Chapter 9: Morning Feast
The first thing Matt registered was the absence of warmth. The space beside him in the bed was cool, the sheets rumpled where Andi had been. A faint, grey pre-dawn light filtered through the blinds, etching the familiar contours of his room in monochrome. He stretched, his body aching in a pleasant, well-used way, memories of the night before playing behind his eyes like a favorite film.
Then he felt it. A shift in the air. A presence.
He cracked open an eye.
Andi was kneeling beside the bed, her face level with his hips. The sight of her, her hair a sleep-tousled halo, her eyes dark and intent, sent a jolt straight to his groin. She wasn't just looking at him; she was studying him with a focused hunger that made his breath catch.
"Morning," she whispered, her voice raspy with sleep.
"Hey," he managed, his own voice thick.
Her fingers, cool and gentle, brushed the sheet aside. His cock, already half-hard from sleep and her proximity, twitched against his stomach. She didn't say another word. She just watched it, her gaze a physical touch, as it filled and hardened completely under her silent command.
"Your mouth was watering, wasn't it?" he asked, the memory of her words from last night surfacing.
She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. "Maybe."
Her hand wrapped around his base, her grip firm. She leaned forward, her breath a warm ghost over the sensitive head. He hissed, his fists clenching in the sheets. She didn't take him in her mouth immediately. Instead, she pressed her open mouth against the side of his shaft, a hot, damp kiss, then dragged her tongue slowly up the prominent vein on the underside. The sensation was exquisite, maddening.
"Fuck, Andi..."
She finally took the tip into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the crown, tasting the bead of moisture that had already gathered there. Her eyes stayed locked on his, watching every flicker of reaction on his face. Then, with a deliberate slowness that bordered on torture, she began to sink down.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound torn from his chest. Her mouth was impossibly hot and wet. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, opening for him until his entire length was buried in the slick, tight heat of her. Her nose was pressed into the coarse hair at his base. He could feel the convulsive swallow of her throat around the head of his cock.
She held him there, deep, for a long moment, her eyes watering slightly. Then she pulled back, almost all the way, her lips tight around him, before plunging down again. She set a relentless, deep-throating rhythm that stole the air from his lungs. The only sounds were the wet, sucking noises of her mouth and his ragged, broken breaths.
Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, then applying a subtle, perfect pressure. It was too much. The visual of her, on her knees, taking him so completely, the obscene, skilled work of her mouth and tongue—it was unraveling him faster than he wanted.
"Andi, I'm close... shit, I'm gonna come," he warned, his hips beginning to buck involuntarily.
She didn't pull away. She redoubled her efforts, taking him deeper, faster, her throat working around him. She made a hungry, muffled sound of encouragement, vibration humming through his entire body.
That was all it took. With a choked cry, his orgasm erupted. He spilled into her mouth, pulse after hot, thick pulse, his vision whiting out at the edges. She swallowed diligently, taking every drop, her throat working around him until he was spent, sensitive, and trembling.
She released him with a soft, wet pop, licking her lips clean. She rested her cheek on his thigh, her breathing as ragged as his. He collapsed back onto the pillows, utterly drained, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed, staring at the ceiling.
She crawled up the bed and curled into his side, her head on his shoulder. "Good morning," she said again, this time with a note of profound satisfaction.
He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, pressing a kiss into her hair. The scent of his own release was faint on her breath. It was the most primal, possessive intimacy he had ever known.
Later, as proper daylight filled the room, they moved around his small kitchen. Andi, wearing one of his t-shirts, started the coffee maker. Matt leaned against the counter, watching her. The domesticity of it was as jarring as it was right.
"You're staring," she said without turning around.
"Can't help it."
She brought him a mug of coffee, her fingers brushing his as he took it. "So. Our date tonight. Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere nice," he said. "Somewhere I can show you off."
"Ben will hear about it," she said, her tone careful. "Someone will see us and tell him."
"Let them." He set his mug down and took her face in his hands. "He knows. The world can know." He kissed her, tasting coffee and a lingering trace of himself on her tongue. It was a declaration. The secret was not just out; it was being replaced by something solid, something they were building together in the clear light of day, starting in this quiet kitchen, with the ghost of her devotion still warm on his skin.
The secret was not just out; it was being replaced by something solid, something they were building together in the clear light of day, starting in this quiet kitchen, with the ghost of her devotion still warm on his skin. "I'm still tasting you," she murmured, a sly grin playing on her lips as she took a sip of coffee. He just shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, before grabbing her hand and leading her toward the bathroom.
Steam quickly fogged the mirror and clung to their skin as the hot water sluiced over them. He pinned her against the cool tile, his mouth finding hers in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of coffee and possession. His hands slid down her slick back, gripping her ass and lifting her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he guided himself into her with a single, relentless thrust.
She cried out, the sound swallowed by the spray and his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck, Matt, right there." He drove into her, again and again, the water plastering their hair to their scalps and streaming down their faces. Each impact was a wet, solid slap of skin, his cock hitting a deep, perfect spot inside her that made her see stars behind her clenched eyelids.
"Come for me, Andi," he growled into her ear, his voice raw and commanding, his pace becoming punishing, brutal. Her climax ripped through her, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clenched around him, milking his own release. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of surrender, and poured into her, his own body buckling as he held her tight against the wall, both of them spent and breathing heavily in the humid air.
They dried off in a comfortable silence, the echoes of their coupling lingering in the steamy room. Dressing was a slow, tactile process, his hand brushing the small of her back as she pulled on her jeans, her fingers lingering on his forearm as she passed him his shirt. The normalcy of it felt like a new language they were learning together.
