Chapter 2: The Morning After: Terms of Surrender
The steam from her mug curled between them, a fragile, dissipating thread. Her hands on his chest were warm through the cotton of his shirt. He could feel the steady, anxious beat of his own heart under her palms.
He covered her hands with his, holding them there. The morning light was too bright, too ordinary for the conversation they were having. It glinted off the knife block on the counter, off the chrome of the toaster.
“I’ve been thinking, too,” he said, his voice low. “All night. And my brain keeps getting stuck on the same two pictures.”
“What pictures?”
He exhaled slowly. “One is of Mark. My best friend since college. A guy who cried at his own wedding when he saw Amanda walk down the aisle. Now I’m picturing him… with you. And my stomach just… knots up. It’s pure, animal ‘no.’”
Krissy’s fingers flexed against his chest. She didn’t look away.
“The other picture,” he continued, “is of Amanda on that floor. The sound her voice made when she said ‘barren.’ That’s a word that shouldn’t exist for someone like her. And I picture us in ten years, at some backyard BBQ, watching them be sad ghosts of themselves, and we knew we could have stopped it. And that feels like a different kind of ‘no.’ A guilty, heavy one.”
“So we’re trapped between two ‘no’s,” she whispered.
“Maybe.” He squeezed her hands. “Or maybe we build a bridge between them. With rules. Rules so thick and clear that we can almost pretend it’s something else.”
“What kind of rules?”
He let go of her and walked to the window, looking out at their empty patio. He needed the distance to say it. “You said clinical. Like a dental cleaning. But that’s the problem. That makes it a violation. Something cold done to your body. I can’t…” He turned back to face her. “I can’t sign off on that. I can’t agree to let him just use you, even if you think you can stomach it.”
He saw confusion flicker in her eyes. “Then what?”
“If it happens… he has to make it good for you.”
The words dropped into the sunny kitchen, stark and unbelievable.
Krissy blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Tim’s jaw was tight. “No lying there thinking of England. No just getting through it. He has to… care for you. Be present with you. Make you feel wanted. Cherished, even. Because if it’s just a transaction, it’ll break you. And it’ll break us. But if it’s… an act of love, even a borrowed, temporary, fucked-up kind of love… maybe it doesn’t have to leave a scar. Maybe it can just be a thing that happened, for a reason.”
He was paraphrasing her own desperate logic back to her, bending it into a shape he could somehow hold. “You need to be able to separate it from violation. That’s the only way. And you can’t do that if he’s just a robot depositing genetic material.”
Krissy’s face was a mask of stunned processing. “You’re asking him to make love to me.”
“I’m asking him to care for you,” Tim insisted, the distinction feeling razor-thin but vital. “To pay attention. To make sure you’re not just tolerating it. I know Mark. He’s a gentle guy. He can do that. He would do that, if it was part of the deal. It’s the only way I can say yes.”
He walked back to her, standing close. “And the other side of it. Amanda. Her… offer. If this is about balance, about fairness, then it can’t be her just servicing me out of guilt. That’s just another violation. If she’s with me, she has to be with me. Fully. Grateful, yes. But present. Not a martyr. Not a paying customer. She has to want to be there, for me. To make it good for me, because she wants to, not because she’s tallying a debt.”
He saw the implication dawn on Krissy’s face. It wasn’t just about regulating the acts. It was about demanding an emotional exchange to protect their own emotions. It was insane. It was perilous. It might be the only guardrail they had.
“You’re talking about two… relationships,” she said slowly.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Temporary arrangements. With a single, clear purpose. But they have to be human. Or they’ll destroy us. Those are my conditions.”
Silence, again. But this was a working silence. Krissy picked up her mug, took a sip, winced at how cold it had gotten. She put it in the sink and turned on the faucet, watching the water swirl. “They’ll agree,” she said, almost to herself. “Amanda will agree to anything. Mark… he’ll do what she needs.”
“I know.”
