Chapter 73: The Taste of Her Ass
The phone clattered onto the nightstand. Ryan’s hand remained outstretched, fingers slightly curled, as if the device had burned him. The silence after the call was not peaceful. It was a vacuum, sucking the warmth from the room.
Channah watched the cum dry on her face, a tightening mask. She watched his profile. He was staring at the wall where a watercolor hung, a blurred impression of the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Well?” she finally said, her voice scratchy.
“It’s done.” The two words were hollow, stripped of resonance.
“What did he say?”
“‘This is highly irregular, Ryan.’” Ryan’s impression was flat, perfect. “‘The semester is underway. The search for a visiting replacement will be… taxing.’ I said I understood. I said I was sorry for the inconvenience. I said effective immediately.” He let out a short, breathless laugh that wasn’t amusement. “He said ‘I see.’ Then he hung up. Not another word. Just ‘I see.’”
The grenade had detonated. Now they were in the quiet, dust-filled crater.
Channah moved first. She swung her legs off the bed, the dried semen cracking on her skin. She didn’t go to clean up. She went to the nightstand, picked up her half-full glass of wine, and drained it. She poured another from the bottle on the floor, the glug-glug sound obscenely loud. She handed it to him.
He took it, drank.
“So you’re here,” she said.
“So I’m here,” he echoed.
She took the glass back, set it down. The golden light cut across his torso, highlighting the stark lines of his tattoos, the tension in his abdomen. The professor was gone. What was left was a man unmoored, and the raw need that had always been their true language.
“You don’t get to regret it yet,” she said, her tone shifting from therapist to something far more primal. “You don’t get to float in this fucking limbo.” She climbed onto the bed, kneeling before him. She grabbed his face, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “You made the choice. Now feel it. In your body. Until there’s no space for anything else.”
She kissed him, hard, forcing the taste of herself and him back into his mouth. He responded with a surge of hunger, his hands gripping her hips, biting her lip until she gasped. But she pulled back.
“No,” she whispered, her eyes dark. “My way. Right now. I need you to be an animal. I need you to be so deep inside me you forget your own name.”
She pushed him onto his back, straddling his thighs. His cock lay against his stomach, soft. She didn’t coax it. She took it in her mouth, not with sensual worship, with a greedy, sucking urgency. Her head bobbed, a ruthless rhythm, her tongue working the head, her throat opening to take him deep. She used her hands, too, cupping his balls, rolling them, pressing firmly on the perineum. She was remaking him, physically, pulling him back from the cliff of his thoughts with pure sensation.
He hardened in her mouth, thick and full. She pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip.
“Turn over,” he growled, his voice thick.
“Not yet.” She shifted, turning her back to him, presenting the pale, full curves of her ass. She leaned forward, resting on her elbows, and looked back at him. “I told you what I need. Fuck my ass, Ryan. Then give it to me. I want to taste where you belong now.”
He moved behind her, a dark shape blocking the window’s light. He didn’t prepare her with his tongue this time. He spat into his palm, slicked his cock roughly, and positioned the broad head at her tight hole. He pushed. There was a moment of fierce resistance, a gasp ripped from her throat, then a slow, inexorable yield. He sank into the incredible, clutching heat of her ass in one continuous, devastating motion.
“Christ,” he choked out, his hands vise-like on her hips.
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He withdrew and slammed back in, setting a punishing pace. Each thrust jolted her forward. The bedframe groaned. It wasn’t about finesse, it was about possession, a brutal reaffirmation of his chaotic choice. She met every drive, pushing back, her moans guttural and unfiltered.
“Yes… fuck… that’s it… ruin me…”
A dozen strokes, maybe more, each one branding her. Then he pulled out entirely, the sudden emptiness a shock. “Turn,” he commanded.
She twisted, falling onto her back, her mouth already open, panting. He loomed over her, his cock slick and dark with her essence. He guided it to her lips. She didn’t wait. She engulfed him, sucking him deep, her tongue swirling aggressively. The taste was musky, salty, profoundly intimate—the taste of her own violated ass mixed with his pre-cum. She moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight down his shaft. Her eyes rolled back in her head. It was filthy. It was perfect.
He fucked her mouth with short, sharp jabs, his grip tight in her hair. After a minute, he pulled out, glistening wet. “Again,” she demanded, already turning back onto her hands and knees.
He re-entered her ass, which was now looser, wetter, accepting him even deeper. The slap of skin was louder now, wetter. He pounded into her, his breath coming in ragged grunts. She pushed a hand between her own legs, rubbing her clit in frantic circles.
The cycle repeated. Ass to mouth. Mouth to ass. Each transition was a blur of aching need and obscene wet sounds. The room smelled of sex and sweat and wine. On the third time he pulled from her mouth, his control shattered.
“Where?” he gasped, his fist flying over his cock.
“My face,” she begged, her voice shattered. “All over my face. Mark me with it.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He stood over her, straddling her chest. The first hot jet hit her cheekbone. The second streaked across her parted lips. The third splashed over her eyelid, forcing her to blink rapidly. Thick, pearlescent ropes painted her skin, some catching in her red bangs. He kept stroking, milking every last drop onto her upturned, accepting face.
She lay there, panting, a debauched portrait. Slowly, she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting the salty bitterness. She held his dizzy gaze as she swallowed.
Then she reached for him, pulling him down into the mess on her skin. She kissed him, deep and sloppy, sharing the compounded taste of their reckless union. It was a kiss of shared ruin.
They lay like that for a long time, sticky and spent. The afternoon light began to fade, the golden hue turning to blue-grey. The distant sound of children shouting floated in from the street.
Ryan finally spoke into the hollow of her neck. “My books are in my office. My notes. Twenty years of work.”
“We’ll get a box,” she said softly, her fingers tracing the wings of a tattoo on his shoulder. “We’ll ship them.”
“I have an apartment. A lease.”
“Sublet it.”
“I don’t know who I am here,” he whispered, the confession raw.
She turned her head, her cheek sticking to his chest. She looked at the empty wine glass, the stack of unread journals, the familiar cracks in her ceiling. This was her world. Now it was his.
“You’re here,” she said simply. “That’s the start. The rest is just… logistics.”
Outside, a siren wailed, rising and then fading into the tapestry of the city. It was the sound of ongoing emergencies, of lives perpetually unspooling. They were inside now, in the quiet aftermath. The choice was made. The fuse was burnt. All that was left was to see what would grow in the scorched earth.