Chapter 6: Sticky Sweet Revenge
Her weight on my lap was solid, real. The black fabric of her top was still damp in that one spot, a cold little patch against my chest. I nuzzled deeper into her neck, breathing her in—perfume, salt, the faint, clean scent of her shampoo. My arms tightened around her.
“You’re shaking,” she whispered, her hands smoothing over my shoulders.
“You destroyed me,” I murmured into her skin.
She laughed, a puff of air against my temple. “You’re so dramatic.”
But her fingers traced idle, possessive circles on my back. She leaned away, just enough to look at me, and her glasses were still slightly fogged at the edges. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips, which were swollen and pink.
“You made a proper mess of me, you know,” she said, her voice a low, affectionate tease.
Her thumb came up, brushing lightly just below her lower lip, and she showed me the faint, pearlescent streak. It was still glistening there, a drying map of my own desperation across the lovely, familiar landscape of her face. I caught her wrist, stopping her from wiping it away.
“Leave it,” I heard myself say, the words rough.
I looked at her, really looked. The soft light from the desk lamp caught the subtle sheen on her cheekbone, the delicate trace along her jaw. Something tightened in my chest, a fierce, possessive warmth. It was beautiful. She was beautiful, marked and utterly unbothered by it, her expression one of tender amusement.
“You like it?” she asked, tilting her head.
“I love it,” I said, and it was the pure truth. I pulled her back against me, claiming her mouth again, tasting myself on her as a low hum vibrated in her throat. My hands slid down to the hem of her damp top, gripping the fabric. I broke the kiss, breathless. “My turn.”
I peeled the soft black cotton up, slowly, revealing the smooth, pale plane of her stomach, the gentle curve of her ribs. The air in the room was cool against her skin, and I felt the fine hairs rise. She lifted her arms, letting me drag the top up and over her head, her curly hair bouncing free in a chaotic, beautiful cloud.
It joined my own discarded clothes on the floor, a forgotten heap. She sat before me in just her black tights. Her chest rising and falling quickly. The amber light loved her skin, painting her in warmth and shadow. I just stared, drinking in the sight of her handful breasts, the perfect, dark peaks already hardened.
“See something you like?” she whispered, that shy confidence flickering in her eyes.
"I see everything I like," I said, my voice low. My hands came up, hovering just shy of her skin, feeling the heat radiating from her. Then I touched her, palms smoothing over the slight swell of her sides, thumbs tracing the undersides of her breasts. "You have no idea how perfect you are right here."
She inhaled, sharp and quiet, her back arching just slightly into the contact.
"These curves," I murmured, leaning in to brush my lips across her shoulder. My fingers gently circled, feeling her heartbeat under my touch. "The way you fit against me." I let my hands roam, memorizing the soft weight of her, the pebbled texture of her nipples against my palms. "You feel like home, Pritha. You really do."
A soft, flustered sound escaped her, part sigh, part laugh. "Hardik..."
"It's true," I insisted, my mouth traveling to her collarbone. I kissed the hollow there, tasting salt. My hands drifted down her ribs, over the slight tremor in her stomach. "This skin." My touch was slow, worshipful. "This warmth." I looked up at her, my thumbs hooking into the waistband of her tights. "Every single inch of you is a miracle I get to touch."
Her glasses were sliding down her nose again. Her eyes were wide, dark, fixed on mine, all that playful teasing melted into something vulnerable and deep. She bit her lip, nodding almost imperceptibly, giving me permission without words.
The fabric tore with a satisfying, decisive rrrip.
It gave way not at the seams but in the center, a ragged opening I’d created with my own need, splitting the black material just over the perfect swell of her ass and the damp, darker patch at the junction of her thighs. The tights remained, a constricting frame around the revelation, tight bands of fabric circling her waist and clinging stubbornly to her thighs like stubborn shadows.
She gasped, a sharp intake that hitched into a shaky laugh.
“Oh,” was all she managed, her body going very still beneath my hands.
I looked, and the breath left my lungs.
