Chapter 2: The Scratch That Broke the Dam
"AND YOU'RE HARD" she retorted back.
Her fingers, already twisted into my shirt, suddenly flexed—her nails, those clear pointed things, digging into the fabric just barely, like she was testing the weight of her own claws. The pressure was so light it should have been nothing, but it was enough to make my breath hitch. Enough to make my cock jerk against her thigh, pressing harder into the soft cotton of my shorts. I could see the way her pupils dilated further, the way her lips parted just a fraction, her tongue darting out to wet them.
"Fuck," she breathed, her voice rougher than before, like she was forcing herself to stay in control. But she wasn’t. Not really.
My hand moved before I could think about it. Fingers sliding under her chin, tilting her face up, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes were wild in the dim light, those rings of green and gold catching what little illumination there was, her pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the brown.
We breathed into the same air. Her lips were parted, still wet from where she'd licked them, and I could taste the ghost of chocolate on her breath from the dessert we'd eaten hours ago. Neither of us said anything. Our breaths were heavy, but we didn't dare move.
Her nails dug in harder, a silent challenge, her eyes daring me to do something about it. I could feel her heart pounding against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched my own. The rain hammered against the window, a restless drumbeat, and the scent of jasmine from the garden outside curled through the room, thick and sweet.
And then before I knew it, I kissed her.
She was shocked for a moment. Her whole body went rigid, her fingers freezing against my chest, her breath stopping altogether. I felt her tense up like she was about to pull away, to shove me back, to spit some venomous insult that would put me in my place.
But she didn't.
She melted into it.
Her mouth opened under mine, soft and yielding, and she made this sound—low in her throat, almost a purr—that vibrated straight through my chest. Her fingers twisted in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. Her leg hooked tighter over mine, her thigh grinding against my cock with deliberate pressure.
I groaned into her mouth, and she swallowed it down like she was starving for it. Her tongue touched mine, hesitant at first, then bolder, exploring the taste of me the way I was exploring her. She tasted like chocolate and something sharper underneath—something that was just her.
My hand slid from her chin to her neck, fingers spreading across the pale column of her throat. I could feel her pulse hammering there, rapid and uneven, a counterpoint to the slow, deep rhythm of her tongue against mine. She arched into the touch, her head tilting back, offering me more access.
"Fuck," she whispered against my lips, the word coming out broken and breathy.
I pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips were swollen, slick with my saliva, her cheeks flushed pink in the darkness. Those curls were a wild mess around her face, and her eyes—those impossible eyes—were half-lidded, hazy with something that looked a lot like want.
"You kissed me," she said, like she was accusing me of a crime.
"You kissed me back."
"I—" She stopped, her jaw working, her brows drawing together. "That's not—I didn't—"
"You did."
"Shut up."
"You liked it."
"I will literally kill you."
"Maybe later," I teased.
"Maybe later," I teased.
Her eyes flashed—that dangerous glint I knew too well, the one that preceded either a scathing comeback or a physical assault. This time, it was both.
She surged upward, her body moving faster than I could track, and then her mouth was on mine again. Not soft this time. Not tentative. This was a collision, a claiming, her lips crushing against mine with enough force to bruise.
I sat up straight, my back hitting the headboard, pillows bunching behind me as I scrambled for purchase. She followed, fluid and relentless, swinging one leg over my hips until she was straddling me.
Her knees pressed into the mattress on either side of my thighs, her weight settling onto my lap, and fuck—the heat of her cunt through those flimsy shorts was a brand against my cock.
She crashes onto my lips.
Not a kiss. A collision. Teeth clacking, noses bumping, her breath hot and frantic against my mouth. My arms go behind her, wrapping around her waist, pulling her tighter against me. I feel the contact—the soft press of her stomach against mine, the give of her tits against my chest, the way her cunt settles right over the ridge of my cock like it belongs there.
She makes a sound. Something between a gasp and a moan, swallowed up by my mouth. Her hands slide up my chest, nails scraping through the cotton of my t-shirt, and I swear I can feel every single one of them. Those clear, pointed tips dragging across my skin, leaving invisible marks.
Her hips roll.
Just once. A slow, deliberate grind that presses her cunt harder against me, and I can feel the wet heat of her through the layers of fabric between us. She's soaking through her shorts. I can feel it—that damp warmth seeping into my lap, marking me.
"Fuck," I breathe against her mouth.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her lips kiss-swollen, her pupils swallowing the brown of her eyes. A curl falls across her face, and she doesn't push it away. Just stares at me with those impossible eyes, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
"Say that again," she whispers.
"What?"
"That. The way you said it." Her nails dig into my shoulders. "Say it again."
"Fuck," I repeat, slower this time, letting the word drag.
