Chapter 1: Tequila and Tangled Tongues
We were drinking. Alone.
The bulb in Elina’s kitchen was the kind of yellow that made everything look vaguely sick, or forgotten. It pooled on the linoleum and made our half-empty margarita glasses seem like artifacts from a much louder, earlier part of the night. The air was sticky with the scent of cheap tequila and lime, undercut by something else—the quiet, humming aftermath of a party that had evaporated, leaving just the two of us in its wake.
The microwave clock read 2:17 AM. Its door was fogged up from where we’d nuked some frozen taquitos hours ago, the condensation now just a smeary ghost.
“I think Mark left with Stacey,” Elina said, her voice softer than usual. She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip. Her nails were short, clean, a pale pink.
“Figured,” I said, leaning back against the counter. I watched her. The light caught the almost-red strands in her brown hair, turned them into filaments of copper. She had this sharp, elegant face that could look severe until she laughed, and then it all melted. Right now, it was serious.
She looked up, those big eyes finding mine. “Kinda weird being the last ones standing.”
“Not weird,” I said. “Quiet.”
A smile touched her lips, then faded. She took a sip, her throat working. My eyes followed the line of it, down to where her collar gaped. Her skin was so pale it seemed to glow in this awful light. I’d always noticed her. Not just the obvious stuff, the plush curve of her chest under her thin t-shirt, the way her jeans hugged her hips. It was her hands. The elegant length of her fingers. The specific way she moved, a contained economy that suggested strength.
She put her glass down with a definitive click. “So. We finishing this?” She gestured to the pitcher between us, maybe a third full of watery, melting slush.
“Your call.”
“My call,” she echoed, almost to herself. Then she pushed off from the counter she was leaning against and closed the distance between us. Not much, just two steps. The air changed. The hum of the refrigerator got louder. I could smell the salt from the margarita mix on her, and the warmer, simpler scent of her skin underneath.
Her eyes searched my face, looking for something. A joke, maybe. An out. I just held still, let her look.
Her breath hitched, just a tiny catch. Then her hands came up, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt at my shoulders. Her grip was tight, urgent. She pulled me down, and she kissed me.
It wasn’t a soft, questioning kiss. It was desperate. A release of hours, maybe years, of something held too tightly. Her lips were cold from the drink but warmed instantly, moving against mine with a hunger that made my stomach drop. I could taste the salt and the sour lime, and beneath it, just her.
My hands came up, one cupping the sharp line of her jaw, the other settling on the incredible curve of her waist. I felt her shudder at the contact, a full-body tremor that traveled from her lips right into my hands. She made a sound, a low, torn moan that was swallowed between our mouths.
She broke the kiss, panting, her forehead resting against mine. Her fingers were still twisted in my shirt, knuckles white. The yellow light caught the flutter of her eyelashes, the deep flush spreading from her cheeks down her throat.
“Hardik,” she breathed, and my name had never sounded like that—like a confession and a command.
“Yeah,” was all I could manage, my own voice rough.
“No one else is here.” She said it like she was just realizing it.
“No.”
“So.” She leaned back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the hazel. “This is just… tonight. Right? Just… fuckbuddies.” The word felt clumsy in her mouth, too harsh for the fragile tension wrapping around us.
I knew it was a lie the moment she said it. A necessary one, maybe. A rule to make the fall feel safer. I nodded slowly, my thumb stroking the hot skin of her cheek. “Just tonight. Fuckbuddies.”
It was all the permission she needed. She surged back into me, and this time the kiss was all tongue and heat and teeth. My back hit the edge of the counter, the glasses rattling. I didn’t care. My world narrowed to the feel of her body aligning with mine, the soft, heavy weight of her chest pressed against me, the way her hips instinctively rocked into my thigh.
I let my hands explore, learning her. I traced the line of her spine through her shirt, feeling each vertebra, then palmed the full, perfect swell of her ass, pulling her tighter against me. She gasped into my mouth, her hips grinding harder. My turn-ons—hands, nails, thighs—they weren’t just preferences right now; they were a map, and I was reading her by touch. I slid my hand from her ass down the back of her thigh, hiking up her leg to wrap around my hip. The denim was rough under my fingers, but the muscle beneath was taut, strong.
“God, your hands,” she mumbled against my lips, her own hands sliding from my shoulders into my hair, gripping hard enough to sting. “Always… noticed your damn hands.”
I broke the kiss to trail my lips down her jaw, to the frantic pulse in her throat. I licked a stripe there, tasting salt and perfume, before biting down, not hard, but enough to claim. She cried out, a sharp, pretty sound, and her head fell back, offering more. “Harder,” she demanded, her voice slurry with want.
