Chapter 7: Tit Worship
He groaned against her skin, the taste of her a dark salt on his tongue, his hands kneading the full weight of her breasts as she rocked against him. “Harder,” she breathed, arching her back to shove her nipple deeper into his mouth. He bit down, a sharp, claiming pressure that made her cry out, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there. “Yeah, just like that, baby,” she panted, her hips grinding a frantic rhythm against the stiff denim of his jeans. He could feel the hot dampness of her through the thin cotton of his boxers, a seeping promise that short-circuited every thought but more. With a grunt, he flipped her onto her back, the silken sheets whispering beneath her. He yanked his boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and angry-red, before he shoved her thighs apart. He didn’t enter her. He pressed the head against her clit, rubbing rough, slow circles, watching her face contort. “Fuck, Micah, don’t tease,” she pleaded, her calculated cool fracturing into raw need. “After the shower?” he said, his voice a low rasp he barely recognized. “You want real?” He drove into her in one brutal, unforgiving stroke, hilting himself to the root. Her scream was pure, undiluted sensation, her body clamping around him like a vise. He set a relentless pace, each thrust a punishment for the shame still boiling in his gut. “You see the camera?” she gasped, her eyes flicking to the laptop on the vanity, its tiny red light gleaming. “You see them watching you fuck this cheap cunt?” He didn’t look. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in, and pistoned into her, his own climax coiling, inevitable. “Tell me you own it,” she demanded, her heels digging into his back. “Tell me you own me.” His control shattered. “I own this,” he snarled, his thrusts turning erratic, possessive. “This is mine.” He came with a choked roar, spilling into her, his body collapsing as the high, sharp keening of her own orgasm echoed in his ear. In the shuddering quiet, the red light glowed like a distant, indifferent star.
The smell of sex and sweat hung between them, a cheap perfume. Rue’s breathing evened first, her hand drifting down to feel the wet mess he’d left on her thigh. “That one’s going to the top tier,” she said, her voice already sliding back into its polished, transactional calm. Micah rolled off her, the sudden emptiness of his own body a visceral shock. The ceiling fan spun a lazy, useless circle above them. “You bit me hard enough to bruise,” she added, a note of professional appraisal in her tone as she touched her breast. “Good.” He said nothing, staring at the faint crack in the plaster. Her weight shifted, the mattress groaning as she sat up and swung her legs over the side. “Don’t go into that weird headspace again,” she said, not looking at him as she padded toward the vanity. The click of the mouse was loud. “The shower thing was a one-time emotional edit. This?” She gestured at the screen. “This is just business.” He watched the red light vanish. “It’s not business,” he heard himself say, the words sticking in his dry throat. She turned, a smirk playing on her swollen lips. “Okay, professor. What is it?” He met her eyes in the mirror. “It’s me paying rent.” The smirk faded. She stood, walked back to the bed, and climbed over him, her damp cunt hovering above his mouth. “Then earn it,” she said, lowering herself onto his tongue with a slow, deliberate grind. “Clean up your mess.” He tasted himself, salty and bitter, mixed with her. His hands came up to grip her hips, holding her there as she moved, and he understood this was the real punishment.