Chapter 5: Morning Shower
Sunlight, thin and pale, painted stripes across the rumpled sheets where Matt lay. His arm, heavy and warm, was draped possessively over the curve of Andi’s waist, his hand splayed against the soft skin of her lower belly. Her breathing was deep, rhythmic against his chest. The scent – lavender from her shampoo, sleep, and the faint, ghostly sweetness of last night’s spilled champagne – filled his nostrils. He nuzzled deeper into the curve of her neck, inhaling her essence, the primal comfort of skin on skin after the emotional maelstrom at Ben’s. The memory of that tense living room, Ben’s conflicted eyes, Sarah’s knowing silence, pressed in, a cold counterpoint to the warmth under the sheets. His fingers, moving almost without conscious thought, trailed a slow path down the dip of her stomach, over the faint downy hair below her navel, slipping lower, lower still, seeking the heat between her thighs.
She stirred. A soft, sleepy sigh escaped her lips. Her hips pressed back instinctively, grinding her perfect ass against the hard ridge of his cock already straining against the thin cotton of his boxers. He felt her shift, felt the damp heat even through the fabric.
‘Morning,’ she murmured, her voice thick, blurred by sleep and something else. Desire.
Matt growled low in his throat, a sound vibrating against the nape of her neck. Her skin pebbled under his breath. ‘Morning, baby,’ he whispered, his lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear. His fingers found the slick seam of her, already wet and yielding. He slid one finger inside, slow, testing. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Her inner muscles clenched tight around him, hot and silken. ‘Oh, Matt…’ Her voice trembled, raw with need.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t wait. The urgency from yesterday – the fear, the relief, the sheer fucking need to claim, to be claimed – surged hot and bright. He hooked his arm under her knee, pulling her leg back over his hip, opening her wider. The head of his cock, rock-hard and slick with her arousal, nudged against her drenched opening. He felt her push back, seeking him. With one deliberate, slow thrust, he buried himself to the hilt in her molten heat.
‘Fuck!’ The groan ripped from both of them simultaneously, a raw sound that echoed in the quiet apartment. She was so tight, so impossibly hot and wet. He held still for a heartbeat, buried deep, savoring the clenching pulse of her around him, the feel of her body yielding utterly.
‘God… yes…’ Andi panted, arching her back, pushing her ass harder against his hips. Her hand reached back, fingers digging into the muscle of his thigh, urging him on.
He started to move. Slow, deep drags, pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in, filling her completely each time. Skin slapped against skin, a sharp counterpoint to their ragged breathing. The rhythm quickly built, shedding its lazy morning pretense. Need drove him. The need to erase the tension, to reaffirm this fragile, blazing thing they’d ignited. His free hand slid up her body, finding the soft swell of her breast. He palmed it roughly, relishing the weight, then pinched her nipple hard between thumb and forefinger, rolling the tight bud.
‘Ah! Matt! Fuck!’ she cried out, her body jerking. Her inner walls clamped down on his cock like a vise, milking him. ‘Like that… yes… harder!’
He obeyed. His thrusts became harder, faster, pistoning into her with a force that shook the cheap frame of the bed. He drove into her wet heat, the slap of flesh growing louder, more urgent. Sweat slicked their skin where they pressed together. The scent of sex, musky and thick, layered over the lavender and champagne. He bent his head, biting gently at the curve of her shoulder, tasting salt.
‘You feel so fucking good,’ he ground out, his voice rough. ‘So goddamn tight. Taking me so deep, baby.’
‘Yes… yes…!’ Her voice was high, breathless. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with wild abandon, her body a sinuous curve under his. ‘Don’t stop… please… Matt… I’m… I’m gonna…’
He felt it building in her, the tremors starting deep within the clenching heat surrounding his cock. Her moans dissolved into sharp, frantic cries. ‘Oh God! OH FUCK! MATT!’ Her whole body stiffened, arched impossibly. Her cunt convulsed around his shaft in powerful, rhythmic waves, pulling him deeper, demanding everything. She threw her head back against his shoulder, a long, shuddering wail tearing from her throat.
