Chapter 2: The Tickle War That Changed Everything
Ashlee awoke to a world of soft light and hard muscle. Her cheek was pressed against the warm expanse of Kevin’s bare back, the scent of his skin—clean cotton and faint, expensive cologne—filling her senses. The crisp white sheets were tangled around their legs. A thin line of droel connected her mouth to his shoulder blade and she wiped it away, a flush of embarrassment heating her neck, though he was still asleep. Her body was curled into the spoon of his, one arm flung over his side. In her sleep, she had gravitated to him like a planet to its sun.
She was about to ease back when she felt the stiff peak of her own nipple, embarrassingly erect, graze the skin of his back through the thin cotton of her sleep tank.
She froze.
He stirred then, a low groan rumbling through his chest. “Stop squirming, Bug,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
The old nickname, dredged from a childhood of playgrounds and pizza Fridays, snapped something inside her. A defensive, giddy energy took over. Her fingers, which had been resting passively on his stomach, flexed. She knew his spots.
“Or what?” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.
Then she tickled him. Two quick jabs into the sensitive hollow just above his hip bone.
Kevin jerked as if shocked. A genuine, surprised yelp escaped him. He twisted, half-asleep but fully reactive, his large hand clamping down on her wrist. “You did not just—”
She did it again with her other hand, skittering her nails over the same spot. He erupted into a convulsion of laughter, a raw, unfiltered sound she rarely heard. He flipped onto his back, then onto his side to face her, wrestling her hands, both of them laughing breathlessly, the sound echoing in the vast, quiet bedroom. The sheet fell away. He was wearing only boxer briefs, black and clinging. She was in her tiny shorts and tank top, the fabric riding up.
“You’re dead, Carter,” he gasped, overcoming her defenses. He pinned both her wrists above her head with one formidable hand, his body rolling over to straddle her legs, not her torso, but the pressure was immediate, overwhelming. Her laughter died in her throat.
He loomed above her, his morning erection a thick, unmistakable ridge in his briefs, pressed directly against her inner thigh through the thin barrier of her cotton shorts. The heat of it seared her skin.
They both stopped laughing at the same time.
Kevin’s triumphant grin faded. His eyes, normally a clear, cocky blue, darkened. He looked down at where their bodies met, then back to her face. His grip on her wrists loosened, but he didn’t let go. He didn’t move away.
Ashlee’s heart was a trapped bird slamming against her ribs. She could feel every inch of him. The weight of his thighs outside of hers. The solid press of his cock against her. Her own body betrayed her with a sudden, slick pulse of heat that made her breath hitch.
The playful air curdled into something dense and electric.
“Kev,” she whispered, her voice stranger than she intended.
He was staring at her mouth. At the gap between her front teeth he always joked about. His Adam’s apple bobbed. A internal war played out across his features—confusion, a dawning, horrified recognition, and beneath it, a raw hunger that mirrored the one coiling in her own belly.
“Ashlee,” he said, and her name had never sounded like that from him.Not a warning. A question.
She didn’t answer with words.She stopped pretending. She arched her back, just a subtle tilt of her hips, increasing the pressure where he was hardest against her softest part. A silent, unmistakable invitation.
A ragged sound tore from his chest. “Fuck.”
His mouth crashed down on hers.
It was nothing like she’d imagined in her secret, foolish daydreams. There was no gentle exploration. This was a claiming. His lips were demanding, his tongue forcing its way past her parted lips. He tasted of sleep and mint toothpaste and pure, undiluted Kevin. She met his hunger with her own, a decade of suppressed want erupting in a moan that she swallowed down his throat. Her hands, now free, flew to his hair, tangling in the short, dark strands, pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss, his breath scorching against her cheek. “This is a bad idea. A terrible, fucking idea.”
“I don’t care,” she panted, grinding up against him, the friction sending sparks up her spine. “Please.”
That single word shattered the last of his resistance. His hand slid down from her wrist, over her arm, cupping the side of her breast through her tank top. His thumb found her nipple, circling the hard nub, and she cried out.
“You’re sure?” he growled, his other hand sliding under the hem of her tank, his palm scalding against her stomach. His fingers traced the lower curve of her breast, coming agonizingly close to the turtle tattoo she knew was there.
“Yes. God, yes, Kevin. Don’t stop.”
That was all he needed. He yanked her tank top up and over her head in one rough motion. The morning air was cool on her skin, but his gaze was hotter. He looked at her breasts, full and pale in the grey dawn light, her nipples deep pink and taut. A low, approving groan rumbled from him. “Fuck, Ashlee.”
He dipped his head and took one peak into his mouth. The sensation was so intense, so wet and hot and desperate, that her vision blurred. His tongue lashed at her, his teeth grazing lightly, while his hand kneaded her other breast. She was drowning in sensation, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, his back.