I obliged, sucking and biting a mark onto that pale canvas, my hands busy. One found its way under her shirt, skimming over the hot, smooth skin of her stomach, feeling her muscles jump and quiver. The other stayed on her thigh, my fingers digging into the firm flesh, surely leaving half-moon impressions in the denim.
I found the front clasp of her bra with practiced ease, flicked it open. When my hand closed over her breast, she arched into me with a shattered gasp. She was full, impossibly soft, the peak already a tight pebble against my palm. I rolled my thumb over it, and her knees buckled. I held her up, my arm a iron band around her waist.
“Bed,” I growled into her ear. “Now.”
“Bed,” I growled into her ear. “Now.”
It wasn't a question. My voice didn’t sound like my own. It was thick, strained, all want.
She didn’t argue. She just nodded, her cheek rubbing against mine, her breathing a ragged, hot pull against my neck. I took her hand, lacing our fingers together, and led her out of the sick yellow light of the kitchen. The hallway was dark, just the faint blue glow of a cable box from the living room painting vague shapes. Our footsteps were loud on the hardwood, a frantic, mismatched rhythm.
She tugged me to a stop just before her bedroom door, her back against the wall. Her eyes were huge in the dark. “Wait.”
I stopped, chest heaving. “What?”
She reached up, her fingers tracing my lips. “Just… kissing was good. Really good.” A shaky little laugh escaped her. “Don’t wanna ruin it.”
I understood. The fear that the reality couldn’t match the frantic, hungry idea of it. I leaned in, brushing my nose against hers. “Nothing’s ruined.” My voice was softer now. “We’re just getting started.”
I kissed her then, different from the kitchen. Slower. Deeper. A promise. I poured every bit of focused attention into it, my tongue sliding against hers, my hands cradling her face. I felt the tension seep out of her shoulders, replaced by a new, pliant warmth. Her whimper was a vibration I drank down.
When I pulled back, her lips were swollen, glistening. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
Her bedroom was small, dominated by a unmade bed. The streetlight outside bled through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled comforter. It smelled like her—laundry detergent and that faint, sweet skin scent.
The second the door clicked shut behind us, the quiet intensity shattered back into hunger. She pushed my shirt up, her nails scraping a delicious line from my stomach to my chest. “Off,” she said, and I wrestled it over my head, tossing it into the shadows. Her eyes raked over me, and the approval in them was a physical heat.
I returned the favor, pulling her t-shirt up. She raised her arms, and it was gone. Her bra hung open, already undone. I just looked for a second, letting the sight of her hit me. The pale curves, the shadows, the perfect tight peaks. My mouth actually watered.
“You’re staring,” she breathed, but she arched her back, presenting herself.
“I’m worshipping,” I corrected, my voice rough. I closed the distance, my hands sliding around to her back, pulling her flush against me. Skin to skin. The gasp she let out was punched-out, real. Her nipples hardened against my chest, and she rolled her hips, finding the hard ridge of my denim.
“Hardik,” she begged, her hands clawing at my back.
I walked her backwards until her knees hit the bed. She fell, bouncing slightly, her hair fanning out. I stood over her, drinking her in. The stripes of light cut across her stomach, her ribs, one highlighting the frantic jump of her pulse in her throat. I followed that light with my mouth.
I started there, at her throat, sucking another mark beside the first. My hands weren’t gentle. They mapped her, claiming. I squeezed her breasts, weighing them, my thumbs rubbing rough circles over her nipples until she was crying out, her back bowing off the bed. I bent and took one into my mouth, laving it with my tongue before drawing it deep, suckling hard.
“Yes—god, just like that,” she chanted, her hands fisting in my hair, holding me to her.
I moved lower, my tongue tracing the line between her ribs, dipping into her navel. My fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans and her panties. “Lift,” I commanded, and she did, raising her hips off the mattress. I dragged everything down her legs in one slow, revealing pull. The denim caught on her ankles, and I yanked it free, throwing the clothes aside.
Then I just looked. Really looked.
She was laid bare in the striped light, completely open. Toned thighs, a thatch of dark hair, glistening already for me. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Elina,” I said, and it wasn’t a line. It was a choked realization.
A blush painted her chest. She reached for me. “You’re wearing too much.”
I made quick work of my jeans and boxers, kicking them away. Her eyes widened, a flash of apprehension swallowed instantly by pure, hot want. She bit her lip.
I knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed, hooking my hands under her knees. I dragged her toward me, her body sliding easily on the comforter until her ass was on the edge. I spread her thighs apart, holding them open with my hands on her inner knees. The scent of her, musky and sweet, hit me full force. I groaned, the sound torn from deep in my chest.
“W-what are you doing?” she asked, propped up on her elbows, her voice trembling.
“Tasting my buddy,” I said, and then I lowered my head and did just that.
