Chapter 13: A Leisurely Ride
Alex woke to pressure, warmth, and the immediate, unmistakable scent of her. It wasn’t the vanilla lotion. This was sharper, muskier, completely primal. His brain, still woolly with sleep, took a second to process. The weight on his chest, the smooth thighs framing his vision, the thatch of blonde curls pressed insistently against his mouth.
She was already there, already moving.
A soft, grinding rock of her hips smeared wetness across his lips. He instinctively opened his mouth, his tongue finding her by reflex. She let out a satisfied sigh above him.
“There he is,” Emily murmured, her voice thick with sleep and intention. Her hands were on her own breasts, palms kneading the full, heavy curves, thumbs circling her nipples. The morning light caught the silver of her simple necklace, making it sway and flash with her rhythm. “Knew you’d be ready. That mouth of yours never clocks out.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating against her. He was hard, instantly, trapped beneath the delicious weight of her. His hands came up to grip her hips, feeling the muscle working there as she set a slow, deliberate pace. This wasn’t frantic. It was luxurious. A claiming.
“God, you’re so good with that mouth,” she breathed, looking down at him. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted. She shifted, angling herself, and his tongue found her clit without guidance. She jerked, a sharp gasp escaping her. “Yeah. Right there. Just like that.”
He obeyed, licking and circling, drinking her in. The taste was familiar and electric. It was mixed with the memory of whiskey from the night before, a phantom burn underneath her natural salt-sweetness. He focused, letting her movements guide him, his own arousal a secondary, throbbing echo.
She began to talk, her words coming in ragged bursts between breaths. “Thought about this… all night. Waking you up like this. With you all sore and mine.” Her fingers pinched her nipples, tight and mean, and she moaned. “My good boy. My bottom boy. Letting me use his face.”
The words, so crude in the daylight, were just fuel. They didn’t shame him; they described him. They were true. He gripped her hips tighter, pulling her down against his mouth, trying to speak with his tongue. Yes. This. Yours.
She rode him with a growing intensity, her thighs beginning to tremble where they cradled his head. The soft, slick sounds filled the sunlit room, mixing with her hitched breaths and his own muffled grunts of effort. The world narrowed to this: the feel of her, the taste, the burning in his lungs, the perfect pressure of her body on his.
“Close,” she warned, her voice a strained thread. “Don’t you stop. Don’t you fucking dare.”
He didn’t. He pushed his tongue inside her, then fluttered it against her clit, a messy, devoted rhythm. Her internal muscles clenched around the tip of his tongue.
She came with a shattered cry, her body bowing backwards, a beautiful arch of pale skin and blonde hair against the honeyed light. Her thighs clamped viselike around his ears, drowning him in the sound of her own pleasure. He held on, gentling his motions as the waves shuddered through her, feeling her contractions against his mouth.
Slowly, she collapsed forward, bracing her hands on the headboard behind him. She was panting, sweaty, a strand of hair stuck to her cheek. She looked down at him, his face glistening. A slow, wicked smile spread across her features.
“Round one,” she whispered, her voice wrecked.
She didn’t climb off. She just settled back onto his mouth, heavier now, sated but hungry for more. She began to move again, a lazy, rolling grind. “Your turn to work for it, cucky. Let’s see how long you can last.”
He laughed, the sound choked and wet against her. This was the lightness, the play. The unbearable tension of the last 24 hours dissolved into this pure, physical challenge. He spanked her thigh lightly, a playful slap that made her yelp and laugh.
“Cheeky,” she purred, and ground down harder.
They fell into a rhythm that was less about climax and more about endurance, a drawn-out celebration of sensation. He lost track of time. There was only the ache in his jaw, the burn in his shoulders, the relentless, glorious friction, and her steady stream of praise and filth.
“Such a good fucking pillow.”
“I love the way you smell down there now. Like us. Like everything.”
“You’re gonna dream about this taste, I promise you.”
And he knew he would.
Her second peak built slower, a deep, rolling tsunami rather than a sudden quake. She fucked his face with a determined focus, her noises becoming low, guttural groans. When it hit, it was quieter but somehow more profound. A long, trembling release that squeezed tears from the corners of her eyes. She melted onto his chest, a boneless weight, her face buried in the crook of his neck.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their synced breathing and the distant chirp of a bird outside. The smell of sex and sweat was dense in the warm air.
