Chapter 9: Morning Wood and Morning Lust
Morning light cut through the blinds in thin, golden slices.
Miri surfaced slowly, drifting up from dreams she couldn't quite remember, her body heavy and warm and tangled in sheets that smelled like him. Pine and sweat and something deeper, muskier. The scent of what they'd done.
She blinked.
Her glasses were still on, crooked against her face, one lens pressed into the pillow. She could feel the indentation of the frame against her cheek, the familiar weight of them sliding down her nose.
She didn't move to fix them.
She didn't move at all.
Because Leo was wrapped around her. His chest pressed against her back, his arm draped over her waist, his breath warm and steady against the nape of her neck. His legs were tangled with hers, and she could feel the coarse hair on his thighs, the heat of his skin, the solid weight of him anchoring her to the mattress.
She was naked.
He was naked.
And his cock was hard against her ass.
Not just hard. Pressing. Insistent. A thick, hot line of pressure nestled between her cheeks, and she could feel every inch of it—the ridge of the head, the vein that ran along the shaft, the way it twitched against her skin like it had a mind of its own.
Her breath caught.
She should move. She should slip out of bed, find her dress, and disappear before he woke up. That was what people did after one-night stands, wasn't it? That was the script. You didn't stay. You didn't wake up tangled together like you belonged there.
But she didn't want to leave.
She wanted to stay.
She wanted to stay so badly it ached.
Her hips shifted. Just a fraction. Just enough to feel the drag of his cock against her skin, the way it slid through the slick heat that had gathered between her legs while she slept.
She was soaked.
Her pussy throbbed, sore and swollen from the night before, but already aching for more. Already clenching around nothing, desperate and empty and hungry.
She ground back against him.
It was instinct. Pure, animal instinct. Her body knew what it wanted, and it wanted him inside her again, filling her up, splitting her open, making her feel like she was the only woman in the world.
Behind her, Leo stirred.
His arm tightened around her waist. His nose buried in her hair. He inhaled deeply, like he was breathing her in, and the sound sent a shiver down her spine.
"Morning," he murmured. His voice was rough with sleep, low and gravelly and impossibly sexy.
"Morning," she whispered.
He shifted his hips. His cock slid between her thighs, and she gasped—a small, sharp sound that she couldn't swallow back.
He heard it.
Of course he heard it.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're wet."
She didn't deny it.
She couldn't.
His hand slid down her stomach, over her hip, dipping between her legs. His fingers found her slick folds, and he groaned against her neck.
"So fucking wet," he said. "Did you sleep like this? Dreaming about me?"
"Maybe."
He laughed. Low and dark and wanting.
"Tell me what you dreamed about."
"I don't remember."
"Liar."
His fingers circled her clit. Slow. Teasing. Just enough pressure to make her hips buck, just enough friction to make her whimper.
"I want you inside me," she said.
The words came out before she could stop them. Raw and honest and desperate.
He went still.
"You sure?"
She turned her head. Just enough to see his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes, the way his lips parted when he looked at her.
"I'm sure," she said.
He reached for the nightstand. She heard the crinkle of foil, the rip of the packet. His hand left her body for just a moment, and she missed it immediately, her skin cold without his touch.
Then he was back.
His hand found her hip. He guided her onto her side, her back still pressed to his chest, and she felt the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
He pushed inside.
The stretch was familiar now, but no less overwhelming. She gasped, her hand flying back to grip his thigh, her nails digging into the muscle. He went slow—so fucking slow—inch by inch, letting her feel every bit of him.
"Fuck," he groaned. "You're still so tight."
She couldn't respond. She could barely breathe. He was so deep like this, so impossibly deep, and she could feel him everywhere—in her stomach, in her chest, in her throat.
He started to move.
Slow, deep strokes. His hips rocking against her ass, his cock dragging along her walls, his breath hot against her ear.
"Like that?" he murmured.
