Chapter 23: Ruined Arrangement
The click of the key in the lock was the loudest sound Matt had ever heard. He was on his feet before the door finished swinging open, and there she was, backlit by the hazy afternoon light from the hallway. Andi. Her hair was a little messy from travel, her cheeks flushed. She wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, but her eyes held the same wicked promise he’d been staring at on his phone for days.
She dropped her duffel bag just inside the door with a soft thud. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice was gravel.
Her gaze swept past him, landing on the coffee table. “Is that the basket?” A small, knowing smile played on her lips as she stepped fully inside, letting the door click shut behind her. The air in the room shifted, charged and thick.
“Yeah.” He couldn’t move. He just watched her, every nerve ending alive.
She walked toward the table, her movements fluid and deliberate. She knelt on the rug, her back to him, and reached for the cellophane. “Let’s see what you got me,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the edge of the chocolate bar.
He watched the curve of her spine through her thin shirt, the way her jeans tightened across her thighs. The image of her in the green dress, the feel of the silk in his hands, the scent of her on it—it all crashed over him at once. The careful romance, the patient worship he’d planned, evaporated in a surge of pure, unadulterated need.
“Fuck the slow bullshit,” he growled, his voice low and rough.
In one swift motion, his hands were on her, gripping her waist, hauling her up from the floor. She let out a sharp gasp of surprise that quickly morphed into a throaty laugh as he spun her around and bent her forward over the low wooden table. The basket wobbled, a candle rolling off and thumping onto the rug.
“Matt—”
He didn’t let her finish. He pushed her shirt up her back, his palms skimming her warm skin. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her jeans and panties, yanking them down to her knees in a single, rough pull. The air hit her bare skin, and she shuddered.
He knelt behind her, his hands spreading her cheeks apart. She was exposed, utterly open to him. He could see the delicate, puckered tightness of her asshole and the glistening wetness already gathering at her slit. He leaned in, his breath hot against her.
“You sent me that dress,” he whispered, his voice a dark caress. “You told me to use my teeth.”
Then his tongue was on her, not on her pussy, but higher, probing the tight, forbidden rosette of her ass. She cried out, a sharp, shocked sound, her body jolting against the table. He held her hips firm, his tongue laving and circling, wetting her, making her gasp and squirm. It was filthy, intimate, a claiming that went beyond anything they’d done before.
“Oh, god… Matt…”
He pulled back, saliva slicking the path his tongue had taken. He unbuttoned his own jeans, freeing his erection, thick and heavy in his hand. He was painfully hard. He guided the broad head of his cock through her slick folds, coating himself in her wetness, not entering yet, just pressing against her swollen lips.
“You ready for this?” he breathed, his body caging hers.
“Yes. Fuck, yes, please—”
He didn’t wait for another word. He drove into her with one deep, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her dripping pussy. Her scream was raw, tearing through the quiet apartment, a sound of pure, unbridled ecstasy. She was so tight, so wet, clenching around him like a fist.
“Holy shit,” he groaned, his head falling forward between her shoulder blades. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, feeling her inner muscles flutter around him. Then he pulled back and slammed into her again.
And again.
The rhythm was punishing, primal. His hips pistoned, his balls slapping against her with every thrust. The coffee table scraped against the floor with their force. The remaining items in the basket—the poetry book, the bottle of oil—trembled and scattered, falling to the floor around them.
He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her steady for his pounding. Her cries were a continuous, desperate melody now. “Yes! Right there! Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth near her ear. “This what you wanted?” he grunted, each word punctuated by a thrust. “This what you thought about on the plane?”
“Yes! God, yes!”
“You come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Come all over my cock, Andi. Now.”
His words, the raw, animalistic force of his fucking, pushed her over the edge. Her body seized, a violent, shuddering climax that ripped through her. Her inner walls clamped down on him, milking his length, and her scream was muffled as she pressed her face against the wood of the table.
The sensation of her coming, the tight, rhythmic pulsing around his dick, was too much. With a final, deep grind into her core, he followed her, his own orgasm erupting in hot, relentless pulses. He groaned, a long, low sound from deep in his chest, as he emptied himself inside her, his hips stuttering against her ass.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, bent over the ruined coffee table, both breathing in ragged, shattered gasps. The only sounds were their panting and the faint hum of the city outside.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out, a wet, slick sound in the sudden quiet. He straightened up, his knees protesting, and looked down at the mess they’d made. The romantic gesture was in shambles at their feet.
Andi pushed herself up, her legs trembling as she pulled her jeans and panties back up. She turned to face him, her face flushed, her eyes dark and sated. A slow smile spread across her lips as she reached out and traced the line of his jaw.
“So,” she said, her voice hoarse. “The note was a good start.”
“The note was a good start.” Her voice was rough, a raw scrape of sound that sent a fresh jolt straight to his spent cock. Her fingers, still tracing his jaw, drifted down to his chest, nails lightly scraping through the coarse hair. “But I think you skipped a few pages.”
A slow, dark smile spread across his face. He captured her wandering hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “You think so?”
In one fluid motion, he swept her up into his arms. She let out a yelp of surprise that dissolved into laughter, her arms looping around his neck as he carried her away from the wreckage of the coffee table. “The note promised worship,” he murmured into her hair, his breath hot against her scalp. “It just didn’t specify the order of service.”
He didn’t take her to the bedroom. He laid her down on the worn Persian rug in the center of the living room, the one stained with coffee and ink from a hundred late nights. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting gold stripes across her skin. He knelt over her, his gaze intense, devouring the sight of her splayed beneath him, her jeans still tangled around one ankle.
