Chapter 63: The Breast Trap
The faint grey light of a Brooklyn dawn found them in the kitchen. Channah moved quietly in a silk robe, brewing coffee in the French press. Ryan sat at the small table, wearing only his jeans, the tattoos on his torso stark in the low light. They hadn’t spoken much. The scent of last night—sex, jasmine, sweat—still clung to the air, a third presence in the room.
Footsteps padded down the hall. Hannah appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket from the bed. Her eyes were puffy with sleep, her smile soft and strangely peaceful. She looked at them, at the quiet space between them, and understanding flickered across her face.
“I’m gonna head out,” she said, her voice husky. “Early shift at the gallery.”
“You don’t have to,” Channah said, but the offer was automatic, hollow.
Hannah shook her head. She walked to her sister, kissed her cheek. “It’s okay.” She turned to Ryan, studied him for a long moment. “Be good to her. Or I’ll find you.” It wasn’t entirely a joke. She gathered her scattered clothes and was gone, the front door closing with a soft, final click.
The silence she left behind was different. Charged. Vulnerable.
Ryan watched Channah’s back as she poured the coffee. The robe gaped slightly, revealing the curve of a breast, a faint bruise on her shoulder. “She’s protecting you,” he said.
“She’s protecting herself.” Channah brought two mugs to the table, sat. “That was a lot. For all of us.” She sipped her coffee, her eyes on his over the rim. “What happens now, Ryan?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “My flight’s tomorrow. Back to Seattle.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s what I have. Classes. A life.” The words sounded thin, even to him.
“A life.” She repeated it softly, letting it sit. “You called it a fantasy last night. What we did. Was that all it was?”
“You know it wasn’t.”
“Then stop giving me the professor answer. Give me the man answer.” She leaned forward, the robe falling open further. “The one who fucked my ass while my sister slept next to us. The one who came on my face. What does he want?”
He set his mug down with a hard tap. “He wants you. He’s always wanted you. It’s a fucking crippling, lifelong ache, Channah. But wanting and having… they’re different countries. And we live in different ones.”
“So change your address.” Her voice was low, fierce. “Twenty years, Ryan. We gave away twenty years to being sensible. To building separate lives that look good on paper. I listen to people talk about their regrets all day, every day. I won’t be one of them. Not about this.”
He stood up, restless, pacing to the window. The city was waking up, dirty and beautiful. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying don’t get on that flight. I’m saying stay. Here. With me. Fuck the consequences.”
He turned to look at her. “Just like that?”
“Nothing about this is ‘just like that’. It’s taken twenty years to get here.” She stood, let the robe fall from her shoulders. It pooled on the floor around her feet. She stood naked in the morning light, pale and curved and unashamed. “This is my offer. It’s not a gentle one.”
He crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t kiss her. He grabbed her, his hands rough on her hips, and turned her, bending her over the kitchen table. Coffee mugs clattered. Her cheek pressed against the cool wood.
“This isn’t a decision,” he growled, yanking his fly open. “This is a catastrophe waiting to happen.”
“Then let it happen,” she snarled back, pushing her ass against him.
He was hard, angry, terrified. He spat into his hand, wiped it over his cock, and drove into her pussy in one brutal stroke. She cried out, her fingers scrambling against the tabletop. It was nothing like the night before. This was not revelry. This was a collision.
He fucked her with a ragged, punishing rhythm, each thrust jolting her body. The table legs screeched on the floor.
“You want me to stay?” he gritted out, his hands gripping her waist hard enough to leave marks. “You want to rebuild a life on this? On fucking?”
“Yes!” she shouted, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. “On this! On the truth of it! It’s all we ever had that was real!”
He pulled out suddenly, the air cool on her wet skin. He spun her around, hoisted her onto the edge of the table. Her breasts swayed heavily. He pushed her legs apart, his gaze burning into her.
“Open your mouth.”
She did, panting. He shoved two fingers into her soaked cunt, gathered her wetness, and smeared it across her lips and tongue. She tasted herself, salty and musky. Then he guided his cock to her mouth.
“Suck it. Clean it. Get it wet for where I’m going next.”
She obeyed, taking him deep into her throat, her eyes locked on his. She sucked hard, hollowing her cheeks, using her tongue to coat every inch of him. Her own slickness mixed with his pre-cum. When he was dripping, he pulled back.
“Turn over. On your knees on the floor.”
She slid off the table, her knees hitting the hardwood. She presented herself, arching her back, offering her ass. He knelt behind her, one hand spreading her cheek, the other guiding the thick, wet head of his cock to her tight hole.
“This what you want?” he demanded, pressing insistently. “This, forever? The mess of it? The impossibility?”
“Yes,” she whispered, pushing back.
He entered her slowly, a relentless, burning invasion. She gasped, her forehead dropping to her arms. He seated himself fully, buried to the hilt in her ass, and stayed there, not moving, both of them trembling with the raw, physical truth of the connection.
“I love how your cock feels in my ass,” she breathed, the words muffled.
That broke him. He began to move, long, deep strokes that stole the breath from her lungs. The slap of his skin against hers echoed in the tiled kitchen. He fucked her with a desperate, driven pace, one hand tangled in her red hair.
“I never stopped,” he choked out, the rhythm fracturing his words. “Not a single fucking day. It’s why nothing else ever worked.”
He pulled out abruptly, a wet, obscene sound. “On your back. Now.”
She rolled over, legs splayed. He knelt between them, his cock glistening. He leaned down, crushing his mouth to hers in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. Then he moved down her body, his mouth finding her breasts. He sucked a nipple deep into his mouth, biting gently, then lavished the other with his tongue. He took the full, heavy weight of one in his hand, squeezing, watching her face.
“I want to see you come,” he said. “Then I want to finish on your face again. I want to mark you. So you remember what you’re asking for.”
He lowered his head between her legs. His tongue was relentless, circling her clit, delving inside her, then focusing again on that swollen peak. He fucked her with his tongue, then sucked her clit between his lips, applying a steady, devastating pressure. She writhed beneath him, her heels digging into the floor, her cries climbing in pitch. She came with a shattered scream, her body bucking, her hands fisted in his hair.
Before the last tremor had faded, he was moving up her body. He knelt over her face, his cock hovering above her open, panting mouth.
“Look at me.”
She did, her eyes dazed, sated, defiant.
He took himself in hand, stroked twice, and erupted. The first hot jet hit her tongue. The next splashed across her cheekbone and eyelid. He grunted, painting her lips, her chin, her throat with thick, white stripes. He kept stroking, milking himself onto her skin until he was soft.
Breathing heavily, he slumped beside her on the hard floor.
They lay there in the wreckage of the morning, sticky and spent. The coffee was cold. The city’s noise was louder now.
Channah turned her head. She licked her lips slowly, swallowing. “So?” she asked, her voice raw.
Ryan looked at the ceiling, at the faint crack in the plaster he hadn’t noticed before. He thought of his quiet office, his orderly books, the vast, lonely space of his West Coast life.
He reached out, found her hand, laced his fingers with hers.
“I’ll call the airline,” he said.