"Yes—God, yes—"
His hand found her breast. He cupped it, squeezed it, his thumb brushing over her nipple until it pebbled under his touch.
"You're so beautiful," he said. "You know that? So fucking beautiful."
She didn't feel beautiful.
She felt wrecked.
She felt like she was coming apart at the seams, like her body was no longer her own, like every nerve ending was on fire and he was the only thing that could put her out.
His other hand slid lower. Between her legs, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, wet circles while he fucked her from behind.
"Come for me," he whispered. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you."
She was close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in her belly, and she could feel herself hurtling toward the edge.
"Leo—"
"I've got you."
"I'm gonna—"
"Let go."
She came with a broken moan, her body clenching around him, her hips grinding back against his. He fucked her through it, slow and steady, drawing out every last tremor until she was limp and gasping in his arms.
But he didn't stop.
He kept moving. Kept fucking her. Slow and deep and relentless, like he had all the time in the world.
She whimpered.
"Too much?"
"No," she breathed. "Don't stop."
He didn't.
But it wasn't enough.
She could feel the condom—that thin barrier between them, that latex wall that kept him separate from her. She wanted to feel him. All of him. Nothing between them but skin and heat and the mess they were making.
"Leo," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Take it off."
He froze.
"What?"
"The condom." She turned her head, meeting his eyes. "Take it off. I want to feel you."
He stared at her. His hips had stopped moving, but he was still buried inside her, still hard, still throbbing.
"Miri, I don't—"
"I have an implant." The words tumbled out, rushed and breathless. "Birth control. I've had it for two years. I'm safe. I'm clean. I want to feel you."
He hesitated.
She could see it in his face—the war between wanting and caution, between desire and responsibility.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He pulled out.
The loss was immediate and aching. She felt empty, hollow, desperate for him to come back. She watched as he rolled off the condom, tied it, tossed it toward the trash can. His cock was slick and glistening, still hard, still ready.
But he didn't move toward her.
He just knelt there, looking at her like he was waiting for something.
She made the decision for him.
She turned over, crawled across the mattress, and took him in her mouth.
He gasped.
His hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the messy strands. She didn't know what she was doing—not really—but she'd read enough, imagined enough, wanted enough. She wrapped her lips around the head of his cock and sucked.
"Fuck—Miri—"
She took him deeper. As deep as she could. Her tongue flat against the underside, her cheeks hollowing, her hand wrapping around the base where her mouth couldn't reach.
He was trembling.
She could feel it—the way his thighs shook, the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.
"Stop," he groaned. "Fuck, stop, I'm gonna—"
She pulled back. Just enough to look up at him through her lashes, her lips slick and swollen.
"Then fuck me," she said. "Fuck me for real."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He grabbed her, flipped her onto her back, hooked one of her legs over his shoulder. She felt the head of his cock press against her entrance—bare, hot, skin to skin—and then he was pushing inside.
She screamed.
Not from pain. From sensation. From the overwhelming, mind-shattering reality of feeling him—all of him—with nothing between them. Every ridge, every vein, every inch of his bare cock sliding through her slick, swollen walls.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—you feel so fucking good—"
She couldn't speak. She could only feel. He was so hot inside her, so impossibly hot, and she could feel the pulse of his heartbeat through his cock, could feel the way he twitched and throbbed with every stroke.
He fucked her slow.
Deep.
Deliberate.
Like he was trying to memorize the way she felt around him, the way her body gripped him, the way her breath hitched every time he bottomed out.
"Harder," she begged. "Please, Leo, harder—"
He gave her harder.
His hips snapped forward, driving into her with a force that made the bed frame creak. She cried out, her hands fisting the sheets, her back arching off the mattress.
"Like that?"
"Yes—yes—don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
But he wanted more.
He pulled out—she whined at the loss—and flipped her onto her stomach. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her up onto her knees, and then he was behind her, pushing back inside before she could catch her breath.
This angle was different.
Deeper.