“My turn,” he said, and it was a vow.
He started at her ankles, his mouth a brand against her skin. He licked a slow, torturous path up her calf, behind her knee, making her squirm. He took his time, his hands mapping the delicate bones of her feet, the strong muscle of her thighs. This was the worship he’d promised, a deliberate, sensuous counterpoint to their initial frantic coupling. He kissed the inside of her thigh, his stubble a rough contrast to her softness, and she bucked against the air, a desperate, wordless plea.
“Please, Matt.”
“Please what?” He didn’t look up, his breath ghosting over her damp curls.
“You know what.”
He finally gave her what she wanted, burying his face between her legs with a groan that vibrated through her entire body. His tongue was relentless, a flat, wet pressure against her clit before he focused into a pinpoint, circling, flicking, sucking. He held her hips down, pinning her to the rug as she thrashed and cried out, her fingers clawing at the woven fabric beneath her. He fucked her with his tongue, delving deep into her wet heat, tasting the sharp, musky evidence of their first round.
“I’m gonna… fuck, I’m gonna come…”
He pulled back just as her muscles began to clench, leaving her teetering on the edge. “Not yet.” He shifted, moving up her body, his cock, hard again, dragging through her slickness. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head nudging against her. “Look at me.”
Her eyes, glassy with need, found his.
He pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion that made her whimper. He filled her completely, a perfect, stretching fit. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was somehow more devastating than the frantic pounding against the table. It was a claiming of a different kind, one that reached into her chest and squeezed. She wrapped her legs high around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting every thrust with a roll of her own hips.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his forehead pressed against hers. “That’s all for you. Every fucking inch.”
“I feel it.” Her voice was a broken thing. “God, I feel it.”
Their rhythm built, the slow burn igniting into a wildfire. The careful control shattered. His thrusts became harder, faster, the sound of their skin slapping together filling the room. He drove into her, again and again, his grunts syncing with her sharp, panting cries. He slid a hand between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, tight circles.
That was all it took. Her orgasm detonated, a silent, screaming rupture that locked her body in a rigid arch beneath him. Her inner muscles clamped down on his cock in a series of violent, fluttering spasms that ripped a guttural roar from his throat. He came, pouring into her, his own release a hot, endless pulse that seemed to drain him completely.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a welcome anchor. They lay like that for a long time, slick with sweat, their hearts hammering against each other in a slowing, syncopated rhythm. The sun dipped lower, casting the room in long shadows.
Later, he carried her to the shower. The hot water sluiced over them, washing away the evidence but not the memory. He soaped her back, his hands gentle now, tracing the vertebrae of her spine. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest.
They didn’t make it to the bed. He took her again, right there in the steam, her hands braced against the slick tiles, his gripping her hips. It was quicker, dirtier, a desperate reaffirmation of possession. He fucked her with a focused, driving need, his come from before mixing with the water and her own fresh wetness, making a slick, obscene sound with every thrust.
After, wrapped in towels, they found themselves in the kitchen. He was pulling a beer from the fridge when her arms slipped around his waist from behind. He stilled, feeling her press against his back.
“The couch is still clean,” she whispered, her voice teasing, her hand drifting lower.
He turned, capturing her mouth in a deep, beer-flavored kiss. He walked her backward, until the backs of her knees hit the worn cushions and she fell onto them with a soft gasp. He followed her down, his towel coming loose.
THE NOTE WAS JUST THE START. THEY FUCKED FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS ALL OVER THE APARTMENT. On the couch, her legs hooked over the shoulders of the worn leather. Against the bookshelf, making the framed photographs rattle. On the kitchen counter, scattering a pile of mail onto the floor. It was a hungry, relentless exploration, a mapping of territory and trust. It was raw and tender by turns, a conversation held in gasps and groans and the slick, wet sounds of their bodies joining, again and again, until the moon was high and the city outside was quiet.
He collapsed beside her on the rug, his breath a ragged tear in the quiet room. The Persian wool was rough against his cheek, a stark contrast to the slick heat of their skin. Andi’s hand found his in the dark, their fingers intertwining, sticky and spent.
She rolled onto her side to face him, her eyes reflecting the distant streetlights filtering through the blinds. She leaned in and kissed him, a slow, deep communion that tasted of salt and sex and something unnameably sweet. “God, I’m happy to be home,” she whispered against his lips, the words warm and full of a truth that settled deep in his bones.
Later, they stumbled into the shower, legs wobbly and muscles protesting. The water was a blessing, washing away the sweat and the evidence of their hours-long hunger. He watched the water sluice through her hair, over her shoulders, tracing the paths his mouth had taken, and felt a possessive ache that was more profound than mere lust.
They cleaned each other with a quiet tenderness, a counterpoint to the earlier frenzy. His soapy hands traced the faint red marks his stubble had left on her inner thighs. She gently scrubbed the scratch marks she’d left on his back. No words were needed; the care in their touch said everything.
Stepping out onto the bathmat, they dried each other with worn towels, the soft cotton a gentle abrasion. The apartment was a silent testament to their reunion—the upended basket, the scattered books, the couch cushions in disarray. They looked at the mess, then at each other, and a slow, complicit smile spread across both their faces.
Without a word, they began to clean up together. He righted the coffee table while she gathered the spilled candies and the unbroken candle. He fetched two fresh beers from the fridge, the caps hissing open in the newfound quiet. She took hers with a grateful nod, her eyes alight with a peaceful exhaustion.
They sat on the now-orderly couch, the silence between them comfortable and deep. The wildness had passed, for now, leaving in its wake a solid, breathing thing that felt an awful lot like a beginning.