Chapter 7: The Unexpected Visitor
The cold leather of the sofa bit into Demi’s bare thighs. She’d been curled there for what felt like hours, a half-empty soda can sweating onto the coffee table, the silence of her apartment a stark contrast to the thumping bass still echoing in her bones. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the cold tile against her back, the scalding water, the way his body had pinned hers, the guttural sound he made when he came. She shifted, the ache between her legs a persistent, thrilling reminder. It wasn’t a problem, she’d told him. The words felt flimsy now, alone in the dark.
A sharp knock fractured the quiet.
Not the casual rap of a neighbor. This was decisive. Authoritative. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful lurch before her mind could catch up. She padded to the door, peering through the peephole.
Josh.
He stood under the flickering hallway light, his hair still damp, wearing a plain grey tee and jeans. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his shoulders tense. He wasn’t smiling.
She unlocked the door and pulled it open. The question died on her lips.
He didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped across the threshold, his presence instantly shrinking the small space. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed in her chest. His eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned her face, then dropped to the thin tank top and sleep shorts she wore. The air crackled, heavy with everything left unsaid in the steamy bathroom, everything interrupted by a knocking shower curtain.
“Josh, what—”
He moved. In one fluid motion, his arms went around her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other behind her knees. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. A small gasp escaped her as her world tilted, her arms instinctively looping around his neck. He carried her across the room, his steps sure, his jaw set in a hard line. He didn’t look at her. He looked at the sofa.
He laid her down on the cool leather, her head sinking into a cushion. Then his hands were on her clothes, not undressing but claiming. His fingers hooked into the neckline of her tank top and pulled. The soft cotton tore with a ragged sound, baring her breasts to the dim light. He did the same with her shorts, ripping the flimsy fabric aside until she was naked beneath him, exposed and breathing fast.
He didn’t pause. He lowered himself between her thighs, his hands pushing her legs apart, holding her open. His breath was hot against her inner thigh. Then his mouth was on her.
His tongue was blunt, demanding, licking a broad, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit. She cried out, her back arching off the couch. He groaned into her, the vibration making her hips jerk. He didn’t tease. He feasted. His tongue plunged into her slit, fucking her with it, curling inside her, tasting her deeply. He sucked her swollen flesh into his mouth, his tongue flicking ruthlessly against her clit while his hands pinned her hips down.
“Oh, god, Josh,” she whimpered, her fingers tangling in his messy dark hair, not to pull him away but to hold him there. The intensity was shocking, a direct line from his mouth to every nerve ending. This wasn’t the playful, secretive friction of the shower. This was a statement. Possession.
He lifted his head, his chin glistening. “You taste like me,” he rasped, his voice rough. “And you. All mixed together.” He dove back in, his nose nudging her clit as his tongue speared her again. He added a finger, then two, curling them up inside her, finding that spot that made her vision spark white. He pumped them in time with the ruthless cadence of his tongue.
Her orgasm built not as a wave but as a detonation, short-circuiting her from the core out. She screamed, her body bowing violently, her heels digging into the sofa cushions as she ground herself against his face. He rode it out with her, his mouth relentless, drinking every pulsing twitch until she was a trembling, oversensitive wreck, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
He rose over her then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He fumbled with his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was fully hard, thick and flushed, the head slick with pre-cum. He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the cushion by her head.
“I tried,” he grunted, his forehead nearly touching hers. His breath was coming in short, hot bursts. “I got home. I showered again. I fucking tried to think. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay away.”
He positioned himself at her entrance, which was soaked from his mouth and her climax. He pushed inside, a slow, inexorable invasion that stretched her deliciously, filled her completely. She gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist, her heels locking at the small of his back.
He began to move, a deep, driving rhythm that shoved her body up the leather with each thrust. The sofa creaked in protest. His eyes held hers, the kind brown now black with a hunger that was almost frightening.
“This is a problem,” he said, the words punched out of him with every snap of his hips. “You know that, right? This is a fucking huge problem.”
“I don’t care,” she moaned, meeting his thrusts, her nails scoring down his back. “Just don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He fucked her harder, faster, his control fraying. The slap of skin on skin, their ragged breaths, the musky scent of sex—it filled the room. He shifted, hooking her legs over his shoulders, tilting her pelvis to take him even deeper. The new angle brushed that perfect spot with every pounding stroke.
“You feel that?” he growled. “You feel how deep I am in you? Tell me you feel it.”
“I feel it,” she sobbed, another climax coiling, tighter, hotter than the first. “I feel all of it, Josh, please—”
Her plea shattered into a wordless cry as she came again, her internal muscles clamping down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses. It tipped him over the edge. With a raw, broken groan, he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into her, hot and endless, his body shuddering violently against hers.
He collapsed, his weight crushing her into the couch, his face buried in the crook of her neck. They lay like that, slick with sweat, bodies still joined, hearts hammering against each other. The torn remains of her clothes were strewn on the floor.
Long minutes passed. The sweat cooled. He finally softened and slipped out of her. He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, her back to his front, his arm a heavy band across her stomach. They were a tangle of limbs on the too-small sofa.
“Marcus and Tasha know,” he said quietly into her hair. His voice was flat. “They didn’t say anything in the car. But they know.”
Demi closed her eyes. The real world, with its friendships and complications, was seeping back in around the edges of the haze he’d created. She placed her hand over his on her stomach, lacing their fingers together. His grip tightened.
“So what happens now?” she whispered, the question hanging in the dark, sticky air.
He didn’t answer. He just held on tighter.