He was hitting something—that spot, that secret place inside her that made her see stars—and she sobbed into the pillow, her fingers clawing at the fabric.
"Take it," he growled. "Take all of it. You wanted it raw, baby, so fucking take it."
She took it.
He pounded into her, ruthless and relentless, his hips slapping against her ass with every thrust. She could hear how wet she was—the obscene, squelching sound of him fucking her bare—and it only made her hotter.
"So fucking good," he rasped. "So tight. So wet. Fuck, Miri, I'm gonna come—"
"Inside," she gasped. "Come inside me. Please—"
He groaned. A deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere primal.
And then he was coming.
She felt it—the first hot pulse of his release, flooding her cunt, filling her up. He thrust deep and held there, his cock twitching, his body shuddering, and she could feel every single spurt of his come as it painted her walls.
It triggered her own orgasm. A third one, sudden and shattering, ripping through her like lightning. She screamed his name—actually screamed it—as her body convulsed around him.
He collapsed on top of her.
They lay there, tangled and sweaty and breathless, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She could feel his heart pounding against her back, could feel his breath hot against her shoulder, could feel the last pulses of his cock still buried deep inside her.
"Holy fuck," he whispered.
She laughed. A breathless, giddy sound.
"Yeah," she said. "Holy fuck."
He rolled off her after a moment, but he didn't go far. He pulled her with him, tucking her against his side, his arm wrapped around her waist.
She could feel his come leaking out of her, trickling down her thigh. She should get up. She should clean herself off. She should—
He kissed her forehead.
"Stay," he said.
She stayed.
The party downstairs had long since died. The house was quiet now, the kind of quiet that comes after chaos. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine hummed. Somewhere else, a bird sang.
Miri closed her eyes.
She'd never felt like this before. Sated. Wanted. Seen.
She didn't know what happened next. She didn't know what they were or what this meant or if he'd want her again tomorrow.
But right now, in this moment, with his arm around her and his scent on her skin and his come still warm inside her—
She didn't care.
Right now, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
"Hey," Leo said, his voice soft.
She opened her eyes. "Yeah?"
"I'm glad you came to that party."
She smiled. It was small, tentative, but real.
"Me too."
Outside, the morning light grew brighter, spilling across the rumpled sheets and the tangled limbs and the two people who had somehow found each other in the chaos.
The world woke up around them.
And for once, Miri didn't feel like hiding from it.
Her body was a map of what they'd done.
She could feel it in the soreness between her legs, in the tender ache of her nipples, in the faint burn of scratches along her shoulders where his stubble had scraped her skin. She could feel it in the way her thighs trembled when she shifted, in the hollow emptiness that lingered after he pulled out, in the slow trickle of his come that had leaked onto the sheets beneath her.
She should have felt embarrassed.
She didn't.
Leo's arm was still draped over her waist, heavy and warm. His breath had slowed, evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep. She turned her head just enough to look at him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, the faint bruise on his neck where she'd sucked too hard.
She'd marked him.
The thought made something flutter in her chest.
Her glasses had slipped off at some point. She found them tangled in the sheets near her hip, one lens smeared with something she didn't want to identify. She wiped them on the corner of the fitted sheet and slid them back on.
The room came into focus.
It was a disaster. Clothes everywhere, empty energy drink cans on the nightstand, a half-eaten protein bar that had somehow ended up on the floor. The stack of history books in the corner caught her eye again—those cracked spines, those dog-eared pages.
She wondered if he'd actually read them.
She wondered what he thought of her, of this, of whatever they were doing.
The doubt crept in like cold air under a door. It was familiar, this feeling. The certainty that she'd misread something, that she'd wanted too much, that she was about to be gently let down.
She'd felt it a hundred times before. Watching crushes walk past her without a glance. Sitting alone at lunch while the rest of the world paired off around her. Convincing herself she was fine, that she didn't need anyone, that books were enough.
Books were not enough.
Not anymore.