“So we’re really doing this.” It wasn’t a question this time. It was a grim acknowledgment.
“We’re thinking about it,” Tim corrected. “We’re setting terms. Then we see if they can live in the world we’ve drawn. And if we can.”
She turned off the water and leaned on the sink, her back to him. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. When she turned around, her expression had changed. The vulnerability was hardening into a focused resolve. It was the look she got when tackling a complex project at work.
“Okay,” she said. “Then we need to be specific. How many times? Where? What… what are the rules for us, here, in between?”
They spent the next hour at the kitchen table, sunlight tracking across the wood. They spoke in low, practical tones, like planners mapping a covert operation. They used plain, ugly words because pretty ones would have been a lie.
It would be once a month, timed to Krissy’s ovulation. No more. They would use Amanda and Mark’s guest room. It felt less invasive than their own home. They would not discuss details afterward. No comparisons. No post-mortems. Their own intimacy—their sex life—was to be protected, cherished, and kept completely separate. It was their sanctuary.
They drafted a list, not on paper, but in the air between them. Condoms? No. The point was conception. Birth control? Krissy would stop her pills immediately. Testing? Both couples would get full panels next week. Privacy? Absolute. No one else could ever know.
The final, unspoken rule hung over it all: They would stop if it broke them. Any one of them could call it off, at any time, for any reason. No explanations needed.
By the time the coffee pot was empty, the structure was built. It felt flimsy and monstrous, a house of cards on a fault line.
Tim’s phone buzzed on the table. A text from Mark. ‘Can we talk today? Anywhere you want.’
Krissy read it over his shoulder. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, a light, steadying weight. “Call him,” she said. “Tell them to come here. For dinner. We’ll… lay out the bridge.”
They arrived just after seven, carrying a bottle of wine like a normal couple coming for a normal dinner. The gesture was so tragically ordinary it made Tim’s chest ache. Amanda’s eyes were huge, nervously scanning Krissy’s face for clues. Mark looked like he hadn’t slept, his usual easy smile nowhere to be found.
Dinner was a quiet, strained affair. Krissy had made a pasta dish, but no one ate much. The clink of forks on plates was too loud. They made stilted small talk about work, about a movie none of them had seen, the words bouncing hollowly around the dining room.
Finally, as Krissy was clearing the barely-touched plates, Amanda broke. She couldn’t bear the politeness another second.
“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. “Just tell us. However you’ve decided. It’s okay. We can take it.”
Tim wiped his mouth with his napkin, a slow, deliberate motion. He looked at Krissy, who gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. She sat back down, folding her hands on the table.
“We’ve talked,” Tim began. His voice was calm, steadier than he felt. “A lot. And we’re willing to… explore this. But not the way you proposed.”
Amanda’s breath hitched, a spark of hope flashing in her eyes. Mark just watched, wary.
Krissy took over, her tone soft but firm. “If this happens, Manda, it can’t be a clinical thing. I can’t just be a vessel. And you,” she said, looking at Mark, “can’t just be a… technician.”
Mark’s cheeks flushed a dull red. He nodded, accepting the blunt assessment.
Tim leaned forward. “My condition—our condition—is that this isn’t treated like a job. Krissy needs to feel cared for. Safe. Wanted. Not used. You have to be present with her, Mark. You have to make sure she’s okay. That it’s not just… endured.”
Mark’s eyes flicked to Krissy, a pained apology in them, then back to Tim. He nodded again, more firmly this time. “I would never want her to feel… used. Of course. I can do that.” His voice was rough with gratitude and shame.
“And on the other side,” Tim continued, turning to Amanda. He forced himself to meet her desperate gaze. “Your offer. If we do this, it can’t be you paying a bill. I won’t be a… client. If you’re with me, you’re with me. Fully. Not out of guilt, but because you want to be there. To make it good. To make it equal. It has to be real, Amanda. Or the imbalance will rot everything.”