He switched his attention, lavishing the same rough worship on her other breast. All the while, his hips kept up a slow, maddening grind against her thigh, his cock straining the fabric of his briefs.
“Need to feel you,” she begged, her voice broken. Her own hands went to the waistband of his briefs, trembling as she hooked her thumbs in.
He rose up on his knees, his own hands swiftly shucking the briefs down and kicking them away. His erection sprang free, thick and veined and flushed a deep red, curving proudly toward his stomach. Pre-cum glistened at the tip.
Ashlee stared, her mouth going dry. She’d seen him in swim trunks, but this was different. This was for her. The sheer size of him, the powerful, blunt reality of his arousal, sent a jolt of pure, wet heat between her own legs. Her mind short-circuited, all quirky thoughts of sea turtles and whimsy burned away by a base, thrilling fear.
“Jesus, Kev,” she breathed, the words barely audible.
He watched her face, his chest heaving. A muscle ticked in his jaw. The conflict was back, warring with the lust that darkened his eyes. He needed an out, a way to make this something other than what it was. His voice was a rough scrape when he spoke. “You don’t have to do anything, Bug. We can stop.”
He’s giving me an exit, she thought. He’s scared, too. But stopping was impossible. The want was a physical ache, a hollow throb that demanded to be filled. She saw his hesitation not as rejection, but as a challenge to her own courage.
Her quirky spirit, the part of her that always rose to his teasing, flickered to life in the heart of the inferno. A sly, shaky smile touched her lips. “Who said I was gonna do anything?” she whispered, her voice gaining a thread of its old playfulness. “Maybe I just wanna look at the trophy. Since you won the tickle war so decisively and all.”
The absurdity of the statement, the callback to their playful wrestling just minutes before, hung in the air. It was a thread of normalcy, of them, spun across the abyss of what they were about to do.
Kevin’s tense expression broke into a stunned, breathless laugh. He looked from her eyes to her smiling mouth, to his own rigid cock. The cognitive dissonance was dizzying. His best friend. His little sister. Teasing him about his dick. The taboo of it all twisted the heat in his gut, making it sharper, more desperate.
“The trophy, huh?” he managed, his tone shifting, adopting the familiar cadence of their games. He shifted his weight, his hand coming to cradle himself, emphasizing his length. A deliberate, almost arrogant display. “First place is pretty damn substantial this year.”
“Looks intimidating,” she quipped, her heart hammering. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the sheets pooling at her waist. Her sea turtle seemed to watch from her back.
“Nah,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers. The blue in his eyes was almost gone, swallowed by black. His voice dropped, intimate and conspiratorial. “Winner’s supposed to be gracious. Share the victory.” He nudged his hips forward slightly, the head of his cock brushing her lower lip. A shockwave of sensation. “Think you can handle it?”
The question was a dare. It made it her idea. It always was, with them—her challenging him, him upping the ante. This was just the final, unthinkable escalation. Ashlee’s mind screamed a dozen warnings, all drowned out by the salt-and-skin scent of him so close to her mouth, by the thrilling blasphemy of what he was asking.
His little sister. His best friend is gonna suck his dick.
“Yeah,” she murmured, her breath hot against his sensitive skin. She saw him shudder. “I think I can.”
She didn’t hesitate further. She opened her mouth and took the broad, weeping head inside.
Kevin’s groan was a visceral, punched-out sound that seemed to come from the center of the earth. The taste of him, musky and clean and uniquely Kevin, exploded on her tongue. Her own mind fragmented into sensory snapshots: the smooth, hot silk of his skin, the slight bitter tang of pre-cum, the coarse scratch of his pubic hair against her nose.
She slid her lips down the shaft, using her hand to cradle what she couldn’t yet take. Her other hand found his thigh, digging into the hard muscle for balance.
“Fuck, Ashlee… just like that,” he choked out, his fingers threading into her red hair, not guiding, just holding. The feel of his grip, possessive and tender at once, made her moan around him, the vibration pulling another ragged curse from his throat.
She worked him, learning the rhythm, listening to the hitches in his breath. She hollowed her cheeks, her tongue pressing hard along the thick vein underneath. She was lost in the act, in the power of reducing this powerful man to guttural, broken sounds. Her own arousal was a dripping, impatient throb, untouched and screaming for attention.
Then his hand in her hair tightened. Not painfully, but with definite intent. “Open up for me, Bug,” he growled, and there was a new note in his voice—a dominant, fraying control. “Take it deeper. I know you can.”
The command, so utterly foreign from him, sparked a fresh flood of heat between her legs. She relaxed her jaw, letting him ease more of his length into the wet heat of her mouth. Her eyes watered as he hit the back of her throat. She gagged, lightly, the convulsion milking a pearl of fluid from him.
“There,” he whispered, a mantra. “There. Good girl. So good.”