Her whole body shudders. I feel it—the tremor running through her thighs, the way her cunt clenches against nothing, the sharp inhale she can't quite hide. My hands slide down her back, over the curve of her spine, until they find her ass. Fuck, her ass. Soft and plump and filling my palms like they were made for it.
I squeeze.
She moans. Loud. Not a polite little sound either—a real moan, deep and guttural, her head dropping forward until her forehead rests against mine. Her hips start moving again, grinding against me in slow, tight circles, and I can feel every inch of her cunt dragging over my cock through our clothes.
"You're so fucking hard," she mutters, her voice barely recognizable. "I can feel you. Everywhere."
"You're the one grinding on me."
"Shut up."
"You started it."
"I said shut up."
She kisses me again. Harder. Demanding. Her tongue pushes into my mouth like she's trying to own it, and I let her. Let her take whatever she wants, whatever she needs. My hands stay on her ass, kneading, pulling her closer until there's not a single inch of space between us.
She bites my bottom lip.
Not gentle. Sharp, deliberate, her teeth sinking in just enough to make me hiss. I taste copper—blood, maybe—and she licks it away before I can complain.
"Brat," I mutter.
"You love it."
"I hate it."
"Liar."
She's right. I do love it. Love the way she challenges me, pushes back, refuses to make anything easy. Love the way her nails rake down my chest, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Love the way she looks at me like she's trying to decide whether to kiss me again or slap me.
"Take this off," she says, tugging at my shirt.
"Ask nicely."
Her eyes narrow. "I will literally rip it off your body."
"Still not nice."
"I don't do nice."
"Then no."
We stare at each other. A standoff. Her jaw tightens, that stubborn set to her mouth that I've seen a thousand times before. She hates this—hates being told what to do, hates being denied anything. But I've learned a thing or two about Sonalika over the years. I know she likes this too. The push and pull. The resistance.
"Please," she grits out. The word sounds like it's being dragged from her by force.
"See? That wasn't so hard."
"I will murder you in your sleep."
"Promises, promises."
But I pull my shirt off anyway, tossing it somewhere into the darkness. Her eyes drop immediately, tracking over my chest, my stomach, the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of my shorts. She licks her lips.
"Better?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. Just puts her hands on me. Palms flat against my chest, fingers spreading wide, exploring. Her touch is feather-light at first, almost reverent, but it doesn't last. She's never been patient, never been gentle when she doesn't have to be. Soon her nails are dragging, scraping, leaving faint red lines across my skin that sting in the best way.
Her touch is a brand. A slow, deliberate marking that says mine in a language older than words ever could be. It makes my pulse a frantic, ridiculous thing in my throat.
I bite her.
Right at the curve of her throat, where her pulse hammers against thin skin. I bite down, not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that she feels it. Hard enough that she knows exactly what I'm doing.
She moans.
Loud.
Not a polite moan. Not a soft, breathy thing meant to be contained. This is a full-bodied, throaty sound that rips out of her and fills the room, vibrating against my lips. Her head falls back, her curls spilling over her shoulders, and her hips start moving again—grinding, rolling, fucking against my cock through our clothes with an abandon that tells me she's stopped thinking entirely.
I smile against her skin.
And I keep going.
I bite down again, harder than before, and suck the skin into my mouth. Her taste floods my tongue—salt and soap and underneath it, the warmth of her blood pumping just beneath the surface. She tastes like the thunder outside, like the storm and the rain and the jasmine curling through the window. She tastes like something I could get addicted to.
She's writhing now. Her nails are in my shoulders, digging deep enough to leave marks, and she's making these sounds—these desperate, broken noises that I've never heard from her before. Not the sharp insults, not the dismissive laughter, not the sarcastic remarks. Just sound. Pure, unfiltered sound.
"Hardik," she gasps.
It's the first time she's said my name all night. The first time it hasn't been an accusation or a dismissal or a curse. It sounds different in her mouth like this. Softer. Needier.
Her nails drag up my chest. Slow. Deliberate. Leaving four perfect lines of fire in their wake. I hiss through my teeth, and she smiles against my throat.
"You like that," she murmurs. Not a question.
I don't answer. Can't.
She bites my jaw. Sharp, quick, her teeth grazing the bone.
Then her tongue soothes the sting, lathing over the skin, and I feel it everywhere—in my cock, in my balls, in the base of my spine.
She pulls back. Just an inch. Her breath ghosts across my jaw, warm and uneven, and I can feel her watching me. Those eyes—brown with their strange rings of green and gold—trace every line of my face like she's memorizing it.
"You're shaking," she whispers.
"I know."
"Why?"
"Because you're sitting on my cock and I can't think straight."