The frayed edges of black fabric framed the slick, glistening center of her, a dark triangle of curls already soaked through and clinging. The sight was a raw, shocking vulnerability that made my heart stutter against my ribs. Her skin there flushed a deep, warm pink, and the scent of her—musky, sweet, utterly Pritha—wrapped around me like a physical touch.
I didn’t speak.
My hand just moved, drawn there by a gravity I couldn’t resist. My fingertips brushed through the damp curls, the touch so light it was almost not there. She jolted, a full-body flinch, and a soft, wet sound escaped her. Sckritch.
“Look at you,” I finally breathed, my voice thick.
She was trembling, her hands fisting in the comforter beside her hips. “It’s your fault,” she whispered, her attempt at deflection ruined by the gasp that followed as I traced a single, slow circle around her entrance. The heat was incredible, a radiating furnace. My own need, momentarily sated, roared back to life, hard and demanding against my stomach.
I lowered my head, my nose nudging her inner thigh. I inhaled, deep and slow, committing this specific aroma to memory—clean sweat, arousal, her. “My favorite smell in the world,” I mumbled against her skin.
“You’re so weird,” she said, but her hips lifted in a tiny, involuntary pulse.
“Your weirdo.”
I kissed the inside of her thigh, right where the tight band of torn tights bit into her pale skin. My mouth was open, tasting salt. My tongue dragged a slow, wet path upward, following the natural seam of her body. I avoided where she most wanted me, tracing the outer folds instead, feeling them swell under my touch.
She made a choked, frustrated noise. “Hardik.”
“Mm?”
“Please.”
“Please what?” I asked, blowing a soft stream of cool air over the wetness I’d just created.
She groaned, a beautiful, desperate sound. Her hand tangled in my hair, not pushing, just holding. “You know.”
I did know. I finally let my tongue find her, a flat, firm stroke from bottom to top. Sclllp. The taste exploded on my tongue—complex, slightly bitter, profoundly hers. Her back arched clean off the bed, a silent scream in the line of her throat.
I fastened my mouth over her, sucking gently on that soft, swollen peak. My tongue flicked and circled, relentless. Her thighs squeezed against my head, a trembling vise. The sounds she made were short, sharp punches of air. Hah! Hngh! Ah!
Her thighs tightened around my ears, a trembling, suffocating pressure that only made me press deeper. The world narrowed to taste, to sound, to the frantic flutter of her under my tongue. Sclllp. Shlick. Each stroke dragged more wetness from her, a salty-sweet slick that coated my chin.
I could feel the exact moment her control began to fracture.
The short, sharp gasps lengthened into a continuous, shaky moan that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. Her fingers in my hair tightened from a hold to a desperate clawing, blunt nails scraping my scalp in a way that sent a jolt straight down my spine. “Wait, wait, I’m—oh god—”
I didn’t wait.
I fastened my lips around her clit and sucked, hard, my tongue flicking rapidly against the taut nerve. Her whole body seized. The moan cut off into a soundless, open-mouthed gasp. Her hips stuttered off the bed in erratic, helpless little circles, trying to both escape and burrow deeper.
Then she broke.
A first, hot gush hit my tongue, not a spray but a sudden flood of liquid warmth that spilled over my lips. I swallowed instinctively, my own groan lost against her. The second was a pulsing stream, a visible rush of clear fluid that soaked the comforter beneath her with a dark, spreading patch. Splsssh.
It was followed by a weaker, trembling trickle that dripped down the curve of her ass. She jerked through each wave, a raw, shuddering thing, her cries fragmented. “Ah! Ah—fuck—Hardik—!”
Her cries dissolved into whimpers, her body going limp, a boneless heap of trembling skin and damp fabric. She panted, staring at the ceiling, one hand still loosely tangled in my hair. “Okay,” she breathed, a stunned, blissful smile touching her lips. “Okay, I’m done. I’m… empty.”
I lifted my head, my chin slick. I kissed the inside of her knee. “Good.”
I watched her chest rise and fall, watched the slow, sated blink of her eyes behind her glasses. She looked utterly conquered, beautifully spent. She started to sink deeper into the mattress, a contented sigh leaving her.
I moved.
In one fluid motion, I gripped her hips and flipped her onto her stomach. The torn tights stretched taut across her plump ass. She gasped, a sound of pure shock. “Wha—?”
