Chapter 1: The Morning After the Move-In
The first thing Ashlee registered was warmth. A solid, breathing line of heat along her back. The second was the cool, almost slick feel of high-thread-count cotton against her bare stomach. Her eyes flew open, landing on the panoramic view of Salt Lake City’s dawn-gray skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. This wasn’t her bed.
Memory flooded in, a hazy montage of cardboard boxes, takeout Chinese, and too many glasses of that expensive bourbon Kevin kept on his quartz countertop. The burst pipe, the ruined apartment, his immediate offer. “Spare room’s yours, Lee. Just don’t steal my good socks.” She’d passed out here, in his king-size bed, while they’d streamed some terrible movie. She’d been wearing a threadbare t-shirt and yoga pants.
The t-shirt was gone.
She was naked from the waist up. The cool air of his climate-controlled bedroom puckered her nipples into stiff points. She held her breath, listening. His breathing was deep and even behind her. Slowly, carefully, she shifted her hips a fraction, the movement silent in the deep mattress.
Kevin stirred. A sleepy, unconscious grunt. His body shifted, and the warmth along her back withdrew an inch.
Then she felt it. A subtle, firm pressure against the back of her thigh. The heat of it was different. Concentrated. Alive. Her brain, still fuzzy with sleep and residual bourbon, stuttered to catch up. He was naked. Of course he was. He always slept naked. She knew that, in the abstract way you know useless facts about your best friend. Knowing it and feeling the hard, thickening length of him nestle against the crease of her ass were two violently different things.
Don’t move. For the love of God, don’t move.
Her heart was a frantic bird in her ribs. This was Kevin. Brother-from-another-mother Kevin. Who had seen her through two disastrous breakups and a brief, ill+advised goth phase. Whose luxury apartment smelled like sandalwood and success. Who had a girlfriend, Hope, who was nice enough, kind of perfectly polished, currently working in San Francisco for the week.
The pressure retreated. He was rolling onto his back with a sigh. The mountain of crisp white duvet shifted. Ashlee lay frozen, facing the city, screaming internally. She had to look. It was a morbid, gravitational pull.
She turned her head just as he stretched, arms over his head, a long cat-like extension that made the muscles in his torso cord and tighten. The duvet pooled around his hips.
And there it was. Thick and heavy against his taut stomach, already half-hard from sleep. Dark hair, the pale skin of his lower belly, the prominent vein running its length. It twitched, as if sensing her stare. It was inches from her face. The clean, male scent of him—that stupid expensive cologne mingled with sleep—wrapped around her. Her mouth went dry.
Look away. Look away now.
Kevin’s eyes opened. Sky-blue, clouded with sleep, then sharpening with instant, mortified awareness. He looked down at himself, then at her bare shoulders, her back, the obvious absence of clothing on her top half. His gaze snapped to her face. A hundred emotions flickered—confusion, alarm, a flash of something hotter that was gone so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it.
“What the hell, Lee?” His voice was morning-rough.
“I was hot,” she whispered, the lie pathetic even to her. “Must’ve stripped in my sleep.”
“You’re topless in my bed.”
“You’re naked in your bed. It’s your default setting.” She tried for their usual banter, but it came out thin and strained.
He didn’t smile. He just looked, his eyes tracking from the gap in her teeth where she nervously caught her bottom lip, down to where her breasts were crushed against the mattress. A slow blush heated her chest, her neck, her cheeks. She saw him see it.
The awkwardness was a physical thing, a third entity in the bed. He shifted, sitting up slightly, and the duvet fell away completely. He made no move to cover himself. It was a power move, intentional or not. This was his domain, his bed, his body an unapologetic fact.
“Hope would have a field day with this,” he said, finally, the name of his girlfriend a deliberate ice-bath.
“Nothing happened,” Ashlee said, too quickly.
“No,” he agreed, but his tone was odd. Contemplative. His eyes hadn’t left her. “But you looked.”
She had no retort. The silence stretched, thick and electric.
Then, with a sudden, predator’s grace, he moved. He didn’t go for the duvet. He rolled, planting a hand on either side of her head, his knees boxing her ribs. He was straddling her chest, his thighs caging her. The heat of him was immense. And his erection, now fully hard, bobbed heavily just below her chin. She could feel its radiant heat on her lips.
She could feel its radiant heat on her lips.Fuck. It’s just there. Don’t lick your lips, Ashlee, for Christ’s sake, don’t fucking lick them. Her brain was a distant, screaming command center. Her body was a traitorous, molten thing, every nerve ending attuned to that single point of near-contact.
