Chapter 5: When the Cat's Away
The apartment held its breath. Logan had left an hour ago for an early stock shift, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the stale air. Ashanti had crashed on the couch, the wine and emotional drain pulling her into a thick, dreamless sleep tangled in an old afghan. The repaired wards hummed a quiet, steady note against the quiet.
A soft knock at the door pulled her to the surface. Not Logan’s assertive rap. Different.
She sat up, her braids a heavy weight over one shoulder, the fog of sleep slow to clear. Before she could call out, a key turned in the lock. James stepped in, backlit by the grim hallway light. He held two cardboard coffee cups and wore a look of practiced contrition.
“Peace offering?” he said, his voice quieter than usual. He nudged the door shut with his heel.
Ashanti watched him, the memory of the fight, of his words—“she came to me”—sharp in her mind. She said nothing. The quiet stretched, filled only by the drip of the kitchen faucet.
James set the cups on the cluttered coffee table, pushing aside an empty pizza box. He didn’t sit in the armchair. He lowered himself onto the couch beside her, the old springs groaning. Close. She could smell his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, undercut by the faint, clean scent of his soap. He hadn’t come from a fight; he’d showered.
“I’m sorry about the fight,” he said, not looking at her, studying his own hands. They were big, capable, with a few fresh scabs across the knuckles. “I was an ass. Saying that shit. Letting it get that far.”
She finally reached for a coffee, the heat seeping through the cardboard into her palms. She took a sip. It was perfect, just enough cream and sugar. Of course he remembered. “You were,” she said, her voice sleep-rough.
“I know.” He turned his head then, his hazel eyes meeting hers. The easy charm was dialed back, replaced by something more intense, more focused. It was unnerving. “I meant what I said, though.” His hand came to rest on her knee, over the worn grey sweats. The touch was tentative, a question. “I want you. That wasn’t a lie.”
Her stomach tightened. The coffee suddenly tasted like ash. “James…”
“He doesn’t have to know,” he murmured, the words a soft exhale. He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, to throw the coffee in his face, to summon a spark of that witch-light and tell him to fuck off.
She did none of those things. She sat frozen, a spectator in her own body, as his lips met hers.
It wasn’t forceful. It was slow, deliberate, a deep, searching kiss that unraveled her resolve stitch by stitch. His free hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone. A traitorous warmth bloomed low in her belly, spreading outwards, drowning the voice of guilt in a surge of pure, physical wanting. She melted into it, her lips parting, a soft sound escaping her throat as her coffee-free hand came up to fist in the front of his shirt.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark, pupils blown. “See?” he whispered, a ghost of a smirk touching his mouth. His hand slid from her jaw down her neck, over her collarbone, under the hem of her thin tank top. Her breath hitched as his palm, calloused and warm, found the curve of her breast, his thumb brushing over the tight peak of her nipple through the lace of her bra. The metal of her piercing was a cool shock against his skin.
He took the coffee cup from her other hand and set it aside. Then his hands were on her hips, lifting her with an effortless strength that made her gasp. In one smooth motion, he had her straddling his lap, her knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against the seam of her sweats, a blatant, promising pressure.
“You’re thinking too much,” he said, his voice a rough murmur against her throat as he kissed a hot path down to her shoulder. His hands pushed her tank top up, and he dipped his head, taking one nipple into his mouth through the fabric, tongue tracing the metal bar. Pleasure, sharp and electric, jolted through her. Her head fell back, a moan tearing loose from her chest. Her fingers found his cornrows, gripping them, not to pull him away, but to anchor herself.
His hands slid down her back, into the waistband of her sweats and her panties, cupping her ass, pulling her tighter against him. He rocked his hips up, grinding against her, the friction maddening through the layers of cotton. “Fuck, Ashanti,” he groaned into her skin.
He stood then, taking her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist. He carried her the few steps to the clear space of floor between the couch and the TV, lowering her onto the rug. It was scratchy against her back. He hooked his fingers in her sweats and panties and tugged them down her legs in one pull, tossing them aside. The air was cool on her exposed skin. He knelt between her spread thighs, his gaze hot and possessive as it traveled over her.
“Logan doesn’t see this,” James said, more to himself than to her. He leaned down, his breath a warm puff against her inner thigh before his mouth found her.
She cried out, her back arching off the floor. His tongue was relentless, skilled, mapping her with an intimate knowledge that felt both violating and exquisite. He used his lips, his teeth just barely, the press of his tongue flat and firm exactly where she needed it. The coil of pleasure wound tighter, obliterating thought, leaving only sensation—the scratch of the rug, the taste of coffee still on her tongue, the sounds he was pulling from her, the sight of his dark head between her legs. Her heels dug into his back as the climax ripped through her, a white-hot seizure of pleasure that left her shuddering, gasping his name into the silent apartment.
