Chapter 62: The Challenge Begins
The silence was a living thing, thick and warm and smelling of sex. It stretched, punctuated only by Brian’s soft snores from the far side of the bed. Hannah had curled into him, her back to his chest, one hand still loosely entwined with Channah’s. She was asleep, her breathing deep and even.
Channah lay on her back, staring at the patterns the dying streetlight made through a gap in the velvet drapes. Ryan was beside her, his forearm thrown over his eyes. The twin maps of ink on his skin rose and fell slowly.
Her body hummed. It was a deep, cellular vibration, a residue of utter consumption. But beneath the physical satiation, her mind was clear, sharp as a shard of glass. The longing she’d buried for decades wasn’t buried anymore. It was right here, lying naked next to her, smelling of her and her sister and sweat.
She turned her head on the pillow. “You awake?”
“Yeah.” His voice was gravel. He didn’t move his arm.
“They’re out.”
“I know.”
She let the quiet settle again for a moment, listening to the distant hydraulic sigh of a bus. “I want you to myself now,” she said, the words simple and direct.
That made him lower his arm. He turned his head, his eyes finding hers in the semi-dark. They were dark pools, unreadable. “Channah…”
“No,” she whispered. “No talking. Not that kind.” She shifted, rolling onto her side to face him, the silk sheet slipping down to her waist. She placed a hand on his chest, over the heartbeat she could feel thudding against his sternum. “I had a fantasy. For tonight. Before all… this. I didn’t get it.”
He swallowed. “What was it?”
She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. Her voice dropped to a husk. “I wanted you to fuck my ass. And I wanted to suck you off while you were still inside me. A sixty-nine, but… dirtier. I wanted to feel you in both places at once. I wanted to be so full of you I couldn’t remember my own name.”
Ryan’s breath hitched. His cock, soft against his thigh, gave a faint, promising twitch. “Jesus, Channah.”
“You wanted it, too,” she stated, pulling back to search his face. It wasn’t a question.
He didn’t lie. “Every night for twenty years.”
A slow smile touched her lips. She pushed the sheet all the way off and slid out of bed. Her body was a pale phantom in the gloom, the curves he remembered now marked with the evidence of their night—drying streaks, faint redness. She looked powerful. She held out her hand.
He took it.
She led him not to the ruined bed, but to the deep armchair in the corner, the aged leather cool under her knees as she knelt before it. She guided him to sit. The streetlight caught the silver in his hair, the lines at the corners of his eyes as he watched her.
“Your fantasy,” she said, her hands on his knees. “Let’s play.”
She turned, presenting her back to him, and lowered herself over his lap. Not onto his cock—not yet. She positioned her ass over his groin, then leaned forward, planting her hands on the floor, until her head was between his splayed thighs. Her red hair spilled over his legs.
Ryan’s hands came up to grip her hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh. From here, the view was obscene and perfect. The full, pale swell of her ass, the wet, glistening pink of her pussy from beneath, and beyond, the tight, dark pucker of her asshole, still slick from earlier. And below him, the back of her head, her shoulders, the vulnerable line of her spine.
“You’re sure?” he rasped.
In answer, she turned her head, nuzzled her cheek against his soft shaft, and took the tip into her mouth. She sucked gently, her tongue flicking, and he hardened instantly against her lips.
He spat into his palm, a crude, wet sound. He smoothed it over his length, then guided himself to her other entrance. He pressed the blunt head against her tight ring of muscle.
Channah groaned around his cock, the vibration travelling straight up his spine. She pushed back, impaling herself on him as she took him deeper into her throat.
The sensation was unbelievable. A hot, constricting pressure around his cock, and the wet, sucking heat of her mouth. She was a perfect, impossible circuit. He was inside her, and she was around him, and they were fused in a closed loop of sensation.
He began to move. Short, shallow thrusts into her ass, each one met by a hungry pull of her mouth. She matched his rhythm, her head bobbing, her throat working to take him deeper each time he pushed forward. The wet sounds were filthy, animal. The leather of the chair creaked underneath them.
“Fuck, your mouth,” he grunted, his hips stuttering. “You take it so deep.”
She moaned around him, the sound muffled, desperate. She reached a hand between her own legs, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast, urgent circles. She was fucking herself on his cock and with her own hand while she sucked him, and the sheer, debauched multiplicity of it was driving her toward the edge with terrifying speed.
Ryan felt her body start to clench, her ass tightening rhythmically around him. He looked down, saw her fingers working furiously at her slick flesh, saw the tremors start in her thighs.
“Come,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “Come while you’re sucking my cock out of your own ass.”
The vulgarity, the sheer possession in his words, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, silent but violent, her back arching, her mouth going rigid around him as waves of pleasure burned through her core. Her inner muscles milked his length, and he couldn’t hold back.
He pulled his hips back, dragging his cock from her ass, and yanked himself from her mouth. He stood up, his legs unsteady, and she collapsed forward onto the floor, panting, spent.
He stood over her, fisting his cock. “Look up,” he growled.
She rolled onto her back, her face a mess of tears and sweat and arousal. She opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue.
He came with a broken shout. The first jet hit her tongue, salty and bitter. The next splashed across her cheeks and forehead. The last pulses painted her throat and collarbone. He kept stroking, squeezing out every last drop until it dripped from his fingers onto her stomach.
He sank to his knees beside her, his body trembling.
For a long time, they just breathed there on the floor, in a pool of streetlight and shadow. The clock on the mantle ticked.
Eventually, Channah turned her head. She licked her swollen lips clean, swallowed. She looked at him, her eyes clear and calm.
“I remember my name,” she said quietly. “But for a minute there, I only knew yours.”
From the bed, Hannah stirred in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. The real world, with all its complications, was just a few feet away, waiting for morning.
Ryan reached out, traced a clean line through the mess on her cheek. “What happens now?” he asked. The question hung in the air, heavier than any they’d asked all night.
Channah took his sticky hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed his palm. “We get up,” she said. “We wash off. We maybe eat that cold pasta.” She held his gaze, her therapist’s perception now mixed with something older, wilder. “And then we figure out what comes after the fantasy.”