Chapter 9: The Morning Wood
The first conscious sensation was warmth. A solid, living warmth pressed along the length of her back, an arm draped heavily over her waist, a quiet breath stirring the hair at her nape. Jenny surfaced slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep, awareness returning in fragments: the gray morning light bleeding around the edges of the blinds, the unfamiliar ache in her muscles, the scent of skin and sex and him.Nate.
Then she felt it—the hard, insistent press of his erection against the curve of her ass, only the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs and the rumpled sheet between them. A flush of heat, immediate and liquid, pooled low in her belly. She shifted, a minute adjustment to relieve a cramp in her calf, and the movement made her press back against him.
A low groan vibrated against her shoulder blade.His arm tightened, pulling her flush against him. “Morning,” he rasped, his voice graveled with sleep.It wasn’t a greeting.It was a statement of intent.
His hand slid from her waist down over the dip of her stomach, his fingers splaying possessively.He didn’t ask. He simply traced lower, through the soft hair, and found her already wet, swollen from the night before. He let out a satisfied hum, his mouth finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“Still so fucking ready,” he murmured, his finger circling her clit once, slowly, making her hips jerk.“Dreamt about this. Waking up just like this.”
Before she could form a thought, his hand was gone. He gripped her hip, his touch firm. “On your stomach.”
A shiver, part apprehension, part pure need, raced through her.She complied, turning over, burying her face in the pillow that smelled like him. He shifted behind her, his weight dipping the mattress. She felt the sheet being pulled away, the cool air hitting her skin, followed by the blistering heat of his body as he moved over her. He didn’t remove his underwear, just shoved the fabric down, freeing himself.
His hands gripped her hips, lifting her, positioning her. There was a pause, a silence thick with anticipation, broken only by their ragged breathing. Then the blunt, slick head of his cock nudged against her entrance, still sensitive from the night before.He pushed.
It was slower than last time, but just as deep, just as complete. A single, steady, penetrating thrust that filled her utterly, stretching her, a sweet, sharp fullness that made her cry out into the pillow. He sank all the way in, his pelvis flush against her ass, and held there, letting her adjust, letting her feel every inch of him.
“Jesus Christ, Jenny,” he choked out, his hands smoothing over the curves of her ass, gripping hard.Then he began to move. It was a different rhythm—slower, deeper, more deliberate. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a long, slow plunge back to the hilt.It was less frantic, more devastating. The angle was perfect, his pubic bone grinding against her with every movement, the slap of his balls against her clit sending jolts of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain.
She clutched the pillow, her moans muffled by the fabric. The world narrowed to the feeling of him pistoning inside her, the sound of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings keeping time with his grunts.
One of his hands left her hip and slid up her spine, between her shoulder blades, applying a gentle pressure that pinned her in place. He leaned over her, his chest damp against her back, his mouth by her ear. “This cunt was made for me,” he growled, his voice dark and threadbare.“Taking me so deep. So fucking perfect.”
His pace increased slightly, the slow, deep rolls becoming harder, more urgent. She was close, the pressure building like a scream trapped in her throat.His fingers dug into her hip, surely leaving bruises.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his breath hot on her neck.“Let me feel you come on my cock again. Squeeze it out of me.”
It was the raw command, the filthy promise in his words, that tipped her over. Her orgasm crashed through her without warning, a violent, clenching wave that tore a ragged scream from her lungs. Her body tightened around him, milking him, and with a final, shuddering thrust, he followed her.
He buried himself to the root, his hips stuttering against her as he came with a guttural, broken sound. His release pulsed hot inside her, his whole body rigid, then collapsing over her back, spent and heavy.
For long minutes, they stayed like that, joined, struggling for breath. Gradually, he softened and slipped from her body, rolling onto his back beside her.She turned her head, her cheek against the damp pillow. He was looking at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling steadily.
Reality, cold and intricate, began to seep back into the room.The empty Thai food containers were still on the floor. His gray hoodie was still slung over her desk chair.Sarah’s party was in six days.
“We have to tell her,” Jenny said quietly.Her voice was hoarse.
Nate turned his head on the pillow to look at her.His eyes were clear, resolved. “I know.”
“How?” The word felt huge.“Do we just… show up together?Hold hands? ‘Hey Sarah, by the way, your brother’s been fucking me senseless for the last twelve hours’?”
A faint smile touched his lips. “The direct approach has merit.” He reached over, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw.“But no.We tell her before. Together.Give her time to… process.”
“She’ll be angry. At me.”
“Then she’ll be wrong.” His tone left no room for argument. “And I’ll tell her so.”
The certainty in his voice was a shield. She wanted to curl behind it and stay there.Instead, she pushed herself up, wincing at the pleasant soreness between her legs. “I need coffee.And a shower. Possibly in that order.”
He watched her stand, his gaze appreciative and dark.“I’ll join you. The shower part.”
She threw a pillow at him.They moved through the morning in a strange, new domesticity. He made the coffee while she showered, his large frame moving with an easy familiarity in her small kitchen. When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, he was leaning against the counter, sipping from a mug, wearing only his jeans from the night before, unbuttoned at the waist.He looked like he belonged there. The sight sent a pang of something through her chest—sharp, sweet, and terrifying.
He set his mug down and crossed the room to her.He didn’t kiss her. He just rested his forehead against hers, his hands coming up to cradle her damp face. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, softly.It wasn’t a platitude.It was a vow.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, skittering against the granite. She pulled away, breaking the moment, and picked it up.A text from Sarah.Her stomach dropped.
Sarah: Hey!Running errands near your place.Can I pop in? Need a second opinion on these fucking party napkins.Be there in 10.Jenny’s blood ran cold. She showed Nate the screen.
His expression hardened, a flicker of the old defensiveness crossing his face before it settled into grim determination. He looked from the phone to her towel, to his own half-dressed state.“Okay,” he said, exhaling sharply.“Okay. This is sooner than we planned.But it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine! She can’t see you here like this.Not yet.”
“Why?” He challenged, his voice low. “You ashamed?”
“No!Nate, be realistic.She’s my best friend. Springing this on her when she’s coming over for napkin choices is… it’s cruel. It’s a shock.” She was scrambling, her mind racing.“You need to go. Out the back.Now.”
The hurt in his eyes was immediate and stark. It vanished behind a shut door, leaving his face cold.“Right.I’ll slink out the back. Like a fucking secret.”
“It’s not like that. It’s just timing—”
“No, I get it.” He cut her off, his voice flat. He snatched his t-shirt from the floor and pulled it on with rough, angry movements.He found his socks, his shoes. He yanked his hoodie from the back of the chair. As he did, something clattered to the floor from the rolled-up sleeve.A small, sleek black box.A jewelry box.
They both stared at it where it lay on the linoleum.Nate went very still. Jenny’s breath caught in her throat.It wasn’t a ring box.Too small, too flat. A pair of earrings, maybe.He bent, slower now, and picked it up. He didn’t open it. Just held it in his palm, looking at it as if it were a live grenade.The air in the kitchen changed, charged with a new, different tension.
“What is that?” Jenny whispered.He didn’t look at her. “Nothing.” He shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans. “Forget it.”
The doorbell rang.