Her body was a traitorous, molten thing, every nerve ending attuned to that single point of near-contact. The clean, musky scent of his skin and sleep filled her lungs. She couldn’t look away from the thick, veined weight of him. Her lips tingled.
“You looked,” he repeated, his voice low. A statement. An accusation.
“It’s kind of in my sightline, Kev. Hard to miss the monument.” The bravado was weak, but it was all she had.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It wasn’t his usual easy grin. This was something else. Predatory. Amused. “Monument, huh?” He shifted his hips forward, just an inch. The warm, smooth head of his cock brushed her bottom lip.
A jolt, pure and electric, shot through her. She gasped, and her mouth opened slightly.
“Bad girl,” he murmured, his tone shifting into something absurdly conversational, as if commenting on the weather. “Very bad girl, Lee. What would Mom say?”
The ridiculousness of it—the sheer, bizarre whimsy of him invoking his mother while his dick was on her mouth—snapped something in the tension. A hysterical bubble of laughter choked her. “She’d say you’re a terrible host,” Ashlee managed, her words vibrating against his skin.
“I’m an excellent host. I’m sharing my bed.” He leaned down, his face now close to hers, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you, you little gremlin, are trying to take advantage of my hospitality.” He lifted his hips and brought them down, not hard, but with a deliberate, teasing slap. The flat of his shaft landed against her cheek with a soft, shocking pat.
It wasn’t a sexual slap. It was a goofy, infantilizing one. The confusion short-circuited her arousal, mixing it with pure, unadulterated bewilderment.
“Hey!” she squeaked.
“Admit it,” he said, doing it again on the other cheek. Pat. “Say you’re a naughty, freeloading houseguest. Say ‘uncle’.”
This was insane. This was Kevin, her best friend, slapping his fucking cock against her face like it was a Nerf bat, all while wearing a look of gleeful, brotherly torment. The taboo of the moment shattered, reassembling itself into their familiar, weird dynamic, just dipped in nuclear fuel.
“You’re deranged!” She laughed, trying to twist her head away. The laughter was real, a release valve for the unbearable pressure. “Get your weird dick away from my face!”
“Not until you cry uncle.” He tapped her nose with the tip. “Bad girl. Say it.”
“Or what? You’ll put me in time-out? Hope’s gonna hear about this version of events.” She was giggling now, utterly disarmed.
“Hope thinks you’re a saint. She has no idea about the monster who steals my last LaCroix.” He settled his weight more fully on her, the hard heat of him pressing into her sternum. The humor was still there in his eyes, but beneath it, in the tension of his abdomen, the faint tremor in his thighs, the real, unjoked-about need hummed. It was a standoff dressed in a clown suit.
“Fine!” she gasped, laughing breathlessly. “Uncle! You win! You and your obnoxious morning wood are the champions of the fucking world!”
He held the position for a heartbeat longer, the air between them crackling again as the laughter died down, leaving only the raw, physical truth of their position. His smile softened, turned almost wondering. He opened his mouth to say something—
Her phone buzzed violently on the nightstand, skittering against the quartz. The spell shattered completely.
Kevin rolled off her in one fluid motion, landing on his back and pulling the duvet over his lap with a practiced, casual air, as if the last two minutes had been a perfectly normal wrestling match. The sudden absence of his heat felt like a cold draft.
Ashlee scrambled for the phone, her hands shaking. It was her supervisor. Shit. She was late for her shift at the call center.
“I have to—“ she stammered, not looking at him, clutching the phone to her naked chest.
“Go,” he said, his voice back to normal, just Kevin again. He ran a hand through his dark hair. “We’re good. Just… maybe wear pajamas tonight. The full-body, flannel kind. With feet.”
She stumbled out of the bed, grabbing her discarded t-shirt from the floor and fleeing for the sanctuary of the guest bathroom, the ghost of his weight and the silly, shocking slap of his skin on hers burning on her face, a confusing brand she didn’t know how to read.
She stumbled out of the bed, grabbing her discarded t-shirt from the floor and fleeing for the sanctuary of the guest bathroom, the ghost of his weight and the silly, shocking slap of his skin on hers burning on her face, a confusing brand she didn’t know how to read.
The shower was a blast of punishing, scalding water. She scrubbed her face, as if she could wash away the memory of the contact. It hadn’t been sexual. Not really. It had been Kevin-being-a-weirdo. That was all. By the time she was dressed in her call center uniform—stupid polo, stupid khakis—the whole thing had been mentally filed under Bizarre Morning Antics. A story to maybe laugh about in a year. Maybe.