The errands were a mundane tapestry against the morning's raw intensity. At the hardware store, his large, capable hand enveloped hers as they compared paint swatches for his apartment, a silent conversation passing between them over eggshell versus satin. In the grocery aisle, she teased him about his predictable choice of cereal, and he retaliated by pulling her close for a quick, hard kiss between the pasta and canned goods, not caring who saw.
Walking back to his apartment, the sun warm on their faces, she laced her fingers with his. "So everyone knows now," she said, swinging their joined hands. He squeezed hers, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "Let them," he said, his voice calm and sure, the words a solid foundation for everything that was yet to come.
The certainty in his voice lingered between them, a tangible thing as solid as the pavement under their feet. Back inside his apartment, the casual intimacy of the morning shifted into a new, charged energy. They moved around each other in the quiet space, a silent understanding that tonight was a deliberate step into the world.
In the bedroom, Andi unzipped her garment bag, revealing a slash of deep, electric blue. "No peeking," she said, though her tone was an invitation.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching her. "No promises."
She stepped into the dress, the fabric whispering against her skin. She pulled it up, her movements graceful, and struggled with the hidden zipper at the back. "A little help?"
His fingers were warm and sure as he drew the zipper up, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of her spine. He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. "You're going to ruin me in this."
The deep V of the neckline plunged daringly, the fabric clinging to her curves before splitting into two long slits that ran from her hips to the hem. Every step promised a glimpse of toned thigh. She turned, her eyes sparkling. "That's the idea."
He dressed in his best suit, a narrow-cut navy wool that fit his shoulders perfectly. The transformation was stark. The man who had been buried inside her hours ago now looked like a polished stranger, all sharp lines and quiet intensity. She adjusted his tie, her fingers lingering on the silk.
"You clean up good, Johnson."
"You too, Miller. You look... expensive."
She grinned. "I feel dangerous."
The host at Chet Atalan, a man with a impeccably severe posture, led them through the murmuring dining room. Eyes followed Andi’s dress, the blue a shock against the muted tones of the restaurant. Matt’s hand settled on the small of her back, a possessive anchor. He pulled out her chair, his fingers brushing her shoulder as she sat.
The menu was a heavy, leather-bound thing. "I have no idea what half this is," she whispered, leaning in.
"Order the most expensive thing," he murmured back, his knee finding hers under the table. "Then we can go home and I can see how this dress looks on my floor."
Their waiter arrived, his demeanor professionally neutral. "Good evening. May I start you with a cocktail?"
“I’ll have an old fashioned,” Matt said, his voice steady, his eyes never leaving Andi.
“A gin and tonic, please,” she said, her smile bright and a little challenging as she looked back at him. The waiter nodded and vanished, leaving them in a bubble of low light and the quiet clatter of a professional kitchen.
“An old fashioned?” Andi teased, leaning forward on her elbows. “You’re such a cliché.”
“It’s a good drink,” he shrugged, his knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the white linen. “And you’re one to talk. Gin and tonic is the default setting for every undergrad in existence.”
“It’s classic,” she fired back, her foot gently nudging his shoe. “Besides, I need the clarity. To remember all this.”
The drinks arrived. He watched her take her first sip, the way her throat moved as she swallowed. The memory of that same motion from this morning, in his bed, was so vivid he could almost feel it again. He took a slow burn of his whiskey, the heat a counterpoint to the cool ache of want in his gut.
“You’re thinking about it,” she murmured, her voice dropping, her eyes knowing.
“Always.”
They ordered food, a conversation of shared tastes and easy compromises that felt more significant than any menu. He got the steak; she chose the scallops, insisting he try one. It was all so normal, so perfectly couple-like, and the sheer novelty of it was a quiet thrill.
Halfway through their main course, her phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with a name: BEN. The air between them shifted, solidified. The background murmur of the restaurant seemed to fade.
Andi’s fork stilled. She looked from the phone to Matt’s face.
He didn’t flinch. He just watched her, his expression calm, waiting. This was it. The first test.
She picked up the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. Then, with a decisive click, she silenced the vibration and flipped it over, screen down on the linen. The buzzing stopped. The silence it left was deafening.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “I do.”
She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. Her skin was cool from holding her glass. “He’s my brother. But this is mine.”
The rest of the meal passed in a haze of delicious food and intense, low conversation. They talked about everything and nothing, their words a shield against the world outside their table. When the dessert menu came, he shook his head. “I’m good. You?”
“I want to go home,” she said, and the way she said ‘home’ meaning his apartment, his bed, sent a current through him.
He signaled for the check, his movements efficient. He paid in cash, a thick stack of bills from the freelance job he’d finished last week. It felt good, spending it on her, on this.
The night air was cool, a shock after the restaurant’s warmth. She shivered slightly in her dramatic dress, and he immediately shrugged out of his suit jacket, draping it over her shoulders. It swamped her, the wool carrying his scent, a mix of clean soap and the faint, distinctive spice of his cologne.
“Thanks,” she said, pulling it tight.
He didn’t reply, just slid his arm around her, his hand resting on the hip where the dress’s slit began. His thumb stroked the bare skin he found there. They walked like that, in sync, not toward the busier streets where they might find a cab, but down the quieter, tree-lined road that led back to his neighborhood.
Under the canopy of an old oak, its branches blotting out the streetlights, he stopped her. He turned her to face him, his hands on her hips. The blue of her dress was almost black in the shadows.
“That was a perfect date,” he said, his voice low.
“It’s not over yet,” she whispered back.
He kissed her then, not with the hunger from the shower, but with a deep, claiming certainty. It was a kiss that tasted of gin and whiskey and promise. When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together.
“Come on,” he said, his voice rough. He took her hand, and they started walking again, their pace quicker now, a shared purpose in their steps. The city sounds faded behind them, the only important thing the path ahead, leading to the dark quiet of his apartment and the uncharted territory of their new, unsecret life.