Chapter 2: Talk with a friend
The flat, grey light of Steve’s phone screen offered no salvation. Three unanswered texts to Brenda glared back at him, the last one sent yesterday afternoon: Had a really great time the other night. Coffee sometime? Radio silence. The silence felt heavier than the espresso machine he’d wrestled all morning. Each ignored notification was a tiny pinprick deflating the fragile bubble of confidence last night’s… encounter… had briefly inflated. He’d tasted her, felt her come undone against his mouth, and now? Nothing. The memory was exhilarating and humiliating in equal measure.
He needed air that wasn’t steeped in roasted beans and rejection. Tugging on a worn hoodie over his t-shirt, he grabbed his sketchbook almost as an afterthought – a security blanket – and headed out into the damp afternoon. The city felt grimy, the cheerful clatter of the coffee shop replaced by the dull roar of traffic and the faint smell of rain on pavement. His feet carried him on autopilot towards the familiar, slightly shabby apartment building where Maggie lived.
Knocking on her door felt like surfacing. The paint was peeling, the brass knocker loose.
Maggie opened it, blinking in surprise. Her dark hair was piled messily on her head, secured with a pencil, and she wore faded leggings and an oversized band t-shirt splattered with flecks of paint – cobalt blue and burnt sienna. The warm, comforting scent of linseed oil and turpentine drifted out, a stark contrast to the city chill.
"Steve? Hey!" Her face lit up with genuine pleasure, quickly morphing into concern as she took in his expression. "Whoa, what’s wrong? You look like your latte art just turned into a sinkhole."
He managed a weak smile. "Something like that." He shuffled past her into the small, cluttered living space that doubled as her studio. Canvases leaned against the walls, half-finished abstracts bursting with color. Brushes sat soaking in jars. The air hummed with creative energy, chaotic but safe.
"Spill," Maggie commanded, nudging a stack of art magazines off the sagging sofa to make room. She plopped down, tucking her legs underneath her. "Bad shift?"
Steve sank onto the offered space, the worn fabric familiar and grounding. He pulled out his phone, the unanswered texts a visible wound. "Brenda," he mumbled, placing the phone face-up on the coffee table, the evidence stark. "Still hasn't answered. From yesterday. Or the day before."
Maggie’s eyes flicked to the screen, her smile tightening almost imperceptibly. She leaned forward, plucking a stray paintbrush off the table and fiddling with the bristles. "Brenda Johnson? The tall comp-sci amazon from the shop?" Her voice was carefully neutral. "Ah. So… you guys hung out?"
"Yeah," Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We… went for dinner. Moroccan place. It was… nice. Really nice." He hesitated, the memory of how it ended flooding back, heating his neck.
"And then?" Maggie prompted, her gaze sharp. She pointed the brush handle at him. "Don't leave me hanging, Steve. Details! Did she kiss you? Did you kiss her? Did the giantess carry you off into the sunset?"
He flushed crimson. "Mags, c'mon..."
"What? I live vicariously through your tragic romantic endeavours!" She grinned, but there was an underlying tension in her shoulders, a slight stiffness as she shifted. "Seriously, though. What happened? Did you have fun? Did she seem into it?"
Steve looked down at his hands, calloused from the steam wand, remembering the feel of smooth skin and wiry hair. "Yeah. Yeah, she seemed… really into it. We talked. Laughed. It was… good." The words felt inadequate. He couldn't bring himself to mention the dorm room. Not yet.
Maggie watched him, her dark eyes missing nothing. The flush creeping up his neck, the way he avoided her gaze, the slight tremor in his hands. Her own stomach clenched with a familiar, unwelcome pang. Jealousy, sharp and acidic. She pushed it down. "Okay, 'good' dinner. Then what? Walked her home? Held hands? Made out like teenagers under a lamppost?" Her tone was light, teasing, but her knuckles whitened slightly on the paintbrush.