Amanda listened, tears welling but not falling. She was processing, her sharp mind grasping the nuance. This wasn’t a simple green light. It was a transformation of her crude bargain into something infinitely more complex and dangerous. She reached for Mark’s hand under the table, clutching it.
“You’re saying we have to… have feelings,” she said quietly.
“We’re saying you have to show up,” Krissy corrected. “With your whole self. Not just your body. For each other’s partners. It’s the only way this isn’t poison.”
The room was utterly still. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked once, twice.
“We can do that,” Amanda whispered, her eyes burning with a ferocious, determined light. “I can do that. For you, Tim. For real. Not just because I owe you. But because…” She swallowed. “Because you’d be giving us everything. And I’d want to give you something real back.”
Mark looked at Tim, a silent, profound understanding passing between them—a mix of brotherhood and betrayal, fused together. “I will care for her, Tim. I promise you. I’ll… I’ll make sure she feels good.”
The promises hung in the air, sacred and terrifying.
“There are practical rules,” Tim said, and he laid them out. The timeline. The location. The secrecy. The right to stop. They listened, agreeing to each point, their heads nodding in unison like solemn disciples.
When it was done, there was no relief. Only a vast, reverberating tension, the sense of having stepped off a cliff and still waiting for the fall.
Amanda stood up suddenly. She came around the table to Krissy, knelt beside her chair just as she had the night before, but this time she didn’t grab her hands. She just looked up at her, her face raw with emotion. “Thank you,” she breathed. “You are saving me. You are saving us.”
Then she turned to Tim. She didn’t kneel. She stepped to him, placed a hand on his cheek. Her touch was startlingly intimate, a preview of her promise. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice firm now. “I won’t let you down. I’ll be everything you need. You have my heart, Tim. For as long as this takes.”
She kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft, and she lingered for a second, her eyes closing. It was a seal on the pact.
Later, after they had left, the house felt different. The silence wasn’t just quiet; it was charged, waiting. Tim stood at the sink, washing the wine glasses. Krissy came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her face between his shoulder blades.
“It’s done,” she said, her voice muffled.
He shut off the water, his wet hands dripping on the counter. He turned in her arms and held her, burying his face in her hair. He could smell the pasta sauce on her, the familiar scent of home, now forever layered with the memory of Amanda’s lavender perfume and the taste of a promise that would change everything.
“It’s started,” he whispered back.
He held her tightly, as if the physical pressure could keep their carefully built world from flying apart. Outside, the night was dark and total. The bridge was built. Tomorrow, they would have to take the first step onto it.
Tomorrow, they would have to take the first step onto it.
The thought was a live wire in the quiet house, buzzing through the next afternoon. Tim tried to read a book. Krissy folded the same laundry three times. Normal life had become a poorly-fitting costume. The planned monthly schedule, the clinical distance they’d tried to impose, already felt like a lie told to comfort children.
By evening, the tension was a physical presence, thick in the air of their living room. They sat on opposite ends of the sofa, a cavernous space between them, pretending to watch a cooking show. The vibrant colors on the screen were a brutal contrast to the gray static filling Tim’s head.
He muted the television. The silence that rushed in was worse.
“This is insane,” Krissy said, not looking at him. She was stating a fact, not asking a question.
“Yes.” He agreed simply.
She picked at a thread on the cushion. “Waiting a month feels like… torture. It just stretches the dread out. Makes it into a whole thing. A production.”
Tim knew what she meant. The idea of marking a date on the calendar, of living in this suspended state for weeks, was its own special agony. It would poison every normal moment. The anticipation would become a monster.
He turned to look at her profile, lit by the flickering blue light of the silent TV. “What if we didn’t wait?”
She finally glanced at him, her eyes wide. “What?”
“What if we just… did it?” The words felt jagged coming out. “Tonight. Rip the bandage off. See if the world actually ends. One time, on our terms, before the schedule makes it feel like a… a chore.”
Krissy stared at him. He could see the calculations flying behind her eyes—the terror, the sudden, perverse relief. “They’d never agree. They’d think we were crazy.”