She laughs. A real laugh. Not the sharp, dismissive thing she usually throws at me. This one is low and breathy, vibrating through her chest, and I feel it against my ribs.
"Good," she says. "Suffer."
"Sonalika."
"What?"
"Your hands."
She looks down. Her nails are still buried in my shoulders, four perfect points of pressure on each side. She flexes them, dragging them down, and I hiss through my teeth.
"You like it," she says.
"I didn't say I didn't."
"Then stop complaining."
Her hands slide lower. Over my pecs, down my stomach, her nails leaving faint red trails that I'll feel for hours. She stops at the waistband of my shorts, her fingers hovering there, and I hold my breath.
But she doesn't go lower.
Instead, she reaches behind her. Grabs the hem of her tank top. And pulls it over her head.
The room is dim. Barely any light. But I can see enough. The pale expanse of her skin. The delicate curve of her collarbones. The soft swell of her breasts, small and perfect, tipped with nipples so dark they look black in the shadows.
She's not wearing a bra. I knew that already—felt it when she was pressed against me—but seeing it is different. Seeing her bare above me, her curls spilling over her shoulders, her chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths—it's something else entirely.
"Touch me," she says.
It's not a request.
My hands move. Slide up from her ass, over the curve of her hips, across the soft skin of her stomach. She shivers at the contact, her muscles twitching under my palms, and I feel her breath catch.
"Not too high," she warns.
Not yet.
I nod. Keep my hands where they are. Just below her ribs, right where the softness of her belly begins. I spread my fingers wide, covering as much of her as I can feel her breath moving in and out, shallow and quick. Her skin is warm. Soft. There's a slight sheen of sweat on her, from the heat of the room or the heat of me, I can't tell.
My thumbs trace slow circles just above her navel. Her hips twitch, grinding down against my cock, and I groan.
"Jesus fuck," I breathe.
"Shut up."
"You're grinding on me."
"You're hard."
"You're half-naked on top of me."
We're both panting now, our breath mixing in the small space between us. Her hands are braced on my chest, nails still occasionally digging in, and her hips have started moving in earnest. Slow. Deliberate. She's rubbing her cunt against the length of my cock through our clothes, and I can feel the damp heat of her soaking through my shorts.
I move my hands higher. Just an inch. Two. My thumbs skate along the underside of her ribs, tracing the delicate bones, and she gasps.
"Fuck," she hisses.
"Too much?"
"No." She shakes her head, curls bouncing. "Keep going."
I do. My palms slide up, cupping the curve of her ribs, my fingers wrapping around to her back. I can feel the ridges of her spine, the flex of muscles as she moves above me. I trace them, one by one, like I'm learning her body by touch alone.
And still, I don't go higher.
She moans. It's a frustrated sound, edged with something desperate. Her hips speed up, her grinding turning rougher, needier.
"Hardik."
"What?"
"Stop teasing."
"I'm not teasing."
"You are." She slaps my chest, not hard but not soft either. "You're doing that thing where you take forever."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you draw it out. Make me wait. You always do this."
"Maybe I like making you wait."
"Maybe I'll break your nose."
"You won't."
"I might."
"You won't, because then you'd have to get off me to do it, and we both know you don't want that."
She glares at me. That sharp, venomous look she's perfected over years of friendship. But there's no heat behind it. Not really.
"Fine," she grits out. "Keep going. But if you don't touch my tits soon, I'm going to lose my mind."
"Was that permission?"
"It was a threat."
"Same thing with you."
Her eyes narrow. But she doesn't argue. Just grabs my wrists and lifts my hands, placing them directly on her breasts.
My hands cup her. My palms are rough against the soft skin, and she arches into the touch, her back bowing, her head falling back. Her nipples are hard against my fingers, and I roll them gently, testing the weight of her in my hands.
She shivers. Every inch of her shivers, and I feel the tremble travel through her thighs, her hips, the cunt pressed against my cock. A fresh wave of dampness soaks through her shorts. I can smell it—that musky, sweet scent mixing with the rain and the jasmine, and my mouth waters.
"Fuck," she moans. "Fuck, that's good."
I squeeze. Gently. Her breasts are soft. Youthful. They spill between my fingers, and I watch them, fascinated by how they give and mold under my touch as I push them together and knead.
Her hips jerk forward. A rough thrust, and her cunt drags against my cock.
I groan, and I feel her smile against my hair.
She's enjoying this. The power she has right now, perched on my lap, half-naked, grinding her soaked cunt against my cock while I lie here helpless beneath her. It's written in every line of her body—the curve of her spine, the tilt of her chin, the way her hips move with lazy confidence.
"You're so easy," she murmurs.
"I'm not easy."
"You are. Look at you." Her nails drag down my chest again, slow, deliberate. "You're practically drooling."
