Chapter 72: The Speed Record
The morning air was cold and carried the smell of damp concrete and distant rain. Ryan stood at the kitchen window, shirtless, staring at the brick wall of the adjacent building. His hands were wrapped around a chipped mug of black coffee. Channah watched the muscles of his back tense and release, the tattoos across his shoulders seeming to shift in the grey light.
She padded across the cold hardwood, the silk of her robe whispering. She didn’t touch him. She just stood beside him, leaning her hip against the counter.
“You’re already there, aren’t you?” she said quietly. “Already in that office, making the call.”
He took a slow sip. “Thinking about the sound of my chair creaking. The fucking fluorescent hum. The way my department head clears his throat before he delivers bad news.” He looked at her, his eyes weary. “It’s not a simple call. It’s a detonation.”
“We knew that.” She took the mug from his hand, drank from it, handed it back. The coffee was bitter. “You want an out? Here it is. Walk out the door. The fantasy was better than the reality. It was too messy. I’m too much.”
He turned fully to face her. “You think that’s what I’m thinking?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” He set the mug down with a sharp click. “I’m thinking I’m a fifty-year-old man about to torch a career for a woman I’ve spent two days with in twenty years. I’m thinking that’s either the most romantic fucking thing I’ll ever do, or the stupidest. There’s no middle ground.”
“Then be stupid with me.” Her voice was low, a challenge. She untied the belt of her robe, let it fall open. The pale skin of her stomach, the curve of her breasts, the red triangle of hair below. “Forget the phone. Be here. Right now.”
A flicker in his eyes, dark and hungry. The professor receded; the man who’d fucked her face full of his cum the night before surfaced. “You’re using sex as a distraction.”
“Is it working?”
He reached out, his thumb rough as it traced her lower lip. “What’s the game today, Channah? Another timer? Another tally?”
She took his thumb into her mouth, sucked it slowly, then released it. “I want you to forget how to think. I want your brain to be so full of me that you pick up that phone and tell them you’re not coming back, and it won’t feel like a choice. It’ll feel like a fact.”
He grabbed the belt of her robe, yanked her against him. The silk slithered off her shoulders, puddled at her feet. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“By reminding you what you’d be leaving behind.” She dropped to her knees on the hard floor. The cold bit into her skin. She nuzzled against the fly of his sweats, breathing in his musky sleep scent. She didn’t open them with her hands. She used her teeth, tugging the drawstring loose, pulling the fabric down until his cock sprang free, already half-hard.
She looked up at him, holding his gaze. Then she leaned forward and didn’t start with his cock. She pressed her mouth lower, to his balls, taking one then the other into the wet heat of her mouth, sucking gently, her tongue rolling the weight of them. He hissed, his hands fisting in her hair. She trailed her tongue up the thick vein on the underside of his shaft, a slow, agonizing ascent, before finally closing her lips over the head.
She sucked him deep, all the way, until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. She held him there, her throat working around him, then pulled back with a filthy, wet pop.
“Your turn,” she gasped, turning on her knees, presenting herself to him. She bent forward, her arms stretched out, her cheek against the cold floor, her ass raised high. “Taste what you’re choosing.”
He didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees behind her, his hands spreading her cheeks wide. He buried his face between them, his tongue lashing broad, wet stripes over her cunt and then driving deep into her asshole. It was crude, animal, the sounds obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. She cried out, the vibration shuddering through the floorboards. He ate her like a man starving, his tongue fucking her in quick, relentless jabs, then circling her clit with bruising pressure.
“Ryan… fuck…” she moaned, pushing back against his face.
He pulled away, breathless. “On the bed. Now.”
They stumbled back into the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and urgent hands. He pushed her onto the edge of the mattress, her legs hanging off. He knelt on the floor, hooking her legs over his shoulders, and dragged her to the very edge. He devoured her again, his stubble scraping her inner thighs, his tongue a ruthless instrument. She came hard, a silent, breathless climax that left her thighs trembling against his ears.
Before the last pulse faded, he was up, flipping her over onto her stomach. He climbed over her, his cock nudging at her entrance. He slid into her cunt in one smooth, deep stroke, and she was so wet, so open, he bottomed out instantly.
“This,” he grunted, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “This is what I’m choosing.” He set a brutal, driving rhythm. Each thrust rocked her whole body forward. The headboard knocked a steady beat against the wall. He gripped a handful of her red hair, using it as a rein, pulling her head back to arch her spine.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice guttural.
“You’re choosing… my cunt,” she panted, the words broken by his pounding.
“Not just that.” He pulled out abruptly. She felt the cold air, then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cockhead at her other hole. He spat onto his hand, slicked himself, and pushed. Her ass gave way, tighter, a hot, resisting velvet that yielded to his relentless pressure. He sank in, a low, animal groan tearing from his chest.
“This,” he hissed, beginning to move, each stroke a deliberate conquest. “This filthy, perfect ass. I’m choosing this.”
She was full, stretched, utterly possessed. “Yes…”
He fucked her ass with a focused, piston-like intensity, his balls slapping against her soaked lips with every drive. The pleasure was a sharp, bright wire, fraying her nerves. He leaned over, his mouth at her ear. “And your smart fucking mouth. I’m choosing that, too.”
He withdrew from her ass, the loss making her whimper. He rolled her onto her back, his cock, slick and dark, bobbing before her face. She opened her mouth, but he didn’t enter. He gripped himself, stroking fast and rough.
“Open wider,” he commanded, his breathing ragged. “Show me your tongue.”
She obeyed, panting, her eyes locked on his. His fist was a blur. A strangled sound ripped from his throat. The first hot spurt hit the back of her throat. The next painted her tongue. The third and fourth striped her cheeks, her chin, her eyelids. She kept her mouth open, taking it, her face becoming a canvas of his possession. He milked himself dry, every pulse jetting onto her skin.
He collapsed beside her, spent. The only sound was their labored breathing and the distant, mundane rattle of a garbage truck.
Slowly, she turned her head on the pillow. His cum was warm on her face, cooling quickly. He was staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling.
She didn’t wipe it away. “Make the call,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He didn’t look at her. He just reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen blinking with the impersonal, early hour. He held it in his hand, his thumb hovering over the screen.
The silence stretched, thin and taut.
Then he unlocked it, found the number, and put it to his ear.
He was choosing the grenade.