The feel of her coming, the desperate, pulsing grip, shattered his control. With a guttural roar, he slammed into her one last time, burying himself impossibly deep, and let go. Hot jets of cum erupted inside her, spilling deep into her clenching depths as her orgasm continued to ripple around him. He held himself there, shuddering, pumping every last drop into her welcoming heat as she whimpered and trembled against him, utterly spent.
They collapsed. A tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, gasping for air. The frantic energy drained away, leaving behind a profound, trembling stillness. He eased out of her slowly, a groan escaping them both at the loss. He rolled onto his back, pulling her unresisting body against his side, her head finding its place on his shoulder. Her skin was flushed, her hair plastered to her temples. He traced the damp line of her spine with a finger.
Minutes passed, filled only with the slowing rhythm of their breathing and the distant hum of the city outside the window. The memory of Ben’s strained face flashed behind his eyelids. The weight of it settled back onto his chest.
‘Tell me this is real,’ Andi whispered, her voice small against his skin. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his chest. ‘After all that… tell me it’s still real.’
He turned his head, pressing a kiss, deep and lingering, to her sweat-damp forehead. The scent of her, of them, filled his lungs. ‘It’s real, Andi,’ he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. ‘More real than anything. Fuck what it costs. You’re mine.’
She tilted her head up, her eyes searching his – those bright, expressive eyes that had haunted him for years. They were soft now, full of a love so fierce it stole his breath. ‘I love you, Matthias Johnson.’
‘I love you too, Andria Miller,’ he breathed, pulling her closer, anchoring himself in the feel of her. ‘More than I can say.’
Reluctantly, aware of the world outside this tangled sanctuary, the faint smell of stale champagne and the echoing silence of Ben’s disapproval waiting, they began to untangle themselves. The warmth of the sun on the sheets was already fading. The scent of coffee from the kitchenette drifted in – Sarah’s practical solution to everything. Time to face the fragile, uncertain world they’d reshaped. But for now, wrapped in the fading heat of each other, the taste of sweat and salt and her still on his tongue, it felt like enough. Like a fortress they’d built with their bodies, brick by desperate, ecstatic brick.
The fortress felt flimsy against the creeping chill of reality seeping through the blinds. Reluctantly, Matt peeled himself from the warmth of Andi’s body, the sheets clinging damply. The shower was a shared, perfunctory affair under lukewarm spray, hands sliding over soap-slick skin more for efficiency than passion, though his cock stirred insistently against her hip. He kissed the water droplets from her shoulder. "Gotta move, baby."
He dropped her off near the university’s bustling humanities building, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her kiss lingering on his lips tasting faintly of mint toothpaste and unresolved tension. The familiar scent of ozone and stale coffee hit him as he entered the shared design studio downtown; screens glowed, keyboards clacked. Ben’s empty desk across the room was a silent accusation. Matt buried himself in client revisions, the sterile glow of the monitor a poor substitute for Andi’s warmth. His phone buzzed mid-morning: Lit lecture dragging. Prof’s droning about Milton. Starving. Baldino’s? A smile flickered. Already planned. Meet you by the east lot gates at 12:15.
He parked his slightly battered Honda Civic under the dappled shade of an old oak tree bordering the university’s east parking lot, the familiar greasy-paper smell of Baldino’s subs filling the car. Andi slid into the passenger seat just as the clock ticked over. "Saved me," she sighed, grabbing the wrapped Italian sub. Her cheeks were flushed from walking, strands of hair escaping her ponytail. She took a huge bite, moaning around the bread. "God, I needed this. Starvation is real."