“Call them,” Tim said, his own pulse hammering in his ears. This was madness. It felt like the only sane option left. “Ask them. Right now.”
She didn’t move for a long minute. Then, with a swift, decisive movement, she grabbed her phone from the coffee table. Her thumb hovered over Amanda’s contact. She took a sharp, shaky breath and pressed call, putting it on speaker.
It rang once. Twice.
“Krissy?” Amanda’s voice was tight, expectant.
“Are you and Mark home?” Krissy’s voice was surprisingly steady.
“Yes. Why? What’s wrong?” Panic edged her tone.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Krissy closed her eyes. “Tim had a question. For both of you.” She looked at him, a silent command to proceed.
Tim leaned toward the phone. “The waiting,” he said. “It’s going to kill us. All of us. So I’m asking. Do you want to do this tonight?”
A deafening silence screamed from the speaker. He imagined them in their own living room, frozen, staring at each other.
Then, a rustle. Mark’s voice, closer to the receiver, rough with disbelief. “Tonight? Like… now?”
“Yes.” Tim’s voice was flat. “No more talking. No more planning. We come over. We do what we said we’d do. We see if we can survive it.”
Another pause, shorter this time. He heard a frantic, whispered conversation, too muffled to make out. Then Amanda came back on, her voice breathless, electric. “Yes. God, yes. Please. Come over. Now.”
“Okay,” Tim said. His mouth was dry. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He ended the call. The finality of the click was horrifying.
Krissy was already standing, a strange, detached efficiency taking over. “I need to… I don’t know. Shower? Brush my teeth?” She gave a hollow laugh. “What does one wear to this?”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the familiar house. Every light seemed to be on, blazing against the deepening twilight. It looked like a staged home, too bright, too exposed.
Amanda opened the door before they could knock. She was dressed in simple jeans and a sweater, but her eyes were wild, her hair slightly mussed as if she’d been running her hands through it. She looked past them to their car. “Did you bring… things?”
Tim shook his head, numb. “We didn’t think to…”
“It’s fine,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “Mark just left. He’s getting… supplies. I have… I have things.” She stepped back to let them in. The lavender candle scent was overpowering tonight, a sweet, cloying blanket over the house.
The living room, the scene of the original plea, felt like a stage. Mark returned ten minutes later, a small paper bag in his hand. He looked like a man returning from a surreal errand. He nodded at Tim, a grim, wordless acknowledgment, and set the bag on the side table.
Amanda vanished down the hallway and came back with a silk garment bag, pale pink, which she laid carefully over the back of an armchair. She faced them, her hands clasped in front of her. “I want this to be right,” she said, her voice fervent. “For you, Tim. I want it to be… loving. Thankful. Not just… I brought something to wear. For me. For you.”
Tim just nodded, unable to form words. The clinical structure was crumbling by the second.
Mark cleared his throat. He gestured to the paper bag. “I got… lube. The good kind. Smooth. And, uh…” He looked painfully embarrassed. “Some… candles. And massage oil. Unscented. In case… in case it helps. With… you know. Making it not scary.”
Krissy made a small sound, almost a whimper, quickly stifled. She was looking at Mark, really looking at him, perhaps for the first time since this began—not as her sister’s husband, but as the man she was about to let inside her body. She saw the gentle anxiety in his face, the earnest desire to not be a monster. It changed something.
“Okay,” Krissy whispered. It was the only word left.
The four of them stood there in the overlit living room, adrift in a sea of unbearable intention. The pink silk on the chair, the paper bag of intimacy aids, the frantic energy of Amanda’s determination, Mark’s clumsy thoughtfulness—it was all suddenly, absurdly real.
“So,” Tim said, the word cracking the fragile silence. “I guess… we go to different rooms.”