"You took your shirt off and sat on my dick. What did you expect?"
She laughs. That low, breathy sound that vibrates through her whole body, and I feel it against my ribs, against my cock, against every inch of skin that's touching hers. My hands are still on her tits, cupping them, thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow circles.
She arches into the touch. Her back bows, pushing her chest further into my palms, and her hips jerk forward—a sharp, involuntary thrust that grinds her cunt hard against my length. I feel the damp heat of her through both layers of fabric, and my cock twitches in response.
"Fuck," she hisses.
"You're so wet."
"Shut up."
"You're soaking through your shorts."
"I said shut up."
I don't shut up. I squeeze her breasts, harder this time, and her whole body shudders. A fresh wave of wetness soaks into my lap, and I can feel it—that slick, hot evidence of how much she wants this. How much she's been wanting this, maybe, for longer than either of us would admit.
Her hips start moving again. Not the slow, teasing grind from before. This is harder. Faster. She's rocking against me with purpose now, her cunt dragging along the length of my cock, and I can feel every inch of her through the thin cotton of our clothes.
My hands slide down from her tits. Over her ribs, past her waist, until my palms settle on the small of her back. Her skin is warm here, soft, and I can feel the dip of her spine, the subtle flex of muscles as she fucks herself against me.
She leans forward. Her curls fall around us like a curtain, blocking out what little light there is, and suddenly it's just the two of us in this dark, hot space. Her breath ghosts across my face. Her eyes—those impossible eyes—are hazy, unfocused, drunk on sensation.
"Hardik," she breathes.
"What?"
"Nothing." She shakes her head, curls brushing my cheeks. "Just—harder."
I don't ask what she means. I just pull her closer, my hands pressing flat against her lower back, and she gasps. Her whole body arches, her cunt pressing directly against the base of my cock, and the friction makes us both groan.
Our mouths find each other in the dark. Not the frantic, teeth-clashing collision from before. This is something else. Slower. Deeper. Her tongue slides against mine, tasting, exploring, and she makes these small, soft sounds into my mouth that drive me insane.
My hands slip lower.
Under the waistband of her shorts. Over the curve of her hips. And then—
Her ass.
I've thought about her ass before. More times than I should probably admit. But thinking about it and touching it are two very different things. My palms cup the fullness of her cheeks, and I swear to God, it's like holding something divine.
She's plump. That's the first thing I notice. Plump and firm and so goddamn soft, the kind of soft that makes you want to sink your fingers in and never let go. Her skin is smooth here, warm, and there's a slight sheen of sweat that makes my hands slide just a little as I grip her.
"Fuck," I breathe against her mouth.
She grins. I feel it more than see it—the curve of her lips, the slight show of teeth. She knows exactly what she's doing to me. She's always known.
"Like that?" she asks, her voice a low purr.
"Fuck yes."
I squeeze. Hard. Her flesh gives under my palms, molding to my grip, and she moans—a real moan, deep and throaty, her head falling back. I use the opportunity to kiss down her throat, mouthing at the pale skin, tasting the salt of her sweat.
Her hips are moving again. Harder now. She's grinding against me with abandon, her cunt dragging along my cock in long, wet strokes. I can feel how soaked she is—it's seeping through her shorts, through mine, soaking into the fabric and making everything slick and hot.
My fingers dig into her ass. I spread her cheeks slightly, just enough to feel the give, and she shudders above me. Her nails rake down my shoulders, leaving hot lines of pain that make my cock jump.
"Do that again," she gasps.
"What?"
"The—" She can't finish the sentence. Her hips jerk, her breath catches, and she makes this sound—this desperate, wrecked sound—that goes straight to my balls.
I do it again. Squeeze. Spread. Drag my fingers along the crease of her ass, just barely, and she loses her mind.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
She's grinding faster now. Frantic. Her cunt is so wet I can feel it through my shorts, a slick, hot pressure that's driving me insane. I want to be inside her. I want to feel that wet heat wrapped around my cock, want to feel her clench and spasm and come apart on top of me.
But not yet.
Her tits are bouncing with every movement. Those perfect, soft, youthful tits, nipples hard and dark in the dim light. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth.
She screams.
Not loud enough to wake Arusha, but close. Her back arches, pushing her chest into my face, and her fingers tangle in my hair, holding me there. I suck, my tongue swirling around her nipple, and she tastes like sweat and soap and something that is purely her.
"Yes," she hisses. "Yes, fuck, keep doing that."
I keep doing that. Sucking one nipple while my hand cups the other, rolling it between my fingers, and all the while my hips are moving, thrusting up into her grinding cunt. We're both soaked now—her shorts are practically transparent with her arousal, and my own cock is leaking like crazy, leaving a wet spot on the inside of my boxers.