Chapter 6: Alfresco Anal
The hotel suite door clicked shut, and the world of the conference—the handshakes, the name badges, the polite fiction of their professional distance—fell away. For a long moment, they just stood in the dim entryway, the only light from the city bleeding around the edges of the curtains.
“Drink?” Ryan asked, his voice rough. He’d already shed his jacket.
“No,” Channah said. She dropped her purse on a console table. The sound was like a starting pistol.
He watched her as she walked past him, through the living area toward the wall of windows. She pulled the heavy drapes aside, revealing a sliding glass door. Beyond it was a private rooftop terrace, a sliver of secluded space furnished with a low couch and potted trees, their leaves stirring in the warm, high-up breeze.
She unlocked the door and stepped out. The air was different up here—cleaner, cooler, carrying the scent of distant rain and concrete. The hum of the city was a constant, soothing bass note. She went to the wrought-iron railing and gripped it, her knuckles pale. The skyline stretched out, a galaxy of artificial stars.
She heard him follow her out, heard the soft click of the door closing behind him. He didn’t come to the railing. He waited.
“I keep waiting to feel ashamed,” she said, not turning around. “Of this morning. Of that bathroom. I’m a therapist, for Christ’s sake. I teach people about boundaries.”
“Boundaries are just decisions,” his voice came from behind her, closer now. “You decided. So did I.”
“It wasn’t a decision. It was a compulsion.” She finally turned to face him. He was a silhouette against the glass of the suite, his features softened by the mauve twilight. “I saw you in that auditorium and I felt like I was nineteen again, but this time I didn’t have to be careful. This time, I knew exactly what I wanted to ruin me.”
He closed the distance then, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His thumbs swept over her cheekbones. “You’re not ruined. You’re awake.” He kissed her, and it was slower than before, deeper, a reclamation. It tasted like the wine from dinner and the salt of her own skin. His hands slid down, over her shoulders, pulling her against him. She could feel his erection, already hard, pressing into her stomach through his trousers.
She broke the kiss, her breathing ragged. “Out here.”
A flicker of surprise in his green eyes, then a dark approval. “Someone might see.”
“Let them.”
She pushed him backward toward the low, wide outdoor sofa. He sat, looking up at her, his gaze intense. The city lights played across the planes of his face, glinted in the silver at his temples. She stood before him, and with deliberate, slow movements, began to undress. The cream silk blouse fluttered to the tiles. Her skirt followed. She stood in just her black lace bra and matching panties, the wind teasing her skin, her nipples tightening into painful points against the lace.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice thick.
She did, presenting her back to him. She heard his sharp breath as he saw the faint, mottled bruises his grip had left on her hips that morning. A testament. She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her panties and drew them down, stepping out of them. Then she reached back, unclasped her bra, let it fall. The air was cool on her bare skin, a shocking contrast to the heat pooling low in her belly.
“Come here.”
She turned and walked to him, straddling his lap, but facing away—reverse cowgirl, just as she’d imagined a thousand times since college. His hands settled on her naked thighs, rough and warm. She felt him fumble with his fly, then the thick, hot weight of his cock sprang free against the small of her back. He spat into his palm again, the sound crude and purposeful, and she felt him slicking himself, stroking his length.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his lips against her shoulder blade.
In answer, she reached behind her, guided him, not to her slick, aching cunt, but lower. The broad head of his cock pressed against the tiny, furled ring of muscle that was still tender, still humming with the memory of his possession. She sank down slowly, an excruciating, perfect millimeter at a time.
It was tighter than this morning. A fresh, bright bolt of pain that made her gasp, her head falling back against his chest. He groaned, a sound of pure strain, his hands locking on her hips to still her.
“Easy,” he breathed. “Christ, Channah, you’re so fucking tight.”
She forced herself to relax, to breathe into the blinding fullness, and sank down further. It was a surrender, a slow-motion impaling. When she was fully seated, his cock buried to the hilt inside her ass, they both shuddered, immobile for a moment, fused together in this forbidden, exquisite join.
Then she began to move.
Lifting herself up, almost until he slipped out, then sliding back down, taking him all over again. The rhythm was agonizing, glorious. Each stroke lit up her nervous system, a raw feedback loop of pain and deep, grinding pleasure. The wind caught her moans, scattering them over the rooftop. Her breasts bounced with the motion, full and heavy, her nipples pebbled tight.
His hands came up to cup them, to weigh them, his thumbs circling the stiff peaks. “That’s it,” he growled in her ear, his voice ragged. “Ride it. Show me how much you missed this. Show me how much you needed this fat cock in your tight little asshole.”
His filthy words spurred her on. She moved faster, spurred by a frantic, rising need. The rough fabric of his trousers chafed her inner thighs. The metal railing, the distant windows of other buildings, they were all witnesses to this obscene act. She was laid bare, split open on him, taking her pleasure in the most vulnerable way possible. The power of it, the sheer audacity, made her dizzy.
“I can feel you,” he panted, his fingers pinching her nipples now, sharp and bright. “I can feel you clenching around me, you greedy slut. You love it. You love getting your ass fucked in the open air.”
She did. God, she did. The coil in her gut was winding to a unbearable tension. Her movements became sloppy, desperate. He took over, driving up into her from below, his hips pistoning, slamming her body down onto his with a wet, slapping force. The sofa creaked in protest. She cried out, a sharp, shattered sound that was lost in the vastness of the night.
Her orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation. A silent, internal convulsion that locked her muscles and stole her breath. She ground down against him, milking his cock with violent, involuntary spasms as the pleasure radiated out in shocking, electric currents.
He followed seconds later, his rhythm breaking. A guttural shout was torn from his throat as he bucked up into her, his release hot and pulsing deep inside her bowels, claiming that intimate space all over again. He held her there, locked together, as they both shuddered through the aftershocks.
Slowly, sensation returned. The chill of the air. The ache in her thighs. The profound, throbbing fullness. He softened and slipped out of her. She winced at the sudden, slick emptiness.
Before she could move, his hands guided her off his lap. “On your knees.”
Her body obeyed before her mind could process the command. She knelt on the cool tiles before him, between his spread legs. He was still half-hard, glistening with a mixture of spit and their combined fluids. The musky, intimate scent of it filled her nostrils.
“Look at what you did,” he murmured, stroking himself, smearing the mess. “Clean it up.”
She leaned forward, her red hair falling like a curtain. She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, the taste of herself and him, salty and bitter, flooding her senses. She swirled her tongue around the head, licking him clean, then took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks. He was growing hard again in her mouth, a testament to his stamina, to the unspent tension of twenty years.
He watched her, his head thrown back against the sofa, his breath hitching. One hand tangled in her hair, not forcing, just holding. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Just like that. Use that pretty mouth.”
She did, with a focus that bordered on worship. This wasn’t about her pleasure anymore; it was about servicing his, about completing the circuit of degradation and devotion. She sucked him until he was fully rigid, until his hips began to jerk shallowly. Then she pulled off, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip.
“Bed,” he said, standing, pulling her up by her arm. “Now. I’m not finished with you.”
He led her, naked and slick and utterly spent, back into the warmth of the suite. The door to the rooftop clicked shut, sealing the night outside, but the chaos they’d unleashed out there had followed them in. It was in the room now, hanging between them, thicker than the darkness. She knew with a certainty that shook her, that this was just the beginning. The symposium had two days left.
He had turned a key inside her, and now a door was open that could never be fully closed.