Amanda stepped forward. She took Tim’s hand. Her fingers were ice cold, but her grip was firm. “Come with me,” she said, her eyes locking onto his. They held a terrifying mix of desperation and a fierce, focused promise. She glanced at the silk bag. “I’ll be just a minute.”
Mark looked at Krissy, his expression open, vulnerable. “The guest room is… it’s made up. I can… we can go in whenever you’re ready.” He didn’t move, waiting for her cue.
Krissy looked at Tim one last time. Her eyes were a storm of fear, love, and a resignation that was almost peaceful. She gave him the faintest nod. Then she turned and walked toward the hallway, Mark following a careful step behind, the paper bag in his hand.
Tim watched her go until she turned the corner and disappeared. The hallway swallowed her. Amanda’s cold hand tugged gently on his, leading him in the opposite direction, toward the master bedroom. The door clicked shut behind them, and the sound was like a guillotine dropping, severing the before from the irrevocable after.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the sound was like a guillotine dropping, severing the before from the irrevocable after.
Amanda’s bedroom was dim, lit only by a small crystal lamp on her dresser. The air here was different—warmer, closer, saturated with the scent of her skin and that same persistent lavender. The bed was neatly made, a deep blue comforter pulled tight. She hadn’t moved. She just stood there, her back to him, her fingers working at the buttons of her sweater.
Tim’s feet were rooted to the cream carpet. This was real. Krissy was down the hall. His mind spun, a dizzying carousel of guilt and a dark, unwanted thrum of anticipation. He watched the sweater slip from Amanda’s shoulders. It whispered as it fell to the floor.
“You can undress too,” she said softly, not turning around. Her voice was different now—lower, more sure. This was her domain. She reached for the pale pink silk garment bag, unzipping it with a slow, deliberate sound.
In the guest room, the silence was a physical weight. Krissy stood in the center of the space, hugging herself. The room was pleasant, impersonal. A watercolor of a beach on the wall. A tidy, unused feel. Mark set the paper bag down on the nightstand with a soft crinkle.
“You don’t have to just stand there,” he said, his voice gentle. He didn’t approach her. “We can… sit. Talk for a minute. However long you need.”
Krissy shook her head, a quick, frantic jerk. “If we talk, I’ll run. Just… just do what we’re here to do.” Her words were brittle, sharp with fear.
Back in the master bedroom, the silk slithered free. Amanda held it up—a simple, exquisite negligee, the color of a pale rose. It was barely there, sheer and fluid. She finally turned to face him, clutching the fabric to her chest. Her eyes were huge in the lamplight, but the desperate ghost from the living room floor was gone. In its place was a fierce, vulnerable focus.On him.
“I meant what I said, Tim,” she whispered. “This isn’t a transaction for me. Not anymore.” She let the silk slip from her fingers, pooling at her feet. She stood in just her plain cotton panties, her body a mirror of her sister’s—the impossible, heavy curves, the soft pale skin. But her posture was all Amanda—direct, unashamed, offering herself.
Tim’s breath caught. The visual was a shock, a glorious, terrifying violation of every boundary. He fumbled with his own shirt buttons, his fingers clumsy.
“Let me,” Amanda murmured. She closed the distance between them. Her hands brushed his away, her fingertips cool as she worked the remaining buttons. She pushed the shirt from his shoulders, her palms sliding down his arms. Her touch was deliberate, studying him. “Thank you,” she breathed, her lips close to his collarbone. “Thank you for letting me do this. For letting me try to give you something real.”
Her gratitude wasn’t servile. It was fervent, almost devotional. It scraped against his guilt and somehow, perversely, stoked the heat low in his belly.
In the guest room, Mark took a single step forward. “Krissy. Look at me. Please.”
She forced her gaze up to his face. He looked pained, earnest. He hadn’t undressed. He just stood there in his jeans and t-shirt, a man waiting for a verdict.
“The rules,” he said slowly. “Tim’s condition. I need you to be… with me. Not somewhere else. Can you try?”
A tear traced a hot path down her cheek. She nodded, a barely-there movement. “I don’t know how.”
