Chapter 3: The Reckoning
The steam from the shower had begun to curl into the bedroom, a warm, damp tendril reaching across the space between the two doors. Ryan’s hand was tangled in the fiery cascade of her hair, gently guiding her head as she took him deep again, her mouth a slick, worshiping heat. The taste of herself—musky and sharp—was still on him, just as she’d wanted. It was a reclaiming. A decadent, filthy confession. She moaned around him, the vibration pulling a ragged groan from his chest.
Then, from the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, her phone lit up. The specific, insistent marimba ringtone sliced through the humid air.
Him.
Again.
Ryan stilled, his grip tightening. “Ignore it.”
Channah pulled back, her lips glistening, her breath coming in quick pants. She looked at the buzzing phone, then up at Ryan, her green eyes holding a challenge, a wildness she’d spent twenty-five years burying. “No.”
She crawled across the silk sheets, her ass swaying, the elegant curve of her spine a pale road map in the low light. She found the phone, swiped the screen, and brought it to her ear as she settled back on her knees before Ryan.
“Hi, honey,” she said, her voice breathless but controlled, the perfect, warm tone she used for her patients. She held Ryan’s burning gaze as she spoke.
“Just finishing up a late session,” she murmured into the phone, even as she leaned forward and took the head of his cock back into her mouth, swirling her tongue. She heard Ryan’s sharp intake of breath. “Mmhmm. It’s been a long day. Really intense.”
She began to bob her head, slow and deliberate, her free hand working his shaft in a tight, twisting rhythm. Saliva coated her chin. The sounds were obscenely wet, and she made no attempt to mute them.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked her husband, her words slightly muffled. She deep-throated him then, taking him to the root, her nose pressing into the dark thatch of hair. Her eyes watered, but she held him there for a long, staggering second before pulling back with a gasp for air. “Leftover lasagna? That sounds perfect.”
Ryan’s jaw was clenched, his abdomen taut. He watched her, a predator held in thrilling suspense by his prey’s audacity.
“Yeah, I’m on my way,” she lied, her voice smooth as she increased her pace, sucking him hard. “Just wrapping up some notes. Traffic might be hell.”
She paused her ministrations, pressing the phone against her shoulder. Her whisper was raw, a direct command. “Fuck my ass. Now. While I talk to him.”
A dark, feral grin spread across Ryan’s face. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled her up, turned her roughly, and bent her over the edge of the bed. The silk was cool against her feverish cheek. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and with one brutal, relentless thrust, he was back inside the impossible, clutching tightness of her ass.
Channah cried out, the sound morphing seamlessly into a cough for the phone. “Sorry—sorry, just choked on some water,” she gasped to her husband, as Ryan began to piston into her, each drive knocking a silent scream from her lungs. The stretch was breathtaking, a white-hot filament of pain and pleasure coiling in her core. She could feel every ridge, every vein of him.
“No, I’m okay,” she managed, her voice strained but sweet. “Just tired. You know how these emotional unpackings can be.” She bit her lip as Ryan gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, setting a punishing rhythm. The slap of skin on skin filled the room. “Yeah. Tell the kids I love them. I’ll be home soon.”
She dropped the phone onto the sheets, leaving the call connected. She reached back, clawing at Ryan’s thigh. “Harder. God, don’t you fucking stop.”
She fumbled for the phone, her arm trembling. “I’m still here,” she breathed into the receiver, her voice now openly trembling with the force of his fucking. “What were you saying about the mortgage statement?”
Ryan leaned over her, his chest plastered to her sweat-slicked back, his mouth at her ear. “You’re a fucking psychopath,” he growled, admiration and lust thickening his voice.
“Yes, dear, just file it on the desk,” Channah moaned, the sentence breaking as Ryan hit a depth that made her vision blur. “I’ll look at it tomorrow.”
Suddenly, she pushed him back. She scrambled around, shoving him onto the bed. She straddled his lap, impaling herself on his cock once more, taking him back into her ass with a guttural cry. She snatched up the phone.
“Gotta go,” she panted, barely coherent. “Another call coming in. Love you.” She ended the call and tossed the phone into the shadows.
She rode him furiously, her breasts swaying, her bangs sticking to her damp forehead. “I want to taste my ass on your cock,” she snarled, grinding down on him, her internal muscles clenching. “I want to suck you clean after you’ve been buried in me.”
She slid off him, pushed him onto his back, and descended again, taking his slick, shining length into her mouth. The flavor was layered now—salt, sex, and the distinct, earthy tang of her own body. She reveled in it, humming, her eyes locked on his.
The phone rang again. The screen glowed with her husband’s name.
She answered, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”
“Hey, you cut out weirdly. Everything alright?” Her husband’s voice, concerned and mundane, floated into the charged air.
“Perfect,” Channah rasped, sucking Ryan with sloppy, frantic greed. She was begging with her mouth, with her whole being.
Ryan’s breath was coming in shorter bursts. He was close. She could feel the taut readiness in him.
She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips swollen. She put her mouth near the phone, her words a feverish, desperate whisper meant for both men—one who heard, and one who didn’t.
“I’m going to make him come,” she breathed into the phone, her stare holding Ryan’s, a primal challenge. Then, to Ryan, a raw, stripped-bare plea: “Drown my face with your cum. Do it. Now.”
That was all it took. With a roar that was half her name, half a wordless snarl, Ryan’s body arched. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her mouth back onto him as the first hot, salty spurt hit the back of her throat. She drank it down, milking him with relentless suction as pulse after pulse flooded her mouth, spilling over her lips, coating her chin. It was a savage, generous release. She kept sucking, gentler now, until he was spent and shaking.
The phone was silent for a moment. “Channah? What was that noise?”
She swallowed the last of him, licking her lips clean. She picked up the phone, her voice suddenly smooth, composed, the therapist back in perfect order. “Nothing, dear. A truck backfired on the street. I’m walking to the car now. See you soon.”
She ended the call.
The only sounds were the crackle of the dying fire and their ragged, intertwining breaths.