The praise seared her. She forced herself to relax, to accept the slow, shallow push past the barrier of her gag reflex. The feeling of him penetrating her throat, the sheer, shocking intimacy of it, was overwhelming. She looked up, her eyes streaming, to see him looking down at her, his expression one of awestruck ruin.
The sight of her—lips stretched, eyes wet, submission and determination on her face—shattered the last of his restraint. The whimsical pretense was gone. This was raw need.
His hips gave a small, involuntary thrust. It wasn’t rough, but it was insistent, feeding her another inch she had to surrender to. A strangled sound escaped her. He stilled immediately, panic flashing in his eyes. “Shit, did I hurt—?”
She shook her head as best she could, her mouth too full to speak. She sucked hard, urging him on, her nails biting into his thigh. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.
He understood. A dark, reckless relief washed over his features. His thrusts became more rhythmic, each one sinking a little deeper, testing her limits. She focused on breathing through her nose, on the salty taste of him, on the obscene, wet sounds filling the sunlit room. She was just a mouth, a throat, a vessel for his pleasure, and the freedom in that annihilation was electrifying.
“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he rasped, his voice guttural. “My best friend. Taking my cock so deep.”
His words, filthy and tender, pushed her to the edge. She met each shallow thrust, letting him use her mouth, her throat. The pressure was constant, the slight choke a breathtaking reminder of what was happening. He was everywhere, in her air, in her senses, claiming a part of her they could never take back.
His pace quickened. His breath came in sharp gasps. His fingers tightened painfully in her hair, holding her still for a deeper, longer push that made her whole body tense. “Gonna come,” he warned, the words strained. “Gonna come down that pretty throat.”
She didn’t pull away. She pressed forward, taking him as deeply as she could, her throat fluttering around the invasion. She wanted it. She wanted this final, irrevocable proof.
With a shout that was half her name, half a meaningless groan, he came. The first hot, pulsing jet hit the back of her throat with a startling intensity. She swallowed instinctively, the taste bitter and primal. He kept coming, each spasm pumping more of his essence into her, his hips stuttering against her face. She swallowed again and again, taking all of him, until he was spent, until he softened slightly in her spent mouth.
He collapsed back onto the bed, his hand falling from her hair. She slowly released him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her entire body trembling. The silence was profound, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Kevin stared at the ceiling, his face a mask of stunned aftermath. Then he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were wide, almost scared. He reached out a trembling hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking over her damp skin where his hips had bumped her. The tenderness of the gesture was a shock.
Then, his other hand came up. It wasn't a strike of anger, but a firm, medium-strength slap on her other cheek. A jarring, possessive punctuation to the intimacy. Her head turned slightly with the impact, a sharp sting blooming on her skin.
She gasped, more in surprise than pain, her eyes flying to his.
He looked utterly wrecked, his gaze searching hers, his palm still warm against her stinging cheek. The slap still echoed in the quiet room, a brutal contrast to the gentle thumb still stroking her. His voice, when it came, was raw, fractured, and impossibly soft. It held the whimsy, the history, the utter taboo of everything they had just destroyed and created.
"Good bug," he whispered.
The sting on her cheek pulsed in time with her heartbeat. His hand remained there, a paradox of gentleness and violence cupping her face, his thumb still stroking the skin his palm had just struck. Ashlee couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, trapped in the blue wreckage of his gaze.
Slowly, he withdrew his hands. He rolled onto his back beside her, one arm flung over his eyes. The silence wasn’t quiet; it was a screaming void filled with the echo of his groan, the memory of her gagging, the phantom heat of his release still in her throat. The city skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows began to sharpen in the rising dawn, indifferent to the fracture inside the room.
“Fuck,” Kevin said to the ceiling, the word flat and final.
Ashlee found her voice, a raw scrape. “Yeah.”
“I shouldn’t have… that slap.” He dragged his arm down, turning his head to look at her. His expression was pure turmoil. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” She touched her cheek. It burned. “It just… surprised me.”
A brittle, humourless laugh escaped him. “Surprised. That’s one word for it.” He propped himself up on an elbow, his gaze travelling from her damp mouth to her bare breasts to the sheets tangled around her waist. His own nakedness seemed to catch up with him then, the reality of his softening cock against his thigh. He made no move to cover himself. “What the hell did we just do, Ash?”
The old nickname, the one from before ‘Bug’, landed differently. It sought the friend he thought he’d lost. She pulled the sheet up, a flimsy shield. “I think we both know what we did.”
“Do we?” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Because from where I’m lying, it feels like I just came in my best friend’s throat after slapping her across the face. And the part that’s fucking me up the most isn’t the… the mechanics of it.” He paused, his jaw working. “It’s that I’m not sorry. I should be vomiting apologies. But I’m not. I’m just hard again watching you pull that sheet up.”