He watched her eat, the simple act mesmerizing – the way her lips closed around the sandwich, the faint smear of mayo at the corner of her mouth. The morning’s frantic coupling felt distant, replaced by a different, simmering need. The memory of Ben’s tight expression flashed again. He reached out, thumb brushing the mayo away. Her eyes snapped to his, wide, pupils dilating instantly. The air crackled. The sandwich was forgotten, dropped onto the dashboard.
"Missed you," he murmured, his voice rough. His hand slid from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, pulling her towards him. Her breath hitched. "Matt… someone could see…"
"Fuck 'em," he growled, leaning across the console. His mouth crashed down on hers, tasting of pickles and oregano and pure, desperate hunger. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss was messy, urgent, tongues clashing. He fumbled with the lever on her seat, shoving it back violently. The sudden recline made her gasp against his mouth. His hand slid under her loose t-shirt, finding bare skin, tracing the curve of her waist, then upwards, rough palm scraping over the lace of her bra, finding her nipple already hard.
"Oh, fuck, yes," she breathed, arching into his touch. Her own hand was frantic, unbuckling his belt, yanking at his jeans button and zipper. The confined space was awkward, limbs bumping against steering wheel and gearshift. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just past his hips, freeing his cock, thick and straining. Her fingers wrapped around him, a hot, tight grip that made him hiss. "Condom?" she panted, her eyes dark with lust.
"Glovebox," he managed, tearing his mouth from hers to lean over, fumbling blindly. He found the foil square, ripped it open with his teeth. She took it from him, her fingers trembling slightly as she rolled it down his length. The latex felt tight, alien, but necessary. "Hurry," she pleaded, shoving her own jeans and panties down just far enough, wriggling her hips. "Need you. Now."
He didn't need telling twice. Leveraging himself awkwardly over the console, he positioned himself at her entrance. She was already slick, her wetness soaking the thin fabric pushed aside. He pushed forward, the head of his cock spreading her folds, encountering that familiar, yielding heat. A low groan tore from him as he sank in, inch by thick inch, her tight channel stretching to accommodate him. She cried out, a sharp, muffled sound against his shoulder, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper.
"Christ, Andi… so fucking wet… so tight," he gritted out, bracing one hand on the passenger door, the other gripping her hip. He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed home. The car rocked slightly on its suspension. Her fingernails dug into his back through his shirt. "Harder! Fuck me harder, Matt!"
He obeyed, setting a brutal, piston-like rhythm, driving into her wet heat with short, powerful strokes constrained by the cramped space. The console dug into his ribs, the steering wheel pressed against his thigh. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, her choked gasps, his own ragged grunts, the creak of the car seat. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Her cunt clenched around him, hot and demanding. He could feel her trembling, feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside her.
"Gonna come…" she whimpered, her voice high and strained. "Matt… please… don't stop…"
"Come for me," he commanded, thrusting harder, deeper, grinding his pelvis against her clit with each plunge. "Let go, baby. Fucking come on my cock."
Her body arched violently off the seat, a silent scream tearing through her as her orgasm hit. Her inner muscles convulsed around his shaft in frantic, rhythmic pulses, milking him. The sheer intensity of her clenching heat shattered his control. With a guttural roar muffled against her neck, he buried himself to the hilt and came, thick pulses of release surging into the condom deep inside her trembling body. He held himself there, shuddering, riding out the aftershocks as she whimpered beneath him.
They collapsed into a sweaty, panting heap, tangled awkwardly across the seats. The smell of sex, sweat, and Italian subs filled the car. He carefully pulled out, disposing of the condom in a crumpled napkin from Baldino’s bag. Andi lay limp, breathing heavily, her jeans still bunched around her thighs. She reached out a trembling hand, tracing his jawline. "Jesus," she breathed, a shaky laugh escaping her. "That was… intense."
