Chapter 68: The Morning After
The grey dawn had hardened into a flat, white morning. Rain streaked the window in silent rivulets, distorting the world beyond the glass into a smeared impression of brick and steel. Channah woke to the ache. It was a deep, satisfying throb in her muscles, a tender awareness between her legs. The scent of sex and spent whiskey was a permanent fixture in the air now.
She turned her head. Ryan was asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, his mouth slightly open. The sheets were low on his hips, revealing the dark trail of hair leading down to his soft cock resting against his thigh. In sleep, the lines of worry and intellectual intensity were smoothed away. He looked younger, but also more exposed.
Her movement was pure instinct, a silent continuation of the night’s unfinished conversation. She slid down the bed, the cool cotton of the sheet grazing her bare skin. She ducked beneath it, into the warm, dark cave fragrant with their shared sleep. She took him into her mouth slowly, her lips loose and soft. He was still flaccid, a vulnerable weight on her tongue.
He stirred with a muffled groan, his hips shifting. As she worked him, using the flat of her tongue and gentle suction, she felt the blood begin to flow. He hardened incrementally, filling her mouth until she had to adjust her jaw. His hand found the top of her head, his fingers tangling in her red hair, not guiding, just holding.
“Channah,” he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
She hummed in response, the vibration making him jerk. She came up for air, her hair a mess, and looked at him. His eyes were dark, still glazed with dreams.
“Your turn,” he said, his voice rough. He tugged her upward, then rolled, maneuvering her with a clumsy, sleep-warm urgency until she was straddling his face. He lifted his hips, offering himself to her mouth. “Like this.”
The 69 was less a position than a pact. She lowered herself onto his mouth, feeling his breath hot against her folds. She was already wet, the swollen flesh tender from the night before. He didn’t start gentle. His tongue speared her, a demanding thrust, before settling into a ruthless, circling rhythm on her clit. She gasped and took him deep into her own mouth, her nose pressed into the coarse hair at the base of his cock.
It was messy, obscene, a devouring. She fucked his face with short, desperate grinds, her pleasure building in a tight coil. He was eating her like a starving man, his tongue probing every fold, then dipping lower to lap at her asshole with a filthy, focused slurp. The dual sensation—his mouth on her, his cock hitting the back of her throat—shattered any last pretense of separation. She was lost in a feedback loop of taste and sound and smell: her own musk, his salty skin, his guttural moans vibrating against her.
She felt his balls tighten against her chin. He was close. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, letting him fuck into it. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she held him there.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice muffled by her cunt.
She pushed down harder, a silent command. His orgasm hit, a pulsing jet of cum directly down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, each thick spurt a hot, bitter claim. As the last of it went down, her own climax detonated, a silent, shuddering wave that clenched her entire body. She rode it out against his mouth, her cries stifled by his still-hardening flesh.
She collapsed sideways, spent, breathing in ragged gulps. They untangled, sliding apart to lie on their backs, chests heaving. After a minute, she crawled up and kissed him, deep and slow, letting him taste the remnants of himself on her tongue.
“Breakfast,” she finally said, her voice wrecked.
“Yeah.”
They ordered from a diner menu stained with coffee rings. Waffles, scrambled eggs, bacon, a pot of black coffee. It arrived on a wheeled cart, the domed covers smelling of grease and syrup. They ate naked at the small table by the window, the rain painting everything in watery light.
“My client at ten,” she said, stabbing a piece of waffle. “Mrs. Alvarez. She’s finally talking about her son’s addiction. It’s a breakthrough session.”
Ryan nodded, chewing. “I’ve got a panel at nine. ‘Post-Modern Narratives in Ecocriticism.’ It’s as exciting as it sounds.”
“You going?”
He looked out the window. “I don’t know. Are you going to yours?”
The question hung with the steam from the coffee. This was the check-in, the morning-after negotiation they’d never had twenty years ago.
“I have to,” she said. “It’s my job.”
“I know.”
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing a smear of syrup from the corner of her mouth. The simple touch was electric. It sparked something hotter and more urgent than the night’s exhausted passion.
He stood up, pulling her to her feet. He turned her around, bending her over the cluttered table. Plates clattered. The half-empty coffee cup tipped over, a brown puddle spreading across the laminate. He kicked her legs apart. His hands gripped the soft, generous curve of her hips.
“Last night,” he murmured, his cock pressing against her, “was for what I did.” He nudged at her entrance, slick from their earlier act, then deliberately slid lower. “This is for what I didn’t do.”
He pushed into her ass. The intrusion was swift, brutal, devoid of the careful preparation of the night before. She cried out, her hands flattening against the sticky table. It burned, a sharp, bright pain that melted almost instantly into a devastating fullness.
“You stayed,” he grunted, beginning to move, each thrust rocking her into the table. “You built a life. You waited.”
“I didn’t wait,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “I lived.”
“You lived without me.” He slammed into her, his pace unforgiving. “And I lived… I just moved. There’s a difference.”
His words were punctuated by the slap of skin, the rattle of china. She was pinned, utterly taken. The pain had faded, replaced by a deep, grinding pleasure that originated in that forbidden channel and radiated out, making her toes curl. She reached a hand between her own legs, rubbing her clit in frantic circles.
“I’m gonna come again,” she warned, her voice high and tight.
“Do it.” He bit her shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand. “Come on my cock while I’m in your ass. Show me what I missed.”
The crude command tipped her over. Her orgasm was a sharp, internal convulsion, a milking pull that made him shout. He followed, pumping into her with a final, shuddering drive, his heat flooding her depths.
He stayed buried in her for a long moment, both of them panting, braced against the wreckage of breakfast. He slowly pulled out. She winced, feeling raw, used, profoundly claimed.
They cleaned up in silence. She showered, the hot water stinging the bite on her shoulder. He shaved at the sink. They dressed in the clothes from the day before, now rumpled and carrying the scent of the room.
She checked her phone. It was 8:17. Her suitcase still sat open, a silent question.
Ryan stood by the door, his conference lanyard in his hand. He looked at her, then at the case, then back at her.
“The panel’s in the Jefferson Room,” he said. “Third floor.”
She smoothed her skirt, shouldered her purse. “Mrs. Alvarez is in my office on 72nd Street. Forty-minute cab ride in this rain.”
They looked at each other across the space. The rain slowed to a drizzle. A weak beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting off the spilled coffee on the table.
He opened the door. The hallway’s sterile, carpeted silence rushed in.
“After…” he started.
“We’ll see,” she finished. It wasn’t a promise. It was a possibility, fragile and new, hanging in the air between them as they stepped out, separately, into the brightening day.