Chapter 1: Morning After Confessions
The room smelled like us, like always. Whiskey, sweat, the clean salt of his skin, and underneath it all, the faint, sweet ghost of my jasmine perfume on the pillowcase. Dawn was a blush-pink smear through the half-drawn curtains, the light clinging to everything—the rumpled sheets, the empty glass on the floor, the hard line of Brody’s hip where he lay sprawled and sleeping.
I stood by the window, my reflection a smudge in the glass. My dress was ruined. The silk was torn at the shoulder, damp and clinging to my thighs. I could still feel the ache, deep and perfect, a hollow throb that matched the quick pulse in my throat.
I turned from the window. The floorboards were cool under my bare feet. I watched the rise and fall of Brody’s chest, the dark trail of hair leading down into the waistband of his boxers. A familiar heat, different from the one I’d just left, began to coil low in my belly.
I didn’t wake him gently. I climbed onto the bed, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips, and settled my weight onto him. The damp silk of my dress soaked instantly through his cotton boxers. He stirred with a grunt, eyes fluttering open, hazy with sleep and last night’s liquor.
“Lisa?” His voice was rough, sleep-cracked.
“Shhh.” I put a sticky finger to his lips. My hand was still wet. I’d barely wiped it on the ride home. I let him taste it. His tongue darted out, instinctively, and his eyes went from hazy to dark, wide awake in a second. He knew that salt-bitter taste wasn’t his. Wasn’t mine.
“Listen,” I whispered, leaning down so my lips brushed his ear. My C-cup breasts, heavy and unrestrained under the torn silk, pressed against his chest. “Listen to what I did.”
I reached between my own legs, hiking the ruined dress up. My fingers, slick and cold with another man’s spend, found Brody’s cock through the cotton. He was already hard, a thick, immediate heat against my palm. I worked him, a slow, twisting pull, using that foreign wetness as lubricant. The fabric rasped against him.
“I came on his massive cock, baby,” I moaned into his ear, my voice low and filthy. “His fucking huge, thick cock. He bent me over the hood of his car in the parking garage. The concrete was cold. My hands slipped on the chrome.”
Brody’s breath hitched. His hips bucked up into my hand, a helpless jerk.
“He didn’t fuck me like you do.” I nipped his earlobe. “He fucked me like he hated me. Like he wanted to break me. And I came. I came so hard I saw stars, Brody. I came screaming, with my face pressed against the cold windshield, and my juice dripped down my thighs and onto his shoes.”
“Jesus, Lisa,” Brody choked out. His hands came up, grabbing my ass through the silk, fingers digging into the generous curve. He was pulling me harder against him, grinding himself into my hand through the soaking boxers.
“Do you want to feel?” I whispered. It wasn’t a question. I shifted back, hooked my thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and yanked them down. His cock sprang free, fully erect, veins standing in relief. I didn’t give him time. I swung a leg over, positioned myself above him, and guided him inside me in one slow, inexorable slide.
I was still swollen, loose, achingly open from the other man. Brody filled the emptiness perfectly, differently. A groan was torn from his chest, raw and guttural. His head tipped back into the pillow.
“I’m still stretched out,” I gasped, beginning to ride him, a slow, deep roll of my hips. “Can you tell? Can you feel how he opened me up for you?”
His hands were everywhere—on my ass, squeezing, on my hips, guiding, then up under my dress to clutch my breasts, thumbs rasping over my nipples. “Yes,” he hissed. “Fuck, yes, I can feel it.”
“I came on his cock,” I repeated, the words a heated chant as my pace increased. My inner walls, sensitive and overstimulated, clenched around Brody’s length. “And now I’m gonna come on yours. I’m gonna use his cum still inside me to lube your fucking dick, baby. I’m gonna milk you dry with my used, filthy cunt.”
The obscenity of it, the raw, brutal truth of it, sent us both spiraling. My rhythm broke, became frantic, grinding down on him, chasing that twin peak of physical sensation and dark, psychological thrill. The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, of my ragged moans and his broken curses.
“Who do you belong to?” Brody grunted, his hands vises on my hips, driving up into me.
“You!” I cried out, the orgasm tearing through me, white-hot and shattering. “Always you, god, always you—”
My convulsions triggered his. With a roar that was half agony, half triumph, he emptied himself into me, his release joining the other’s in a hot, wet rush deep inside my body. I collapsed onto his chest, a sweaty, trembling mess of silk and sin.
We lay there, joined, panting in the pink-gold light. The smell of sex—our sex, layered over the remnants of the other—was overwhelming. His heartbeat hammered against my ear.
After a long while, I pushed myself up on shaking arms. I looked down at him, at his flushed face, his dazed, worshipful eyes. A slow, wicked smile spread across my lips.
I leaned down again, my voice a hoarse whisper of pure, unadulterated ownership.
“Now you’re inside me with him.”