Her word cut short as my palms smoothed over the round, perfect curves now presented to me. The torn black fabric formed a harsh frame against her pale skin. I leaned down, my mouth close to her ear.
“Just changing the view,” I murmured, my voice low.
My tongue traced the line of her spine, from the knob at the base of her neck all the way down to where the tights were ripped. She shuddered, a full-body ripple that started under my mouth. Her fingers clenched in the sheets, knuckles white.
I kissed the small of her back, right above that tempting swell. My hands slid around her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her inner thighs to gently spread her. The sight punched the air from my lungs—the glistening, swollen evidence of her pleasure, the dark curls soaked, the flushed, vulnerable pinkness barely concealed by the torn fabric.
“You’re still dripping,” I said, more to myself than to her.
My thumb, not asking, not warning, swept through the slickness. It came away gleaming. She jerked, a sharp inhale. “Hardik…I... I just came... You just made me squirt all over your face...”
I brought my thumb to my mouth, tasted her sharp, clean flavor again, and groaned. Then I lowered my head. "So?.. I want more."
I dove back in.
My tongue found her core, flat and demanding, lapping up the fresh wetness that had gathered. Schlllp. The noise was obscenely loud in the quiet. Her hips tried to buck, but I held her firm, my hands anchoring her in place. She was so sensitive, every touch a lightning strike. A high, thin whine escaped her, her body trembling under the sustained assault.
My tongue worked her, slow then fast, tracing patterns she couldn’t predict. Every time her breathing would even out, every time her moans would soften into sighs, I’d change the rhythm. I’d suck gently on her clit until her legs shook, then retreat to broad, soothing strokes that made her sob with frustration.
“Please, please, I can’t,” she gasped, her words slurring into the pillow.
“You can,” I mumbled against her, the vibration making her cry out.
She was overheating, her skin flushed and damp everywhere I touched. Her attempts to speak disintegrated into vowel sounds, into choked whimpers. “Ah—ah—ah—” It was a stuttering cadence of pure sensation, a language of overload.
In the middle of a deep, slow lick, I shifted. My wet thumb, slick from her own arousal, pressed not on her clit, but lower, circling the tight, puckered ring behind it. Just a gentle, insistent pressure.
Her entire body went rigid. A shocked, guttural “Oh!” burst from her, different from all the other sounds. It was surprise, a sharp new kind of tension. I held the pressure for a heartbeat, feeling the intimate clench of muscle, then released it, returning my mouth to her soaked core.
She melted back into the mattress with a shuddering sigh, boneless. “W-what was…”
I didn’t answer with words. I licked her until she was moaning again, until her hips were pushing back against my face, seeking. Then, as her pleasure built towards a crest, I did it again. My index finger, dripping with her, traced a slow, deliberate circle around that other entrance.
This time her reaction was a broken scream, her back arching violently. “Fuck! Don’t—!” But it wasn’t a command to stop; it was a plea of overwhelmed astonishment.
I retreated, soothing her with my tongue, letting her float on the simpler sensation. She was babbling, nonsense syllables and half-formed curses. “God, you… why… it’s too much…”
I pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. “It’s just right.”
“It’s just right.”
My voice was a low murmur against her heated skin. I kept her pinned there, one hand splayed possessively across the small of her back, the other tracing idle, maddening patterns on the back of her thigh. Her breathing was a ragged, open-mouthed pant into the pillow. The torn tights were a dark frame around her vulnerability, the fabric damp and stretched.
I lowered my head again, my breath ghosting over the slickness I’d spent so much time on. She whimpered, anticipating the familiar, wet heat of my tongue there. I gave her a single, flat, soothing stroke. Schlllp.
Then I shifted, purposefully. I dragged one of my licks, lower, straight onto her asshole.
The touch was fleeting, a wet, direct stripe over that tight, untouched pucker. It wasn’t a circle, not a tease. It was a declaration.
Her entire body locked up, a statue of shock. The sound she made was strangled, caught somewhere between a gasp and a yelp. It wasn’t pain. It was pure, unadulterated surprise, a seismic shift in the landscape of her pleasure.