“We start simple,” he said. He reached out, so slowly, and took her hand. His skin was warm, dry. He lifted her hand and pressed her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. It hammered under her touch. “See?” he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’m scared shitless, too. We’re just two scared people. That’s all this is right now.”
The solid beat of his heart under her hand was an anchor. It was real. He was real. Not a concept, not a monster. Just Mark. Her friend. She let out a shuddering breath. Her other hand came up, resting on his other pec. She could feel the firm muscle beneath the soft cotton.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Amanda’s hands were on Tim’s belt now. The leather slid through the buckle with a soft, definitive hiss. The rasp of his zipper was deafening in the quiet room. She pushed his pants and boxers down together, her knuckles grazing the hardening length of him as she did. He kicked free of the fabric, standing naked before her.
She didn’t stare. She simply knelt, her eyes level with his stomach. She pressed her face against his lower abdomen, her breath hot on his skin. “I’m going to love you now, Tim,” she said, the words a vibration against him. “However you’ll let me.”
She looked up, her gaze traveling the length of his body to meet his eyes. Then she leaned in and took him into her mouth.
It was not tentative. It was a deep, wet, encompassing swallow, her lips forming a perfect, tight seal around his shaft. The sensation was electric, a bolt of pure, filthy pleasure that wiped his mind clean of thought. Her tongue pressed hard against the sensitive underside as she pulled back, then slid down again, taking him deep into the heat of her throat.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his hands finding her hair. It was softer than he’d imagined.
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling through his entire body. Her pace was steady, relentless, practiced. She used her hand in tandem with her mouth, twisting on the upstroke, her thumb swiping over the slick head. She was an expert, and she was applying all her skill for him, with a focused intensity that was profoundly erotic. Every slurp, every deep, guttural swallow was a deliberate act of thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, Mark was watching Krissy’s face. Her eyes were closed, her brow furrowed in concentration as she felt the proof of his nervousness under her palms. He leaned down, his movement slow enough to give her every chance to pull away.
He kissed her.
It was not a kiss of passion, but of connection. Soft. Questioning. Just the press of his lips against hers, holding there. Krissy went rigid for a second, a small sound escaping her nose. Then her lips softened, parting just enough. He tasted like the wine from dinner, and like mint. A familiar, normal taste.
He pulled back an inch. “Still with me?”
She nodded, her eyes still closed. “Still with you.”
He kissed her again. This time, there was more pressure. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. Her hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt. The kiss deepened naturally, inevitably. His tongue touched her lower lip, and she opened for him.
The world narrowed to the warm, wet slide of his tongue against hers. It was strange, different from Tim—slightly firmer, a different rhythm. But it was not unpleasant. It was just new. A shocking, intimate newness that made her dizzy.
Her body began to respond despite the screaming in her mind. A low, reluctant heat kindled in her belly. Her grip on his shoulders tightened.
Feeling it, Mark broke the kiss. He rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. “You’re so beautiful, Krissy,” he whispered, and it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded like a painful, grateful acknowledgement. “This is so fucking crazy. But you’re so beautiful.”
He straightened up and, keeping his eyes locked on hers, pulled his t-shirt over his head. His chest was broader than Tim’s, more defined with muscle. He was breathing harder now. He reached for the button of her blouse.
Her hands flew up to cover his, stopping him. A silent plea flashed in her eyes.
“Just the top,” he said softly, negotiating. “Let me see you. Please. Let me start there.”
Her hands fell away, trembling. He undid each button with meticulous care, parting the fabric. She wore a simple, practical bra, straining under the immense weight of her breasts. He unhooked it in the back with a surprisingly deft flick of his fingers.
The bra fell away.
Mark’s breath left him in a audible rush. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, reverent and utterly overwhelmed. He had seen Amanda’s body a thousand times, but this was different. This was Krissy. Shy, quiet Krissy, revealed. Her breasts were breathtakingly large, full and heavy, the pale pink of her areolae almost blending into the creamy skin, her nipples small and inverted. He cupped their overwhelming weight in his hands, not groping, just holding, as if testing a miraculous reality.
