Chapter 4: The Apartment Threshold
The door clicked shut behind them, the sound sharp and final in the quiet apartment. The amber glow from the single floor lamp cast long shadows across the worn couch, the coffee table littered with forensic psychology textbooks—criminal profiling, behavioral analysis, a dog-eared copy of The Anatomy of Violence with sticky notes bristling from the pages. The air smelled like coffee, old paper, and something floral—the same scent that had been driving him crazy since the party.
Emily turned to face him. Her back pressed against the door, hands flat against the wood, watching him with dark, hooded eyes. The flickering streetlight outside filtered through the blinds, striping her face in gold and shadow.
Stiles opened his mouth to say something—he didn't know what, probably something stupid, something rambling about the state of her apartment or the books or the weather—but the words died in his throat. Because she was looking at him like she was starving, and he was the only meal on the table.
She crossed the room in three strides, grabbed the front of his jacket, and pulled him into a kiss that wasn't soft or tentative or questioning. It was hungry. Demanding. Her tongue swept into his mouth like she was claiming territory, and his brain—that relentless, overthinking, always-spinning brain—went blank. Completely. Utterly. Silent.
His hands found her waist, gripping the thick fabric of her coat, and he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss until there was no space left between them. She tasted like the cheap beer from the party and something sweeter beneath it, something that was just her. She pushed the jacket off his shoulders, and it fell to the floor with a soft thud, followed by hers—a whisper of fabric against skin.
They stumbled toward the couch, a clumsy, desperate tangle of limbs and breath. Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, impatient, fumbling, and he laughed against her mouth—a breathless, surprised sound—before he grabbed the hem and yanked it over his head. The cooler air hit his bare skin, raising goosebumps, but she was already pressing against him, warm and solid, her hands running up his chest like she was memorizing him.
"Jesus," she breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes dragged down his body, taking in the pale skin, the wiry muscle, the scattered scars—a thin one along his ribs, a faded burn mark on his shoulder that he'd never explained to anyone. She traced the scar on his ribs with her fingertips, feather-light. "Where'd you get this one?"
"Mountain bike accident," he said automatically. It was a lie, but it was the lie he always told. The truth—a hunter's knife, a narrow escape in the Preserve—was not a story for a first night together.
She didn't push. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips to the scar, soft and warm, and he felt something crack open in his chest. Then her mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing his collarbone, and all coherent thought evaporated.
He reached behind her, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It took him three tries—her soft laugh vibrating against his skin—before it finally came undone, and she shrugged the straps down her shoulders, letting the lacy fabric fall away. Her breasts spilled out, full and heavy, her nipples already hard and dark against the pale curve of her skin.
"Fuck," he whispered, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Emily grinned, a flash of teeth, and then she pushed him. He fell backward onto the couch, the old springs groaning under his weight, and she climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs. The heat of her hit him through both their jeans—a damp, urgent warmth that made his hips buck involuntarily.
She rolled her hips against him, slow and deliberate, grinding her center against the hard ridge of his cock. The friction was maddening, even through layers of denim. He grabbed her hips, gripping tight, and she let out a low moan that shot straight to his dick.
"Since the moment you grabbed my hand at that party," she breathed, leaning forward, her hair falling around them like a curtain. "I've wanted this. Wanted you."
"Emily—" He tried to say something clever, something smooth, but she cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against his.
She reached down, her fingers working at the button of his jeans, and he heard the zipper rasp open. Then her hand slipped inside, past his boxers, and wrapped around his cock. He groaned into her mouth, his hips jerking at the contact.
She stroked him slowly at first, a teasing drag from base to tip, and the precum was already slicking the way. She gathered it with her thumb, smearing it over the swollen head, and the sound he made was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
"I need you inside me," she whispered, breath hot against his lips.
She pulled his cock free—thick and aching, the head flushed and glistening—and shifted her weight. She'd already shimmied out of her jeans and panties somehow, and he hadn't even noticed. She was bare above him, her thighs slick with arousal, her folds glistening in the amber light.
She positioned herself over him, the tip of his cock pressing against her entrance, and then she sank down.