My first, slow lick from bottom to top made her scream. Her whole body jerked. I held her down, firm, and did it again. And again. I didn’t dive in. I savored. I explored every fold with the flat of my tongue, circled her clit with teasing, relentless pressure, dipped inside to taste her deeper essence. She was already so wet, dripping, her own slickness coating my chin.
Her sounds were a symphony. Broken gasps, high whines, my name repeated like a prayer. Her hands scrabbled at the comforter, then flew to my head, not pushing or pulling, just gripping, her short nails digging into my scalp. The pain was perfect.
“Please, please, please,” she sobbed, her hips trying to buck against my restraining hands. “I’m gonna—oh my god, I’m right there—”
I doubled down, focusing all my attention on that one hard, swollen peak. I sucked it into my mouth, flicking my tongue fast and firm. That was all it took.
Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that was awe-inspiring. She didn’t just tense. She shattered. A raw, ragged scream tore from her throat as her back arched impossibly high, every muscle in her stomach and thighs standing out in stark relief. Her legs shook violently in my hands. And then I felt it—a hot, gushing flood that hit my tongue, my chin, dripping down onto the floor with a soft, steady patter. She kept coming, wave after wave, her body convulsing, her cries dissolving into helpless, shuddering whimpers.
When the last tremor subsided, she collapsed, boneless, onto the bed. She was panting, dazed, covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
I crawled up her body, wiping my face on the sheet beside her hip. I kissed my way up her stomach, between her breasts, finally taking her mouth again. She could taste herself on me, and she moaned, her tongue licking into my mouth lazily.
“You… you drowned me,” I murmured against her lips.
A weak, giggly sound escaped her. “S’your fault. You broke the buddy rules. No worshipping.”
“Sue me.” I positioned myself between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging against her soaked, swollen heat. I looked into her eyes, which were still hazy but clearing, focusing on me. “This okay?”
She answered by wrapping her legs around my waist, her heels locking at the small of my back. Her arms encircled my neck. She pulled me down until our foreheads touched. “Just fuck me, Hardik. No more waiting.”
I pushed in.
The feeling was unreal. Tight, searing hot, overwhelmingly wet. She was so ready for me there was no resistance, just a slow, inexorable slide until I was fully sheathed, buried to the hilt. Our groans merged, one low, pained, blissful sound.
I didn’t move. I let us both feel it, every millimeter. The way she clenched around me, pulsing. The way her breath hitched. The way her eyes rolled back before fluttering shut.
“Move,” she begged, a tear escaping from the corner of her eye. “Please.”
I pulled out almost all the way, then sank back in, slow, deep, grinding my hips against her at the end. Her nails dug into my shoulders, surely drawing blood. I set a punishing, deliberate pace. Long, deep strokes that hit a place inside her that made her see stars. The sounds were obscenely wet, rhythmic, filling the quiet room along with our pants and moans.
“Harder,” she demanded, her bite-back personality surfacing through the pleasure. “Don’t you dare be gentle.”
I obeyed. My thrusts became harder, faster, driving the breath from her lungs in sharp uh-uh-uh sounds. The bed slammed against the wall in a steady, drumming beat. I pinned one of her hands above her head, intertwining our fingers. My other hand groped her breast, squeezed her thigh, gripped her hip to pull her into me even deeper.
Her head thrashed side to side. “Right there! God, yes, there! Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop!”
I could feel my own climax building, a massive, coiled pressure at the base of my spine. It felt different, bigger. “Elina… I’m gonna…” I warned, my rhythm starting to fracture.
“In me,” she gasped, her eyes locking on mine. Her expression was fierce, possessive. “I want to feel it.”
That was all I needed. With a roar that was pure release, I drove into her one last, final time and came.
It wasn’t a simple pulse. It was a torrent. Huge, pumping spurts that filled her, heat flooding between us. I felt each distinct eruption, each one making my vision whiten at the edges. It went on and on, a seemingly endless release that had my whole body shuddering, my muscles locking. When it finally subsided, I was dripping with sweat, shaking, collapsed on top of her but careful to keep my weight on my elbows.
We lay there, fused, breathing in ragged unison. The only sound was the creak of the bed and our slowing hearts.
Slowly, I softened and slipped out of her. A messy, pearlescent trickle followed immediately, pooling on the sheet beneath her. The sight of it, of my spend marking her, her thighs, the bed, sent a fresh, possessive thrill through my exhaustion.
She touched my face, her thumb stroking my cheek. Her expression was soft, wondering, and utterly ruined. “So,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Fuckbuddies, huh?”
I caught her thumb, kissed it. I looked at the marks on her throat, the love-bites on her breasts, the nail marks on my shoulders, the evidence of what we’d just done soaking into her sheets. I knew then, with absolute clarity, that I was completely, hopelessly doomed.
“Yeah,” I lied, my voice a rough scrape. “Just buddies.”