I pulled back just enough to watch the reaction shudder through her—the way her shoulders tensed, the way her toes curled violently against the comforter. A fine tremor took hold of her legs. I could see the muscle there clench and release.
“You—” she started, her voice fractured.
I didn’t let her finish. I did it again. This time my tongue was firmer, a slow, deliberate press against the nerve-rich ring. A low, rough noise vibrated in my own throat. The taste was different here, musky and intimate, a deeper, more private salt.
“Ohmygod.” The word rushed out of her as one shuddering syllable. Her hips jerked, a helpless, aborted movement. Her fingers scrabbled against the sheets, finding no purchase. “That’s… you can’t just…”
“I just did,” I murmured, my lips brushing the sensitized skin. I felt the muscle contract under my mouth, a flutter of pure instinct. The proof of her arousal, her earlier squirt, was still slick and cooling between her thighs, a stark contrast to this new, dry-then-wet tension.
I licked a broad, slow path back up to her core, gathering her wetness. I swallowed it. Then I returned lower, painting her with it, my tongue using her own slickness to soften the path, to make the next touch a slick, sure slide. The duality was everything—the familiar, welcomed heat of her front, and the shocking, invasive intimacy of this.
Her resistance was crumbling into a new kind of urgency. The moan that broke from her this time was long, surrendered, the note of shock melting into a bewildered kind of want. Her back arched, pushing herself more firmly against my mouth, a silent, shaky plea for more of that impossible, confusing sensation.
I gave it to her. My tongue worked in slow, dedicated circles now, no longer a surprise attack but a claimed territory. The sound was wet, soft, obscene. Sklitch. Her hips began to move in a slow, grinding roll against the mattress, against my face, seeking friction everywhere at once. She was past words, communicating in sharp inhales and fractured sighs.
My own need was a live wire, my earlier release a distant memory. Seeing her like this, unmoored by a sensation she never asked for but clearly craved, was its own devastating aphrodisiac. I slipped a hand beneath her, my fingers finding her clit, slick and throbbing. I pressed a firm, steady circle there, matching the rhythm of my tongue.
Her cry was muffled by the pillow. Her body bowed, a tense, trembling arc. I felt the orgasm gather in her, not as a flood this time, but as a deep, internal quake. It ripped through her silently at first, a series of violent, clutching spasms I felt around my tongue. Then the sound followed, a raw, torn shout that seemed to start in her soul and tear its way out.
She collapsed, completely liquid, every muscle surrendering. Her cheek was pressed to the pillow, her glasses crooked. She was crying, soft, slow tears of absolute overwhelm tracking through the sweat on her temples.
I gentled my mouth, kissing the small of her back, her flank, anywhere my lips could reach. I smoothed a hand up her spine, feeling the delicate knobs under her skin. “Breathe,” I whispered. “Just breathe.”
She tried to move, a feeble shift of her hips, but her spent body had no strength. It was a beautiful surrender. I continued planting soft, open-mouthed kisses across the curve of her ass, my palms smoothing and kneading the gentle give of her flesh.
The torn tights were a rough texture under my lips, a contrast to the heat of her skin beneath.
I kissed every inch I could reach, a silent liturgy against her skin. Her trembling had subsided into minute, occasional shudders, like a lake calming after a storm.
“What,” she breathed, her voice hoarse and full of wonder, “was that?”
Her question hung in the air between us, fragile as the dust motes swimming in the lamplight. I placed my palm flat against the small of her back, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat through her skin. "That," I said, my own voice rough, "was me not being able to get enough of you."
She laughed into the pillow, a wet, shaky sound. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you." I carefully rolled her onto her side, then onto her back. Her glasses were smudged and crooked. Her face was a masterpiece of spent passion—tear tracks gleaming, lips parted, eyes unfocused. The lingering evidence of my earlier release was dried on her chin like a faint, pearly scar.
I leaned down and kissed her, softly, letting her taste herself on my mouth. Her lips were slack, unresponsive at first, then they moved against mine with a tired, sweet pressure. She made a small, muffled sound, a remnant of a moan.
When I pulled back, her eyes were still closed. She swallowed, and it was a dry, difficult motion. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. It was a dry, rasping sound against her skin. She blinked, her lashes sticking together slightly from the dried salt of her tears.