The sensation was overwhelming. She was so tight, so hot, her walls clenching around him as she took him inch by inch. They both groaned—a raw, broken sound that filled the small apartment. Her eyes fluttered closed, her head tipping back, and she didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
"Fuck," she breathed, the word trembling on her lips.
"Fuck," he echoed, gripping her hips so hard he knew he'd leave bruises.
She began to ride him, slow at first, finding a rhythm that made both of them gasp. Her inner walls gripped him, squeezing and releasing, and he felt every inch of her. The way she rolled her hips, grinding down at the apex of each stroke, made his vision blur.
He thrust up to meet her, matching her pace, and she whimpered—a high, desperate sound that made his balls tighten. Her breasts bounced in front of him, full and perfect, her nipples pink and rigid.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he grunted.
She leaned forward, her hands braced on his chest, and the new angle made him hit deeper, the head of his cock pressing against the soft, sensitive spot inside her. She cried out, her rhythm stuttering.
"Right there," she panted, her hips moving faster. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
He didn't. He drove up into her, relentless, the couch creaking beneath them, the springs groaning in protest. She rode him harder, faster, her clit grinding against his pubic bone, and he could feel her trembling, her walls starting to flutter around him.
"I'm gonna come," she gasped, her nails digging into his chest. "Stiles, I'm gonna—"
She shattered. Her body arched, her mouth open in a silent scream, and then she cried out his name, raw and desperate, as her orgasm ripped through her. Her walls milked his cock, clenching and releasing in waves, and he felt himself teetering on the edge.
But he wasn't done yet.
He grabbed her waist, flipped her onto her back in one fluid motion, and she landed on the couch with a surprised gasp. He pulled out, his cock slick and aching, and knelt between her thighs. She spread her legs wide for him, shameless, inviting, and he took a moment to look at her.
Her glistening folds were swollen and slick, reddened from friction. She was beautiful like this—open, desperate, completely undone. He wanted to devour her.
He lowered his head and buried his face between her thighs.
She tasted like salt and honey and raw, womanly heat. He licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit, and she shuddered, her hips bucking against his mouth. He lashed her clit with his tongue, flicking it in quick, sharp strokes, and slipped two fingers inside her, curling them against that spot he'd found.
"Fuck—Stiles—" She grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face. "Just like that. Don't stop."
He didn't. He worked her with his tongue and fingers, driving her higher and higher, and when she came again, she soaked his face, her thighs clamping around his head, her body convulsing with the force of her release. He lapped at her, drinking her in, until she finally pushed at his shoulders, whimpering.
"Enough," she gasped. "I need you inside me. Now."
He rose, positioning himself at her entrance, and looked her in the eye. She was wrecked—her hair a mess, her lips swollen, her chest heaving—and she'd never looked more beautiful.
He slammed into her.
She cried out, her back arching as he buried himself to the hilt. He pulled out and slammed in again, relentless, deep, the headboard banging against the wall in a frantic rhythm.
"Take it, you dirty girl," he panted, driving into her with a savagery that surprised them both.
"Yes," she moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Give it to me. All of it."
They fucked like that—a frenzy of sweat and desperate, slapping skin. He drove into her relentlessly, each stroke hitting deeper, and she met him thrust for thrust, her nails raking down his back. He was going to have marks. He didn't care.
Her walls started to flutter again, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"I'm gonna come again," she whimpered.
"Come for me," he growled. "I'm right behind you."
She shattered, her body convulsing around him, and that was all it took. He roared, slamming into her one last time, and painted her stomach with hot, pulsing streaks. He collapsed on top of her, his forehead resting against hers, both of them gasping for air.
For a long moment, they lay there in a tangled heap, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant buzz of the streetlamp outside.
Emily's fingers traced lazy patterns on his back. "So," she whispered, her voice hoarse, "round two in the shower?"
Stiles laughed, a breathless, disbelieving sound. He lifted his head just enough to look at her, and she was grinning—that wicked, knowing grin that made his heart race.
"The shower?" he echoed, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Emily, you're going to kill me."
Her grin widened. "I'll try not to." She reached down, her hand wrapping around his semi-hard cock. "But I make no promises."
He leaned in and kissed her, soft and deep, tasting himself on her tongue. Then he pulled back, his eyes dark with fresh hunger. "Lead the way."