Chapter 29: The Dinner Dare
The candle flame guttered between them, throwing shadows that danced across Ryan’s stunned face. Channah held his gaze, her fingers still slick from her mouth, the taste of her own ass a bold, salty claim on her tongue.
“Jesus Christ, Channah,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in the intimate space. His knuckles were white where he gripped his wine glass.
“You heard me.” She didn’t blink. The professional veneer was gone, stripped away in the hotel room hours before, leaving only this raw, wanting core. “Your sabbatical. Six months, you said. Starting when?”
He leaned forward, the candlelight catching the silver in his stubble, the dark hunger in his eyes. “January. But we are not having this conversation here while you’re…”
“While I’m what?” She shifted slightly, the velvet of the booth cushion whispering against her bare thighs. Her skirt was still rucked up around her waist. “While I’m ready for you? I’ve been ready for twenty years, Ryan. I’m done waiting.”
He signaled for the check with a sharp, decisive motion. His eyes never left hers. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“My place is closer.”
The drive was a silent, throbbing tension. He drove her car, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping her thigh, his fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh above her stocking. She directed him to her brownstone in Brooklyn, her body humming, every nerve ending tuned to the heat of his palm through her nylon.
Her apartment smelled of books and jasmine tea. It was orderly, serene—a therapist’s sanctuary. It felt like a violation to bring this storm into it. She loved that.
He kicked the door shut, his bag dropping to the floor with a thud. He looked around, taking in the shelves of psychology texts, the abstract art, the comfortable sofa. “This is you,” he said, his voice softer now.
“It is.” She walked to him, slowly, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “And you’re here. In it.” She pushed the fabric off his shoulders, revealing the familiar landscape of ink and muscle. Her fingers traced a tattoo she remembered, a line of poetry over his heart. “You kept it.”
“I kept everything.”
He pulled her blouse over her head, unhooked her bra. Her heavy breasts spilled into his hands. He bent his head, sucking a nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue working it hard. She gasped, tangling her fingers in his long hair. “Bedroom,” she managed. “Down the hall.”
He walked her backwards, his mouth never leaving her skin, biting, licking, claiming. They fell onto her bed, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. He yanked her skirt and stockings down, leaving them in a bundle at her ankles. She kicked them off.
“On your knees,” he growled. “Ass up. Show me what you started in the restaurant.”
She obeyed, the command shooting straight to her cunt, making it pulse. She got on all fours, presenting herself to him. She heard the rustle of his jeans, the tear of a foil packet—he’d come prepared, then—and then the thick, wet sound of him slicking his cock.
His hand came down, not a slap but a firm, stinging press on her ass cheek. “This what you wanted? You wanted me to walk into a fancy restaurant smelling your cunt on my fingers?”
“Yes.” She pushed her ass back toward him.
“You’re fucking depraved.”
“Only for you.”
He positioned the blunt, wide head of his cock against her tight hole. She was still loose from the night before, from her own fingers in the booth, but it was a fierce, burning stretch. He didn’t enter her slowly. He pushed forward, a relentless, brutal invasion that forced the air from her lungs in a choked cry.
“Oh God… Ryan…”
“You asked for it raw,” he reminded her, his voice strained with the effort of his control. He seated himself fully, buried to the hilt inside her ass. The feeling was obscene, a fullness that bordered on pain, a claiming so deep it felt cellular. He held there, letting her adjust, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
Then he moved.
He fucked her ass with a punishing, piston-like rhythm, each thrust jolting her forward, dragging rough, animal sounds from her throat. The bed rocked against the wall. She could hear the wet, filthy noise of it, the slap of his skin against hers.
“Is this what you dreamt about?” he gritted out, his pace unrelenting. “All those years on your nice couch, listening to people’s problems, was this what was in your fucking head?”
“Yes!” she sobbed, the pleasure a sharp, bright wire inside her. Her clit was throbbing, untouched. “Harder! God, please, I’m gonna come…”
One of his hands slid around her hip, his fingers finding her soaking wet cunt. He rubbed her clit in rough, frantic circles, matching the rhythm of his deep, ass-fucking strokes. The dual sensation was too much. It detonated her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, screaming convulsion that clamped around the intrusion of his cock, milking him deep inside her ass.
“Fuck, Channah…” he snarled, his rhythm breaking. He pulled out of her ass suddenly, his cock glistening. He fisted himself, his strokes quick and desperate. “Turn over. Look at me.”
She collapsed onto her back, legs splayed, her body trembling with aftershocks. He stood over the bed, his face a mask of feral need. “Open your mouth.”
She did, sticking out her tongue. He aimed his cock at her face.
The first hot stripe of cum landed across her cheek. The second hit her lips and chin. The third splashed onto her tongue, salty and bitter. He groaned, emptying himself over her, painting her face with it. She kept her eyes open, watching him, tasting him.
When he was spent, he knelt on the bed. He leaned down and kissed her, licking his own spend from her skin. The act was profoundly degrading, profoundly intimate. She kissed him back, hungry for the taste.
He pulled away, breathing heavily. They were both slick with sweat and sex. He looked at the mess on her face, at her wrecked, satisfied expression.
“January,” he said again, as if reaffirming a pact.
“I have vacation time,” she replied, her voice hoarse. She reached for the watch on her nightstand—his watch, which she’d worn home. She fastened it around his wrist. “Don’t forget this again.”
He looked at the watch, then at her. The future was a chasm, but the bridge was this: her taste in his mouth, his mark on her skin, a sabbatical on the horizon. He lay down beside her, pulling her into the curve of his body. Outside, Brooklyn buzzed, indifferent. Inside, the only sound was their slowing breaths, synchronizing in the dark.