He kissed her palm, the frantic energy draining away, leaving exhaustion and a strange, fragile peace. He glanced at the clock on the dash. "Shit. You're gonna be late for your next class." Reality crashed back in. The fortress, built brick by desperate brick, felt suddenly exposed under the midday sun slanting through the windshield. The taste of her, the scent of their coupling, was already mingling with the lingering ghost of Ben’s disapproval. He helped her pull her clothes back into place, his fingers brushing her damp skin. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid, everything still at stake. The echo of her cries still vibrated in the small space, a stark counterpoint to the looming uncertainty. He started the engine.
The engine coughed, then roared to life, the mundane sound jarring after the raw intimacy that still hung thick in the air, mingling with the greasy scent of subs. Andi fumbled with the seat lever, jerking it upright, her cheeks flushed. "Shit, Shakespeare seminar," she breathed, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. Matt watched her, a possessive heat still simmering low in his belly despite the sudden intrusion of reality, the memory of her clenching around him vivid. He reached over, his thumb tracing the red mark his stubble had left on the soft skin of her inner thigh where her jeans hadn't covered. "Tonight?" he asked, his voice gravelly.
Her gaze met his, dark and still clouded with the aftershocks. "Your place? Ben and Sarah are having those work people over." She leaned across the cramped space, her kiss tasting of salt and need, a promise and a defiance. "I need you buried in me again. Properly. Without a fucking gearshift digging into my ribs." Her hand slid down, palming the hardening bulge in his jeans through the fabric, making him hiss. "Still hard for me, Matt?" she murmured, a wicked glint in her eyes.
"Always for you," he growled, catching her wrist, bringing her knuckles to his lips. The fear of Ben’s reaction, the weight of the secret, momentarily dissolved under the sheer, primal force of wanting her. He watched her scramble out of the car, the sway of her hips in the jeans he’d just shoved down a minute ago sending a fresh jolt of desire through him. She turned, blew him a kiss, and vanished into the stream of students flooding towards the lecture halls. He sat for a moment, the engine idling, the ghost of her heat still clinging to his skin, the lingering scent of their sex a secret rebellion in the mundane Honda Civic. The thought of Ben’s face, tight with confusion and hurt when they’d confessed at the wedding house weeks ago, slammed back into him, a cold counterpoint to the furnace inside. He shoved the gearshift into drive, the fortress feeling less like brick and more like smoke.
He navigated the afternoon on autopilot. The design studio buzzed with the sterile energy of deadlines and pixel-perfect layouts. Ben’s empty desk was a black hole in the periphery of his vision, sucking the air from the room. Matt attacked a client’s logo revision with focused aggression, channeling the restless energy coiling in his gut. Lines sharpened, colors intensified. The work was a temporary shield. His phone buzzed intermittently – Andi sending fragmented updates: Escaped Shakespeare alive. Barely. Prof droned like a dying bee. Then, later, a single line that spiked his pulse: Counting minutes until you fuck me senseless. Think about where you’re going to come. He typed back one-handed, his other moving the mouse with fierce precision: All over that pretty face. Or deep inside that perfect cunt. Your choice.
He chose the latter, the memory of her tight heat clenching around him in the car a persistent thrum in his blood all afternoon. The empty desk across from him no longer felt like an accusation but a declaration of its own. This was the cost. This was the prize. He left the studio as the sky began to bleed into orange, the city’s sharp edges softening in the twilight. His small apartment welcomed him with silent, expectant stillness. He moved through the familiar motions of tidying, the nervous energy from the confrontation at Ben’s house finally transmuting into a different, more focused anticipation. He opened windows to the cool evening air, trying to displace the lingering scent of his own solitude. Then he went to the kitchen, pulling out onions, garlic, a can of crushed tomatoes. The mindless rhythm of chopping, the sizzle in the pan, the rich smell of basil and browning meat—it was an anchor. A deliberate, domestic act of waiting.