The shift was a monotonous hell of complaint calls and system updates. Her mind kept drifting back to the warmth of his sheets, the solid wall of his chest, the absurdity of his cock resting against her lip. She’d buy him coffee. A peace offering. A normalization. See? Everything’s fine. We’re fine.
She returned to the silent apartment just after noon, two steaming cups of dark roast in a carrier. The bedroom door was still ajar. She nudged it open with her hip. “Kev? I got you a—”
He was still in bed. Not sleeping. Propped against a mountain of pillows, the duvet pooled around his waist, sheets rumpled. Completely, utterly naked. The morning light was harsh now, clinical, detailing every contour of his abdomen, the line of his hips, the dark thatch of hair. He was semi-hard again, just lying there against his thigh, a casual fact of his anatomy. He was scrolling on his phone, thumbs moving slowly.
“—coffee,” she finished, her voice weirdly small.
He looked up. That easy, blue-eyed gaze. No confusion now. Just a quiet, knowing assessment. “You’re a saint.”
“I’m a enabler.” She approached, holding his cup out like a shield. He took it, his fingers brushing hers. A static jolt. He set the cup on the nightstand, untasted.
His hand shot out, fast. Not frantic, but precise. His fingers closed around her wrist.
“Kevin—”
He pulled. It wasn’t a violent yank, but it was uncompromising. She lost her balance, spilling her own coffee onto the pristine rug with a sickening splat. She fell across him, her face landing in the warm space between his neck and shoulder. He smelled like sleep and man. His arms wrapped around her, one locking across her back, the other hooking under her knees. He flipped them.
Now she was on her back. Again. He was over her. Again. The position was a brutal echo. This wasn’t sleepy confusion. This was deliberate.
“Round two,” he said, his voice a playful rumble in his chest. But his eyes weren’t fully playing. They were dark, intent. “You didn’t learn your lesson.”
“I brought you coffee!” she squawked, struggling pointlessly. He was so much stronger. All lean muscle and easy control. Her polo shirt rode up, exposing her stomach to the cool air and the heat of his body above her.
“A bribe. A guilty conscience.” He adjusted his hips, kneeling over her, his thighs pinning her arms to her sides. He was fully hard now, the thick length of him jutting up from that nest of dark hair. It looked heavier. Angrier. A flushed, ruddy pink. The vein pulsed. “You looked this morning. You really looked. I saw you.”
“It was right there!”
“And now it’s right here.” He shifted forward. The warm, smooth crown of his cock dragged a slow, deliberate line from her chin, over her lips, up to her cheekbone. It wasn’t a slap. It was a claiming stroke. A brand. Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat.
This is insane. This is Kevin. My best friend. His dick is on my face. Again. Why is it so warm? Why does it feel like suede over steel? Why am I not kneeing him in the balls?
She’s so fucking pretty like this. Flushed. Spooked. Those sea-tits are heaving under that ugly shirt. That little gap in her teeth when her mouth opens. Fuck. Fuck, this is wrong. This is so wrong. Do it again.
He pulled back and gave her a light, stinging tap on the cheek. Pat. Then the other. Pat.
“Say uncle, Lee.”
“Go to hell.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. He tapped her nose. “Stubborn gremlin.” He dragged the tip down, painting a wet, hot line over her pursed lips. She kept them locked shut. A fortress. Her heart was a jackhammer. The sensation was obscene. Intimate. It felt more invasive than if he’d just shoved it in her mouth.
If I open my mouth, it’s over. It’s admission. It’s crossing the line. Just keep it closed. He’ll get bored. He’ll stop. This is just Kevin being a weird, dominant dickhead. Literally.
Her lips are so soft. That’s the thing. I just want to feel them. Once. Just once. On the head. That’s all. Then I’ll stop. Then we’ll laugh. We’ll laugh so hard. It’ll be a story. “Remember that time I made you kiss my dick?” It’ll be funny. It has to be funny.
He increased the pressure, nudging insistently against the seam of her lips. “Uncle.”
“Mmmph.”
“Say it.” He was breathing harder now. The facade of whimsy was cracking. The sheer hard weight of him against her mouth was a primal, undeniable truth. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. A bead of moisture leaked from the tip, smearing salty-wet on her skin.
Oh god. That’s pre-cum. That’s actual pre-cum on my face. I can smell him. Really smell him. Musky. Clean. Male. It’s not disgusting. That’s the worst part. It’s not disgusting at all. It’s just him.