His thumbs swept over the soft, hidden points of her nipples. A sharp, unexpected jolt of sensation made Krissy gasp. It arched her back, pushing her chest further into his hands.
“You like that?” he asked, his voice rough.
She could only nod, her face flushed with a confusing cocktail of shame and raw feeling. He did it again, circling the tender skin, and her nipple slowly, impossibly, began to peak and harden under his touch, emerging from its inverted state, becoming a tight, sensitive bud.
He lowered his head and took it into his mouth.
The sensation was blinding. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue flicking and circling the newly emerged peak with an expertise that felt illicit. A deep, involuntary moan tore from Krissy’s throat. Her hands tangled in his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on as her knees buckled.
He supported her, walking her backward until the backs of her legs hit the bed. He laid her down, following her, his mouth never leaving her breast. He lavished attention on one, then the other, until both nipples were hard, aching points. His hand slid down her stomach, over the curve of her hip, and dipped beneath the waistband of her leggings.
He found her smooth, bare skin. Found the wet heat already gathering there, betraying her.
“You’re ready,” he murmured against her breast, the words vibrating through her. It wasn’t a boast. It was a stunned, grateful observation. “Your body is so ready, Krissy.”
He stripped her leggings and panties off in one smooth motion. He knelt between her legs, just looking at her. Her smooth, hairless sex, glistening for him. He let out a shaky breath. “God, you’re perfect.”
He didn’t enter her. He leaned forward and kissed the inside of her thigh, his stubble scratching softly. He kissed the other. He nuzzled the soft, sensitive skin of her lower belly. He was taking his time, worshipping her, dismantling her fear piece by piece with a patience she hadn’t known he possessed.
His mouth finally found her core. His tongue was a flat, hot stroke through her slick folds.
Krissy cried out, her hips lifting off the bed. It was too much. Too intimate. Too good. Her sister’s husband’s face was buried between her legs, his tongue expertly seeking the tight, swollen bud of her clit. He licked her like he had all night, a slow, relentless, loving rhythm that built a terrifying pressure in her core. She was panting, her own fingers now digging into the duvet, her mind a white noise of pleasure and wrongness.
“Mark… I can’t…”
“You can,” he murmured, his breath hot against her. “Let go, Krissy. Just for now. Let me love you. Let me make you feel good.” He returned to his work, adding a finger, then two, sliding them deep inside her tight channel, curling them upward.
The dual assault was devastating. Her body, so long conditioned to Tim’s touch, recognized a different, masterful cadence and simply surrendered. The orgasm broke over her like a wave, shocking in its intensity. It wracked her, tearing a ragged scream from her throat as she pulsed around his fingers, her back arched, her enormous breasts shaking with the force of it.
He eased her through it, gentling his touch until she collapsed, boneless and trembling, onto the bed. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. He moved up her body, wiping his mouth on his arm. He looked down at her ravished face, her well-fucked body, with something like awe.
“Now,” he whispered, his own need straining against his jeans. “Now, Krissy. Please.”
She was pliant, floating in a post-orgasmic haze where rules and names blurred. She reached for him, her hands fumbling with his belt. She needed him inside her. The desperation had transferred, become a physical, screaming need in her own empty womb. He helped her, shoving his jeans down, his cock springing free, thick and hard and so different from Tim’s.
He nudged at her entrance, slick with her own climax and his saliva. He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion.
Krissy’s eyes flew open at the feel of him. He was bigger. Thicker. A stretching, burning fullness that stole her breath. “Oh, God,” she whimpered, a mix of pain and overwhelming fullness.
“I’ve got you,” he choked out, holding himself still, letting her adjust. He was trembling with the effort. He bent and kissed her, swallowing her whimpers. “You feel like heaven. So fucking tight.”
He began to move.