throat. He worked his fingers in and out, matching the rhythm of his tongue on her clit. He could feel her coiling tight, teetering on the edge.
He stopped abruptly.
She whimpered in protest, her body straining upwards. He crawled up her body, kissing her stomach, the underside of her breast, her collarbone. He settled his weight on top of her, his hard cock pressing against her thigh through his pants.
“Not yet,” he whispered into her ear. He rolled off her, and before she could react, he flipped her onto her stomach. He pulled her hips up, so she was on her knees, her face pressed into the pillows, her ass presented to him. He ripped the lace panties down her legs and threw them aside.
He spit into his palm, a crude, wet sound. He smoothed it over her asshole, circling the tight furl of muscle. She shuddered, a full-body tremble.
“You want this,” he stated, lining himself up. The head of his cock pressed against her.
“Yes,” she hissed into the pillow, the word muffled.
He pushed. The resistance was profound, a hot, impossible tightness. He felt her muscles clench, then relent, accepting him inch by burning inch. He sank into her fully with a groan that was part agony, part triumph. He was buried inside her, deeper, more intimate than anything before. He was possessed by her.
He began to move. Slow, deep, punishing strokes that stole the breath from both of them. Each thrust was a conquest. He leaned over her, his mouth near her ear, his voice a raw scrape. “This is what you thought about. In your office. In your bed at night. This. Me. Fucking this tight little ass.”
She couldn’t speak. Her response was a series of choked, sobbing moans that matched his rhythm. He fucked her harder, his grip on her hips tightening, the sound of their bodies connecting a sharp, percussive slap in the elegant room. The city lights blurred outside the window.
He felt his climax building, a white-hot coil in his gut. He pulled out, his cock slick and glistening. “Turn over.”
She collapsed onto her back, her eyes dazed, her body glistening with sweat. He stood beside the bed, fisting his cock. “Suck it,” he commanded, his voice cracking. “Clean it. Taste yourself.”
She scrambled to the edge of the bed, kneeling before him on the floor. She took him into her mouth without hesitation, her tongue swirling over the head, licking away the evidence of where he’d been. She took him deep, her throat opening for him, swallowing him whole. The obscene slurping sounds she made pushed him over the edge.
“Gonna come,” he gritted out. He pulled her head closer, fucking her mouth in short, sharp jerks. “Take it. Take all of it.”
He came with a shout, his release pumping hot and bitter down her throat. She swallowed, again and again, her eyes streaming, until he was spent and softening. She kept him in her mouth, softly suckling, until he finally pulled away.
She knelt there, panting, her lips swollen and wet. He sank to his knees in front of her, their foreheads touching. They stayed like that for a long time, in the wreckage of the bed, with the silent city sprawling beyond the glass, two old ghosts haunted now by a new and terrifying truth.