Steve swallowed. The silence stretched. He could feel Maggie’s gaze boring into him, waiting. The dorm room image flashed again: the flickering fairy lights, the overwhelming scent, the taste… He needed to tell someone, and Maggie was safe. She wouldn’t judge. Would she?
He took a shaky breath. "We… uh… went back to her place. Her roommate was asleep." He stopped, the words sticking in his throat.
Maggie’s eyebrows shot up. "Steve 'The Virgin' Davies? Back to her place?" Her voice held mock astonishment, but her eyes were wide, fixed on him with unnerving intensity. "Did you…?"
He nodded mutely, his face burning.
"No fucking way!" Maggie breathed, leaning forward further, the paintbrush forgotten. "Steve! You dog! Spill it! Now! How far did you get? Did you… do it?"
Steve shook his head violently. "No! No, I didn't. I told her I wasn't… ready. For that." Shame warred with the confusing rush of memory. "She… she called me a tease." The word felt like a brand.
Maggie stared, a complex storm of emotions crossing her face – surprise, disbelief, a flicker of something that might have been relief, quickly masked by avid curiosity. "A tease? Harsh. But… okay, so no sex. What then? Did you just… leave?"
He couldn't look at her. He focused on a vibrant slash of crimson on a nearby canvas. His voice dropped to a whisper. "She… she asked me to go down on her."
Silence. Thick, heavy silence. Maggie didn’t move. He could practically hear her thoughts whirring. The image slammed into her mind, vivid and unwelcome: Steve, his gentle face, his shy demeanor… on his knees. Before Brenda. Doing that.
"And?" Maggie’s voice was suddenly husky. "Did you?"
Steve nodded, still staring at the painting. "Yeah."
"Wow." The word was soft, almost breathless. Maggie felt a strange heat bloom low in her belly, spreading outwards. Jealousy morphed into something hotter, sharper. Focused on the act itself. On Steve performing it. On the imagined sounds, the sensations… "And… how was it?" She tried to sound casual, just a curious friend, but the question felt loaded. "For you? Was it… okay?"
Steve finally looked up, meeting her eyes. His were wide, vulnerable, still clouded with confusion. "It was… intense. Really intense. She…" He trailed off, remembering the gush, the taste, the way she’d held his head. "She came. Hard. Said it was amazing." He looked away again. "And then… nothing. Ghosted."
Maggie’s mind raced. She came. Hard. Amazing. The words echoed. She pictured it. Steve’s mouth. Brenda’s pleasure. That powerful woman undone by him. The heat in Maggie’s belly intensified, becoming a distinct throb. She shifted on the sofa, her thighs pressing together tightly. She needed him to stop talking. She needed him to keep talking.
"Well," she said, her voice slightly strained, "fuck her then. Seriously. Who needs that kind of bullshit? She got what she wanted and bounced. Her loss, Steve. Major loss." She forced a bright smile. "You deserve way better than some cocky comp-sci bitch who doesn’t appreciate a guy willing to… uh… put in the effort." The crude phrasing felt awkward, but necessary.
Steve managed a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Mags. I just… don’t get it. It felt… real, you know? For a bit."
"It probably did, for her, in the moment," Maggie said, a touch sharply. She softened her tone. "But people suck sometimes. Forget her. Want tea? Or… I think I have some shitty ramen or something?" She gestured vaguely towards the tiny adjoining kitchenette.
"Ramen sounds great," Steve said, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Talking had helped, even if the ache remained. "I can make it. My treat for barging in."
"Deal," Maggie said, relieved for the distraction. "Pot’s in the cupboard under the sink. Noodles are in the pantry. Do your worst, chef."
Steve pushed himself up, heading towards the kitchenette, the weight of Brenda momentarily lifted by Maggie’s fierce loyalty and the prospect of mundane comfort food. He rummaged under the sink, found the pot, filled it at the tap.
As the water started to run, Maggie stayed on the sofa. The moment his back was turned, her carefully constructed composure cracked. She watched him bend over, reaching for the pot, the line of his back under the hoodie. The image Steve had planted bloomed with terrifying clarity: him, kneeling. Not before Brenda. Before her.