Leo stirred beside her. His hand slid up her ribcage, fingers splaying across her sternum. He pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair.
"You're thinking too loud," he mumbled.
She laughed. Soft and surprised.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." He kissed the back of her neck. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
She hesitated.
Too many things. Too much. The weight of everything she'd done last night, everything she'd said, everything she'd begged for. She'd never been that person before—that bold, wanting, reckless person.
She didn't know if she liked her.
"I should probably go," she said.
His arm tightened.
"Why?"
"Because—" She stopped. Because I don't know what this is. Because I'm scared. Because I've never done this before and I don't know the rules.
"Because what?"
She turned in his arms. Faced him. His eyes were open now, clear and steady, watching her with an intensity that made her want to look away.
"I don't know what happens now," she admitted.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached up and pushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
"Breakfast," he said.
"What?"
"Breakfast happens now." He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. "I'm gonna make you breakfast."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. She watched the muscles in his back shift as he stood, the long line of his spine, the way his boxers hugged his hips.
He pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants from the floor. No shirt. Just those low-slung sweats and all that bare skin.
"You wait here," he said. "I'll be back."
He headed for the door.
Miri didn't know what possessed her.
Maybe it was the way the morning light caught the planes of his back. Maybe it was the soreness still throbbing between her legs, the emptiness that wanted to be filled again. Maybe it was the fact that he'd told her to wait, like she was something worth coming back to.
Whatever it was, she acted on it.
She lay back against the pillows. Let her knees fall open. Let the sheet slip down her body until she was exposed—everything, all of it, the swollen pink of her cunt still glistening with his come.
Leo turned at the door.
His eyes went wide.
He stared. Just stared, his hand frozen on the knob, his jaw working like he was trying to find words.
"Where," he said slowly, "did my shy little nerd go?"
Miri shrugged. The movement made her breasts shift, made the sheet slide lower.
"Your cock turned her into a horny nerd instead."
His laugh was sudden and loud. It filled the room, warm and genuine, and she found herself grinning back at him.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he said.
"I hope not."
He shook his head, still laughing, and pulled the door open.
"Don't move," he said. "I'll be right back."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Miri lay there for a moment, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. The house was quiet. Different from last night's chaos—no bass, no shouting, no crush of bodies. Just silence and sunlight and the faint smell of him on the pillow.
She sat up.
Her body protested. Muscles she didn't know she had ached. There was a tenderness deep inside her, a bruise on her cervix from how deep he'd been, how hard he'd fucked her.
She wanted more.
God, she wanted more.
She looked around the room. Her dress was crumpled on the floor by the door, and her shoes were somewhere—she spotted one under the bed, the other still missing. She wasn't about to walk through a frat house in a wrinkled dress that smelled like beer and sex.
Her eyes landed on a jersey.
It was draped over the back of a chair, dark blue with white numbers. Number 12. Leo's number, she realized. His name on the back in bold block letters.
She grabbed it.
The fabric was soft and worn, clearly loved. She pulled it over her head, and it swallowed her whole—the hem hit her mid-thigh, the sleeves hung past her fingertips, the collar wide enough to slip off one shoulder.
She looked ridiculous.
She felt perfect.
Her socks were still on the floor by the bed. Pink. Fuzzy. Utterly incongruous with the rest of her outfit, and somehow exactly right.
She pulled them on.
The hallway was empty. She padded down the stairs, her socked feet silent on the carpet, her bare thighs brushing against the inside of the jersey. The house smelled like stale beer and something else—something warm and sweet.
Pancakes.
She found the kitchen at the back of the house.
Leo stood at the stove, his back to her, a spatula in one hand. He'd put on a t-shirt at some point—a faded gray thing that clung to his shoulders—and he was humming under his breath, some song she didn't recognize.
She climbed onto the table behind him.
It was impulsive. She wasn't a climb-on-tables kind of person. She was a sit-quietly-and-wait kind of person. But something about this morning, about him, had rewritten the rules.