In a fluorescent-lit lecture hall, Andi shifted in the uncomfortable plastic seat. The professor’s voice was a distant drone, a river of words about post-colonial theory she couldn’t ford. Her mind was across town, tangled in the sheets of Matt’s bed, pressed against the console of his car. A slow, secret warmth bloomed low in her belly. She purred softly to herself, a quiet, contented sound lost under the academic monotone. Smiling, she subtly angled her phone in her lap, beneath the desk. The click of the camera was silent. Her thumb moved, typing a quick message. She attached the picture—a close, intimate view from between her own thighs, the dark lace of her panties pulled slightly aside, a deliberate, glistening hint of the wetness within. The text read: Main course?
The buzz in his pocket was an electric shock. Matt wiped his hands on a dish towel, the sauce simmering. He saw her name, opened the image. His breath caught. The clinical lighting of the lecture hall couldn't sanitize the raw invitation. It was crude and beautiful, a blatant claim. He felt his cock harden instantly, straining against his jeans. He typed a reply, his fingers clumsy with sudden need. Starving. Hurry home.
The key turned in the lock just as he was setting two plates on the small table. The door swung open and she was there, dropping her backpack with a thud, her coat following. The air changed, charged with her presence, the scent of cold night air and her perfume cutting through the aroma of food. Her eyes found his, dark and hungry, ignoring the set table, the lit candle, the gesture of normalcy. They devoured the space between them in two strides. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down, and her mouth was on his, a desperate, searching kiss that tasted of winter and want. "Fuck dinner," she breathed against his lips, her hips grinding against the hard line of his erection.
He groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, pulling her tight against him. "You looked so fucking edible in that picture," he growled into her neck, biting the tender skin there. "I've been hard for you since you sent it."
"Good," she panted, her fingers working at his belt buckle, then his button, his zipper. "I've been wet. All through that fucking lecture. Thinking about your cock." She shoved his jeans and boxers down, her small, cool hand wrapping around his length, stroking him firmly. "I need it. Now. Right the fuck now, Matt."
He spun her around, pushing her forward until her hands were flat on the wooden table, their abandoned plates shuddering. He yanked her skirt up around her waist, revealing the same black lace from the photo. With a rough tear, he ripped the delicate fabric aside, the sound sharp and final. She cried out, a sound of pure approval, pushing her ass back towards him. He spat into his palm, slicking his cock, and guided the broad, flushed head through her slick folds. She was drenched, hot, ready. He didn't tease. He drove into her with one single, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her gripping, silken heat.
A guttural "YES!" ripped from her throat, her back arching, her knuckles white on the table. He held there for a second, buried deep, feeling her inner muscles flutter and clench around him. Then he withdrew and slammed home again. And again. The pace was punishing, frantic. The table legs screeched against the floor with every powerful thrust. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he pounded into her, the wet, slapping sounds of their joining filling the small kitchen.
"God, your cunt is perfect," he grunted, his rhythm relentless. "So fucking tight. Taking all of me."
"Harder!" she begged, her voice breaking. "Don't you fucking stop! Make me come!"
He fucked her with a raw, focused intensity, each thrust a punctuation mark in the sentence of their secret. This was the answer to Ben’s silent judgment, to the world outside. This heat, this sweat, this filthy, perfect connection. He could feel the tension coiling at the base of his spine, a familiar pressure building. Reaching around her hip, his fingers found her clit, swollen and slick. He pressed and circled, rough and fast.
Andi shattered. Her body seized, a raw, screaming orgasm tearing through her. Her cunt convulsed around his cock in violent, rhythmic pulses, milking him, pulling him deeper. The sensation was too much. With a final, deep thrust, he roared her name, his own release erupting inside her in hot, endless waves, spilling into her clutching depths as she continued to tremble and whimper against the table.
They collapsed together onto the floor, a tangled, breathless heap of limbs and disheveled clothing. The smell of sex and burnt garlic was overwhelming. Her head rested on his chest, her body still quivering with aftershocks. He could feel his own heartbeat hammering against his ribs, a frantic drum slowly returning to a steady rhythm. He pressed a kiss into her hair. The candle on the table flickered, guttering in a pool of wax. Their dinner grew cold, forgotten.