Her breath hitched. She subtly shifted, pulling the worn throw blanket from the back of the sofa onto her lap. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The sounds from the kitchen – the clank of the pot, the running water – faded into a muffled rush. Her hand, hidden beneath the thick wool of the blanket, slid slowly down her stomach.
She imagined it. Steve, hesitant, looking up at her with those wide, earnest eyes. The warmth of his breath against the thin cotton of her leggings. His fingers, those artist's fingers, fumbling slightly at her waistband. Pulling her leggings and panties down, just enough. Exposing her. Not a wild bush like Brenda’s, but neatly trimmed, a darker triangle against her pale skin.
Her fingertips brushed over the cotton gusset of her panties beneath the blanket. Dampness bloomed instantly. She pressed down gently, a soft gasp escaping her lips, muffled by the sound of Steve filling the pot.
His mouth, she thought, closing her eyes. Pressing against her mound, tentative at first, like he’d described. Then bolder. His lips, soft and warm. Parting her folds. That tentative, curious lick. The shock of wet heat. Maggie’s hips lifted fractionally off the sofa cushion. Her fingers pressed harder against her clit through the fabric, mimicking the flick of a tongue she’d never felt but could now imagine with startling intensity.
Fuck, Steve, her mind whispered, echoing Brenda’s words. Right there.
She pictured his tongue circling, probing deeper than he had with the taller woman – more intimately, she thought possessively. Seeking her taste. Imagined him finding her wetter, sweeter than Brenda. Imagined his soft groan vibrating against her sensitive flesh. Her own breathing grew shallow, ragged. She rocked her hips subtly, grinding against her own hand, the pressure building with each imagined pass of his tongue. The blanket hid the frantic movement. The rough wool scraped against her knuckles.
She imagined his fingers joining in, clumsy but eager. One sliding inside her, stretching her, while his mouth focused on her clit. Sucking gently, just like he’d done for her. The fantasy consumed her. The jealousy, the secret crush, the vivid picture Steve had painted – it all coalesced into a white-hot knot of need low in her core.
"Found the noodles!" Steve called out from the kitchen, his voice startlingly loud.
Maggie froze. Her eyes snapped open. Her hand stilled, pressed hard against her throbbing clit. She was achingly close, the edge shimmering just out of reach. Reality crashed back in: the smell of paint, the sound of water boiling, Steve mere feet away, utterly oblivious, searching her cupboards.
She squeezed her thighs together, trapping her trembling hand. A frustrated whimper caught in her throat. Her cheeks burned. She hastily rearranged the blanket, smoothing it over her lap, willing her breathing to steady. Her core pulsed, unsatisfied, the phantom sensation of his tongue still teasing.
"Yeah?" she called back, her voice miraculously normal, only a slight huskiness betraying her. "Good! Just… just water’s boiling?" She stared at the kitchen doorway, her mind a chaotic mess of lingering arousal and sharp, possessive longing. Steve Davies owed her nothing. But the image of him kneeling, devoted, his mouth working magic… that was hers now. And the simmering frustration of being interrupted, of not having him focus that newfound skill on her, settled deep, a new kind of hunger awakening.
The simmering frustration of being interrupted, of not having him focus that newfound skill on her, settled deep, a new kind of hunger awakening. Maggie watched Steve’s back as he fiddled with the clattering pot and packet of ramen, the mundane domesticity of it contrasting violently with the heat still pulsing between her thighs. Her hand remained trapped under the blanket, dampness soaking the cotton beneath her leggings, an insistent reminder of the phantom tongue she craved. The image of Steve kneeling, devoted, wouldn’t fade; it had burrowed in, possessive and sharp.
She needed him there. Now. Not making noodles. On his knees. Before her. A reckless, thrilling plan formed, fueled by lingering arousal and the sting of Brenda’s ghosting. Steve deserved better? Maybe. But Maggie deserved him, just like that, right this second.