She sat on the edge of the table, her legs dangling, her heels thumping softly against the wooden legs. And she watched him.
The muscles in his back moved under his shirt as he flipped a pancake. The tendons in his forearms flexed. His shoulders—God, his shoulders—were broad enough to block out the light from the window.
"You know I can hear you, right?" he said without turning.
"Maybe I wanted you to."
He laughed. Low and warm.
"Getting bold, aren't we?"
"You made me pancakes. I think I've earned it."
He turned around.
He was holding a plate stacked high with pancakes, steam curling off them, golden and perfect. His mouth was open, ready to say something—probably something smug, probably something teasing.
Then he saw her.
The plate tilted. He caught it at the last second, both hands gripping the edges, but not before one pancake slid sideways and nearly toppled onto the floor.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
Miri bit her lip. "What?"
"You're wearing my jersey."
"I couldn't find my dress."
"It's on the floor by the door."
"I couldn't find it," she repeated, and this time she let herself smile.
He set the plate down on the counter. He was still staring at her—at the way the jersey hung on her, at the way her bare legs swung over the edge of the table, at the fuzzy pink socks that didn't match anything.
"You look—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Fuck, Miri."
"What?"
He crossed the kitchen. Two steps, three, and then he was standing between her legs, his hands braced on the table on either side of her hips. His face was close to hers, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
"You look like you belong here," he said.
The words hit her somewhere soft.
"Like you're mine," he added. "Like you should be wearing my number and sitting in my kitchen and eating my food."
She couldn't breathe.
"Is that okay?" he asked. The question was quieter, softer, stripped of its swagger.
"Yes."
He leaned in. His lips brushed her ear, warm and deliberate, and when he spoke again, his voice was a low, filthy murmur.
"You know what I thought when I saw you? I thought about lifting this jersey up, bending you over this table, and fucking you until you couldn't walk straight."
Her thighs clenched.
"But I made pancakes," he continued. "So we're gonna eat first."
He pulled back. His smirk was firmly in place.
He grabbed the plate, cut a triangle of pancake, and held it to her lips with his fingers.
"Open."
She opened.
The pancake was warm and sweet and perfect. She chewed slowly, watching him, and when she swallowed, she reached for the fork.
"My turn."
She cut a piece and fed it to him. He ate it without breaking eye contact, and something about the intimacy of it—feeding each other, standing between her legs, the kitchen quiet around them—made her chest ache.
They finished the plate like that. Piece by piece, finger by finger, passing bites between them. He told her about his mom's pancake recipe, something about buttermilk and fresh blueberries, and she told him about the medieval monk who'd written a treatise on the sin of gluttony while being four hundred pounds.
He laughed at that. A real laugh, head thrown back, shoulders shaking.
"Of course you know that," he said.
"I know a lot of useless things."
"Not useless." He set the empty plate aside. "You just know things other people don't. It's—" He paused. "It's kind of fucking hot, actually."
She blushed.
He noticed.
"Look at that," he said. "Still can't take a compliment without turning red."
"I can. I just—"
"You just what?"
She didn't have an answer.
He kissed her.
It was gentle at first. Soft. His lips moving against hers like he had all the time in the world. But then his tongue slid inside her mouth, and his hands found her hips, and she was pulling him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist.
Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
She moaned into his mouth.
He groaned back.
And then—
Someone coughed.
They froze.
Leo pulled back slowly. His hands were still on her hips, his lips still wet. He turned his head toward the doorway, and Miri followed his gaze.
A man stood there.
He was tall and lean, with dark hair and pale eyes and a jaw that could cut glass. He was holding a cup of coffee, steam curling from the rim, and he was looking at them like he'd just walked in on something he wasn't supposed to see.
Which, technically, he had.
"Ryan," Leo said.
The man—Ryan—took a slow sip of his coffee. His eyes flicked to Miri, then back to Leo.
"Morning," he said.