Her eyes flicked down. He was telling the truth. The evidence was already stirring against his leg. A fresh, slick heat pooled between her own thighs at the sight, a shameful and instant reaction.
“See?” he said, a note of despair in his voice. He gestured at himself. “What is that? What does that make me?”
“It makes you a guy who got his dick sucked,” Ashlee said, her own surprising bluntness cutting through the tension. She held his gaze, channeling every bit of her quirky bravery into it. “By someone who really, really wanted to suck it.”
He stared at her. Then, a real, shaky smile touched his lips. “You’re insane.”
“You’ve known that for years.” She drew a ragged breath. “And you’re not a monster. You’re just… Kevin. Who stopped seeing me as just Ashlee about three minutes ago.”
“Longer than that,” he admitted quietly, the confession seeming to shock him as much as her. He looked away, out at the waking city. “I just didn’t let myself know it.” His eyes came back to her, sharp. “You? How long?”
Her face answered for her, a flush of confession creeping up her neck. She picked at the sheet. “A while.”
“‘A while,’” he echoed. He reached over, his fingers hooking under her chin, forcing her to look at him. The touch was electric. “Tell me.”
“Since the Wednesday you brought me soup when I had the flu,” she blurted out, the memory vivid. “Two years ago. You mocked my dinosaur pajamas and then tucked the blanket around me. You felt my forehead with the back of your hand. It was so… stupidly domestic. I thought, ‘Oh. Oh no.’” She gave a weak laugh. “Pathetic, right?”
He didn’t laugh. His eyes softened. “That’s not pathetic. That’s…” He shook his head, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “I remember those pajamas. The little T-Rexes. I thought you looked adorable. I had to leave the room.”
Her breath hitched. “Really?”
“Really.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “So all that time… all the jokes, the movies, you crashing in my bed… you were thinking about this?” His hand slid from her chin, down the column of her throat, tracing the path his cock had taken.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, her skin pebbling under his touch. “Mostly I just liked being near you.”
He groaned, resting his forehead against hers. “Fuck me. We’re idiots. The slowest, dumbest idiots on the planet.”
A genuine laugh bubbled out of her, tight with tears and relief. “The slowest. We spent last Wednesday arguing for an hour about whether a hot dog is a sandwich.”
He laughed too, the sound warm against her mouth. “And I was sitting there, winning the argument, thinking about how your lips moved when you talked.” He pulled back to look at her. “I was picturing them wrapped around my cock while you lectured me about culinary taxonomy.”
The filthy, specific admission sent a jolt through her. “You are such an asshole.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, his smile fading into something hotter, more intent. “And you’re the one who finally did it. You actually did it.” His gaze darkened, memory flickering in it. “You took it so deep, Ash. I felt your throat squeeze me. I saw your eyes water.”
She shivered, the graphic detail pulling her back into the moment. “I couldn’t breathe. It was scary. And incredible.”
“You swallowed every drop.” It wasn’t a question. It was a reverent, turned-on observation. “I watched your throat work.”
She nodded, mesmerized by the raw hunger returning to his face. The playful reflection was over, burned away by the explicit memory. The sheet over her felt like a cage. She let it fall from her grasp.
His eyes devoured her. “I’m not sorry,” he repeated, a declaration this time. “And I want more.”
“So take it,” she said.
He moved with a focused, predatory grace that was new. He didn’t kiss her mouth. He kissed the sting on her cheek, a soft apology with his lips. Then he trailed his mouth down her neck, over her collarbone, lower. He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue a rough, welcome punishment. She cried out, her back arching, her hands fisting in his hair.
His large hands pushed her thighs apart, his touch firm, unquestioning. He looked at her, his breath hot against her stomach. “You’re soaked,” he muttered, a rough sound of approval. “Just from talking about it. From remembering.”
He didn’t use his fingers to test his theory. He lowered his head between her legs and licked a long, slow stripe through her folds.
Ashlee shouted, her hips jerking off the bed. The sensation was too intense, too direct after the emotional whiplash. His hands clamped down on her hips, pinning her to the mattress. He did it again, his tongue broad and demanding, lapping at her, delving inside, then circling the swollen, aching center of her need. He was meticulous, ruthless, his earlier tenderness gone, replaced by a driving urgency to taste what he’d caused.
“Kevin, please…” she begged, words fragmenting.
He lifted his head, his chin glistening. “Please what? You gotta say it, Bug. After all that time, you gotta tell me what you want.”
“I want you inside me,” she gasped, the words torn from her. “Now. Fuck me. Please, Kevin, just fuck me.”
A grim, triumphant smile touched his mouth. He moved up her body, his weight settling over her, his erection, fully hard again, pressing against her entrance. He nudged, the head of his cock spreading her, a breathtaking promise of stretch. He looked into her eyes, his own blown black with desire, holding himself there.
“This changes everything,” he said, a final, strained warning.
“I know,” she breathed, and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in.