"Steve?" Her voice sounded breathier than she intended. She cleared her throat, fingers tightening on the blanket’s edge. "Hey, Steve, could you come here a sec?"
He turned, steam already rising from the pot behind him, his expression open, trusting. "Yeah? Water’s just starting to boil. What's up?"
She shifted on the sofa, feigning a frown, scanning the rug near her feet. "My favorite paintbrush… the tiny detail one? I think it fell when I moved those magazines. Can you see it? My back’s killing me, I can’t bend down properly right now." She gestured vaguely at the floor near the coffee table leg, just inches from where her own feet were tucked under her. "It’s gotta be right there. Black handle?"
Steve, ever-helpful, nodded, a flicker of concern for her back crossing his face. "Sure, no problem. Tiny black handle." He wiped his hands on his jeans and walked over, crouching down beside the low table to peer into the shadows beneath the sagging sofa frame. He shuffled closer to Maggie’s legs, turning his head to scan the carpet fibers. "Under here? I don't see–"
"Maybe closer?" Maggie murmured, her own breath catching. This was it. He was inches from her lap. She subtly lifted her hips, shifting her weight. Her hidden hand slid lower, pressing the damp fabric of her panties against her swollen clit. "Check near my foot? Maybe it rolled?"
Steve obediently shuffled forward on his knees, leaning in near her feet tucked under her on the cushion. He ducked his head lower, peering intently at the rug near the sofa’s edge. His shoulder brushed her shin.
Maggie moved with lightning speed, spurred by the electric contact and the raw need coiling inside her. Her free hand shot out from beneath the blanket, not towards the floor, but into Steve’s messy hair. Her fingers tangled roughly in the soft brown strands, not hurting, but holding with undeniable firmness.
Steve froze mid-search, head still lowered. "Maggie? What–?"
"Cmon Steve, you deserve better then this Brenda bitch. I can give you better
Steve froze mid-search, head still lowered, the rough fibers of the rug pressing into his knees. "Maggie? What–?" His voice cracked, disbelief warring with a sudden, electric jolt shooting straight to his groin. Her fingers tightened in his hair, not painfully, but with a possessiveness that pinned him in place, his face inches from the blanket draped over her lap.
"Shhh, Stevie," she breathed, the command low and rough, stripping away the familiar nickname’s warmth. Her other hand, still hidden beneath the wool, moved deliberately. The blanket shifted, rucked up just enough. The dense, dark thatch of her pubic hair, neatly trimmed unlike Brenda’s wild bush, came into stark view, the cotton gusset of her plain black panties already shadowed with dampness. The faint, sharp scent of her arousal cut through the linseed oil – musky, potent, entirely different from Brenda’s. "Better," she murmured, her hips lifting slightly off the cushion towards his stunned face, an unspoken demand hanging thick in the air between them. "Forget her. This… this is what you need."
Panic flared, white-hot – the vulnerability, the shock of Maggie, his friend, initiating this. But beneath the shock, a treacherous heat bloomed, fanned by her scent, the raw need in her voice, the tremor he felt vibrating through her grip. His cock, already half-hard from the earlier tension and the memory of kneeling before Brenda, surged to full, painful erection, straining against his jeans. "Mags… we… we can’t…" he stammered, his eyes locked on the damp triangle, the primal part of his brain overriding coherent thought. "Friends…"
"Friends who know what each other needs," she cut in, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. Her free hand, the one not buried in his hair, slid out from under the blanket. Her knuckles were stained blue with paint. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings and panties. "You need to forget her. I need…" She pushed down, just an inch, revealing the slick, swollen folds beneath the dark curls, glistening in the dim studio light. The scent intensified, overwhelming Steve’s senses. "...this." Her thumb brushed possessively over her exposed clit, a low moan escaping her lips. "Your mouth. Now, Steve. Show me you learned something useful from that bitch."