“Water,” she managed, the word cracking. “I’m… I’m so thirsty.”
I kissed her forehead, feeling the heat there. “Of course. Stay.”
I slipped from the bed, the worn floorboards cool under my bare feet. The silence in the room was profound, broken only by the ragged rhythm of her breathing from the bed. I moved past the desk, its lamp casting a long shadow of the whiskey bottle against the blueprint of a car on the wall.
The kitchen faucet groaned, a metallic shudder before the water ran cold. I let it rush over my fingers first, the shock of it a sharp contrast to the heat still humming in my own blood. I filled a tall glass, watching the condensation bloom immediately on the sides.
I came back with a glass of cold water. She hadn’t moved at all, how could she.
She lay exactly as I’d left her, a broken doll arranged on the rumpled sheets. Her glasses were still askew. Her eyes were closed, but they fluttered open as I sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs complaining softly. I slid an arm beneath her shoulders, her skin shockingly hot against my forearm.
“Come on, love,” I whispered, lifting her.
She was a dead weight, all loose limbs and sighing breath. Her head lolled against my shoulder. I brought the glass to her lips, tipping it just enough. The first trickle escaped, a cold line tracing down her chin and neck, cutting through the dried salt and sweat.
She gasped, then her throat worked. Gulping. Desperate. The sound was raw, animal. She drank like she’d been stranded in a desert, her hands coming up weakly to clasp around my wrist, not to guide, but to feel the anchor of it.
“Slow,” I murmured, pulling the glass back a little.
She coughed, water spotting her chest. “More,” she rasped.
I gave her more, watching the column of her throat move with each swallow. She drank half the glass before sagging back against me, a long, shuddering exhalation warming my skin. “Oh, god.” The words were fragments. “I think you killed me.”
“Just hydrated you,” I said, setting the glass on the nightstand beside her dog-eared book. I used the edge of the sheet to gently wipe the stray droplets from her chin and throat.
She turned her face into my neck, her nose cold. “What did you do?” Her whisper was full of awe, not accusation. “I’ve never… my legs don’t work.”
“I know.” I kissed her damp temple. My hand stroked her arm, feeling the goosebumps rise under my palm. “You just lie here.”
“My clothes are ruined.” She said it into my skin, a faint, amused observation.
“I’ll buy you a hundred pairs.” My fingers traced the ragged edge of the torn tights where it bit into the soft flesh of her hip. “I like this look, though.”
She pinched my side, a weak, barely-there pressure. “Pervert.”
We stayed like that for long minutes, her breathing gradually deepening, evening out against me. The amber light felt like a cocoon, sealing us in with the evidence of what had happened—the smell, the torn fabric, the soaking dark patch on the comforter she now lay halfway on.
“Hardik?” Her voice was blurry with impending sleep.
“Mm?”
“That thing… with your tongue. Where you… you know.” She didn’t finish, but her body gave a tiny, involuntary spasm against mine.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve never done that before.” It was a statement, but a question lived inside it.
“No.” I let my hand rest on her stomach, feeling the gentle, vital rise and fall. “Did you hate it?”
She was silent for so long I thought she’d drifted off. Then, “I think I lost my mind a little.” A pause. The air conditioner in the window kicked on with a hum and a rattle. “It felt… like you found a part of me I didn’t know was waiting.”
The honesty of it, the sheer vulnerability, tightened something in my chest. I held her closer. “Good.”
“Is that… is that something you want? More?” The shyness was back, lacing through the exhaustion.
I chose my words carefully, watching the light play over the film posters on her wall. The faces seemed to be watching us, silent witnesses to our unraveling. “I want what makes you sigh like that. I want what makes you tremble. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She absorbed that. Her hand found mine on her stomach, lacing our fingers together. Our joined hands rested on the ruin of her tights. “Okay.”
The single word was a door, unlocked and left slightly ajar. A promise for another time. The momentum of the night settled into a deep, still pool of afterglow. Her weight against me grew heavier, more trusting. Outside, the distant sigh of a car passing on the wet street sounded like the world itself was breathing.