Just a kiss. One kiss. On the tip. That’s the surrender. That’s the joke. It’s so fucked up. It’s so perfect. Do it, Lee. Just do it.
A sound escaped her, a whimper muffled by the pressure. She was losing. The absurdity of the situation, the physical dominance, the sheer taboo of it was dissolving her will. Her lips parted, just a sliver.
He felt it. He froze. Every muscle in his abdomen tensed. He didn’t shove. He waited.
With a shuddering exhale that fogged against his hot skin, she tilted her head forward the fraction of an inch she could manage. She pressed her parted lips to the slick, rounded tip.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. Silken heat. Salty taste. The pounding of her own blood in her ears. It was a kiss. Chaste and blasphemous.
She pulled back instantly, her face burning with a shame that was pure fire.
“Uncle,” she whispered, the word broken.
He stared down at her, his expression unreadable. Triumph, shock, a dawning horror at what they’d just done, all warring in his blue eyes. He slowly rolled off her, onto his back beside her, both of them staring up at the sleek ceiling. The monument between his legs now pointed straight up at the sky, glistening where her lips had been.
The monument between his legs now pointed straight up at the sky, glistening where her lips had been.
Silence, thick and stunned, pressed down on them. The only sound was the distant whir of the building’s HVAC and the frantic drum of her own heartbeat in her ears. She could still taste him, a faint, salty tang on her tongue. That’s pre-cum. That’s Kevin’s pre-cum in my mouth. Oh my god.
Well, fuck. She actually did it. She kissed it. Like it was a goddamn ring in a cereal box. Holy shit. That’s my best friend’s spit on my dick. This is so messed up. This is so… hot. Why is it so hot? Because it’s Lee. Because she’s looking at the ceiling like she’s waiting for God to strike her down. Her neck is so flushed. I want to see that flush everywhere.
Kevin cleared his throat. The sound was absurdly normal. “So.”
“Don’t,” Ashlee whispered to the ceiling.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t ‘so’ me. Just… don’t.”
He turned his head on the pillow. She could feel his gaze on her profile. “You started it.”
“I did not!”
“You kissed my dick, Ashlee. That’s pretty inaugural.”
A strangled laugh-sob burst from her. She covered her face with her hands. “Shut up. It was a forfeit. A white flag. You were torturing me.”
“I was playing. You’re the one who went full diplomat.” He paused. His voice dropped, curious, threaded with a dark amusement that made her skin prickle. “Did you like it?”
She peeked through her fingers. He was still looking at her, a smirk playing on his lips, but his eyes were intense, searching. The rigid length of him hadn’t subsided at all. It was a demand.
He’s asking if I liked it. Does breathing count? Does the fact that my panties are soaked and my nipples are so hard they ache count? This is Kevin. This is my stupid, annoying, safe friend. Nothing about that thing looks safe. It looks like it could wreck things. I want to wreck things. Just once.
“It was weird,” she said, her voice muffled by her palms.
“Weird bad or weird… intriguing?”
She dropped her hands and turned to face him, propping herself up on an elbow. The movement made her polo shirt stretch tight across her chest. She saw his eyes flicker down. “You’re impossible. You have a girlfriend.”
“Hope is in San Francisco,” he said, as if that settled a complex moral equation. “And you’re in my bed, with my come on your lips.”
“It’s pre-come, you animal, don’t make it sound like—”
“Ashlee.”
“What?”
“Shut up and come here.”
It wasn’t a command. It was an invitation, wrapped in their old, familiar shorthand. Shut up and pass the chips. Shut up and watch this clip. Shut up and come here. The normalcy of the phrase in the midst of the insanity was the final thread that snapped.
She moved. Not over him, but down. She slid her body down the bed, the sheets whispering against her khakis, until her face was level with his hips. The scent of him was stronger here, clean skin and something uniquely male, musky and dark. He watched her, chest rising and falling a little faster, but he didn’t touch her head. He just waited.
She’s actually doing it. She’s right there. Her hair is all over my stomach. Fuck. This is really happening. Don’t blow it, Keller. Don’t be a caveman. Let her. Just let her.
Okay. It’s right there. It’s huge. Nine inches? Has to be. It’s like a damn beer can with a curve. How does Hope…? Never mind. Don’t think about Hope. Think about now. Think about the fact that his hipbone is right there and I could bite it. I might bite it.
She opened her mouth, her lips still tingling from the kiss, and took the slick, plum-colored head inside.
Oh, Jesus Christ. Warm. Wet. Her mouth is so fucking soft. Softer than anything.