The crude command, the blatant exposure, the sheer wrongness of it with Maggie, should have sent him scrambling back. But the sight of her wetness, the needy arch of her hips, the desperate hunger in her dark eyes mirrored the frantic pulse throbbing in his own cock. Brenda’s ghosting, the confusion, the ache for connection – it all coalesced into a reckless, burning impulse. He wanted to taste this. Wanted to make Maggie moan like that. Wanted to prove… something. His breath hitched, ragged. The panic receded, smothered by a wave of pure, desperate lust. He leaned forward, his nose brushing the wiry hair.
"Good boy," Maggie hissed, her grip tightening, guiding his head closer. Her hips rolled upwards, pressing her slick folds against his mouth. "Lick."
He obeyed, a clumsy, instinctive swipe of his tongue across her wet heat. The taste exploded on his senses – saltier, tangier than Brenda, uniquely Maggie. He groaned against her, the vibration making her gasp. He licked again, bolder this time, tracing the shape of her outer lips, seeking the source of that intoxicating wetness. He found her entrance, probed tentatively with the tip of his tongue, and she bucked, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. "Fuck! Yes!" Her fingers clenched painfully in his hair now, holding him hard against her. "Inside! Get your tongue inside me, Steve!"
Driven by her command and his own surging desire, he pushed his tongue deeper, past her swollen folds, into the hot, yielding channel. Maggie’s back arched violently off the sofa cushions, a guttural cry escaping her. "Oh god! Fucking hell!" Her thighs clamped around his head, trapping him. Her taste flooded his mouth, rich and complex, nothing like the clinical descriptions he’d half-imagined. He fucked her with his tongue, shallow thrusts, learning her rhythm from the desperate little noises she made, the way her inner muscles fluttered and clenched around the invading muscle. He remembered Brenda’s clit, the key to her climax. He withdrew his tongue slightly, seeking the hooded nub above her entrance.
He found it, swollen and hard. He circled it slowly, experimentally, with the flat of his tongue. Maggie’s cry turned into a high-pitched whine. "There! There! Suck it! Please, Steve, suck my fucking clit!"
He closed his lips around the sensitive bud, applying gentle suction, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly against the underside. The effect was instantaneous. Maggie screamed, her body rigid, shaking. "Don't stop! Don't you fucking stop! I'm so close! Fuck!" Her hips pistoned against his face, grinding her wet pussy hard against his mouth and chin, smearing her arousal over his skin. He felt her inner walls begin to pulse rhythmically around nothing, the muscles spasming wildly. "Oh god, oh fuck, STEVE!" Her voice shattered into incoherent gasps and moans as her orgasm ripped through her. Wave after wave of liquid heat gushed over his chin and neck, thick and copious, soaking the collar of his hoodie, dripping onto the rug beneath his knees. The taste was overwhelming, salty-sweet, flooding his senses as her body convulsed against him.
He kept sucking, kept licking, riding out the storm of her climax, driven by a fierce, possessive satisfaction that momentarily eclipsed his own neglected arousal. Maggie slumped back, boneless, gasping for air, her grip finally loosening in his hair. Her thighs fell open. Steve pulled back, panting, his face glistening with her release, his chin dripping, the musky-sweet scent clinging to him. He looked up at her, dazed, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. Maggie’s eyes were wide, unfocused, her lips parted, her chest heaving. A slow, utterly sated smile spread across her face.
"Holy fuck, Davies," she breathed, her voice wrecked, a shaky hand reaching out to trace the wetness on his jawline. Her touch was possessive. "You… you are definitely not a tease. I can't believe it was only your second time." She stared at him, kneeling between her thighs, her juices slick on his skin, his own erection painfully evident. Her gaze darkened, dropping to the prominent bulge straining against his jeans. Her smile turned predatory, hungry. "Now…" she murmured, shifting her hips, a fresh glint of arousal in her eyes. "...my turn to show you what 'better' really feels like." Her hand moved towards the button of his jeans.