Before the tremors fully subsided, he was moving again, unbuckling his belt, pushing his jeans and boxers down just enough. He grabbed a condom from his wallet, sheathed himself with quick, efficient movements. He didn’t ask. He guided himself to her entrance, still slick and sensitive from her release, and pushed in with a single, deep thrust that punched the air from her lungs.
“Mine,” he grunted into her ear, his arms caging her head as he set a punishing rhythm. Each drive of his hips pushed her body across the rough fibers of the rug. It was raw, possessive, a physical claiming that left no room for gentleness or doubt. She wrapped her legs around him, meeting his thrusts, her nails scoring down his sweat-slicked back. The second climax built faster, a rolling wave that crashed over her just as his own rhythm fractured, his body going rigid above her with a choked-off curse.
The world narrowed to the raw, shuddering cadence of their breathing, syncing in the dusty quiet. James’s weight was a solid, damp heat pressing her into the rug’s rough texture. He went slack for a moment, his forehead against her shoulder, before he shifted, pulling out of her with a slow, deliberate drag that made her gasp.
Her body clenched around nothing, a phantom, unsatisfied pulse. He discarded the condom, knotted and glistening, into a nearby trash can with a soft plastic thud. Before she could process the emptiness, his hands were on her thighs, pushing them apart, his mouth finding her again. This was different—slower, worshipful, and utterly thorough. He licked into her with a deep, savoring intensity, slurping up the mingled fluids, his stubble rough against her tender skin. A mess. A claiming.
“Oh! Fuck, James!” Her back arched off the floor, her legs wrapping over his broad shoulders, her hands fisting in his cornrows to pull him closer. The sensation was too much, an overload on already frayed nerves, and yet her hips rose to meet him. The third climax tore through her, a sharp, bright seizure that left her seeing stars, her cry muffled by her own arm. He drank her down with a low, satisfied hum, not stopping until every tremor subsided.
He pulled away, his chin slick, and rose to his feet with a predator’s grace. He didn’t speak, just scooped her up, her body pliant and buzzing in his arms. He carried her past the couch with its empty coffee cups, down the short hall, and shouldered open the door to the bedroom he shared with Logan. The familiarity of the space—Logan’s scent of cedar and wool everywhere—hit her like a cold splash, but James laid her in the center of his brother’s neatly made bed, covering her mouth with his before the guilt could form a coherent thought.
His kiss tasted of her, salty and intimate. “Ash,” he breathed against her lips, his voice gravelly with spent passion. “Keep up with me, baby girl. I’ll give you every inch, every stroke, but you gotta hold on for me.” He kissed her again, deep and promising. “Cum as much as you want. Scream my name. Tonight you’re mine.”
He guided her knees up, pressing them toward her chest with a gentle, undeniable firmness. The position left her utterly exposed, vulnerable. He sheathed himself again with a new condom, the quiet tear of the wrapper stark in the quiet room. Then he was pushing back into her, a slow, devastating invasion that made her eyes roll back. He set a measured, deep pace, each stroke a calculated conquest that brushed a spot so deep inside her it felt like he was rearranging her soul.
“That’s it, baby. Let me in.” His words were a hot murmur against her ear, his body a demanding weight. “Take it. Take every fucking inch.” His control began to fray, his thrusts gaining a raw, pounding intensity. “Every. Fucking. Load.”
A guttural snarl ripped from his throat, part man, part wolf, as he slammed home one final time, his body shuddering through his release. They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs in the center of Logan’s bed. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the faint, pleading hum of the wards in the walls. Sunlight, weak and thin, cut through a gap in the blinds, illuminating the dust motes dancing above them like fallen magic.
James eventually moved, disposing of the second condom in a small bin by the dresser. He returned to the bed, stretching out beside her, one heavy arm thrown across her waist. “See?” he muttered, his voice already thick with impending sleep. “No drama. Just this.”
Ashanti stared at the water stain on the ceiling, the one shaped like a lopsided continent. Her body was a map of pleasant aches, sated and heavy. But beneath the physical warmth, a cold knot of dread was crystallizing, hardening in her gut. The wards hummed their steady note. Somewhere in the pipes, Jackie had said, something tasted like wet dog and regret.
She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Logan’s gold eyes, full of a hurt he’d never put into words, reflected in the broken glass of a blender box. The honey-sweetness of surrender turned to ash on her tongue.