Finally, she pushed herself up. She looked wrecked and glorious. She leaned down and kissed him, deep and slow, letting him taste himself on her tongue. “Okay,” she sighed, stretching her arms overhead. “Now I need coffee. And you,” she said, poking his very erect, very neglected cock, “need a shower. You’re a mess.”
He grinned up at her. “Whose fault is that?”
“Mine,” she said, without a hint of apology. She swung a leg over and stood, padding naked toward the door. She paused at the threshold, looking back at him. The sunlight caught the red mark on her thigh from his playful slap, and the older, fading bite mark on her shoulder from another time. Her expression was soft, satiated, utterly in charge. “Scrambled eggs? I’m starving.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Sounds good.”
She disappeared. Alex lay still, feeling the imprint of her on his mouth, his skin. The soreness from the night before last was a dull, grounding ache. The new soreness in his jaw was a badge of honor. He heard her humming in the kitchen, the clatter of a pan.
He heard her humming in the kitchen, the clatter of a pan.
The sheets were cool where she’d been. He pushed himself up, muscles protesting in a chorus of pleasant aches. A shower did sound good. He rinsed off the sweat and the evidence of her, the hot water soothing the persistent, deep tenderness between his legs. He toweled dry, caught his own gaze in the foggy mirror. He looked exhausted. He looked alive.
Pulling on a pair of soft grey sweatpants, he went barefoot down the hall. The scent of coffee and frying butter pulled him forward.
Emily stood at the stove, wearing one of his old t-shirts. It draped to her mid-thigh. Her hair was a messy knot atop her head. She glanced over her shoulder, a spatula in hand. “Hey. How’s your ass?”
He moved to the coffee pot, pouring a mug. “Still sore,” he said, his voice still a bit rough.
She nodded, turning back to the eggs. “Good.” She said it casually, like noting the weather. “It should be sore after the pounding it received.” She scraped the spatula across the pan. “You were whimpering sooooo beautifully under Marcus. It makes me hot every time I think about it!”
Alex choked. The coffee burned a path down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit that made his eyes water. He braced a hand on the counter, chest heaving.
When he straightened, wiping his mouth, she was just watching him. That grin was on her face—wide, unrepentant, delighted. She wasn’t teasing to wound him. She was reveling in the truth of it, in his visceral reaction. She was cataloging the power of the memory over both of them.
“Easy there, tiger,” she said, her eyes sparkling. She dumped the scrambled eggs onto two plates. “You okay, my perfect little bottom cucky boy?”
The term landed differently here, in the fluorescent kitchen light with the mundane smell of breakfast. It was a secret handshake. A loaded endearment. It simultaneously acknowledged the profound vulnerability of last night and her absolute ownership of it, and of him.
“I’m fine,” he croaked, taking a more careful sip. The coffee was strong and bitter. “Just went down wrong.”
“Mhm.” She brought the plates to the small table, nudging his hip with hers as she passed. A soft, proprietary bump. “Sit. Eat. You need the protein.”
They ate in a silence that wasn’t awkward but was thick with unspoken things. The click of forks on plates was loud. He could feel her eyes on him between her own bites. He studied his eggs, the flecks of pepper, the perfect curl of the toast.
“Does it bother you?” she asked finally. Not looking up. “When I say things like that. Out here.”
He put his fork down. He considered the question, the real weight of it. He thought of the grin she’d just worn. It wasn’t cruel. It was possessive, almost proud. “No,” he said, and found he meant it. “It doesn’t bother me. It just… surprises me. How much it’s just a part of us now. So fast.”
“It was always a part of us,” she said softly. She reached across the table, her fingers tracing the back of his hand. “We just gave it a name. We let it out to play.”
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers. The domestic scene—the breakfast, the shared coffee, their linked hands—clashed beautifully with the raw physicality of the morning and the ghost of Marcus in the conversation. It all belonged. The whole messy, complicated picture.
“What does Marcus think?” The question left his mouth before he could stop it. It felt dangerous, like poking a bruise to feel its shape.
Emily’s thumb stilled on his skin. She took a slow sip of her orange juice. “He texted this morning,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “Asked how you were. Said he had an incredible time.” She met his eyes. “He asked if we’d be interested in getting a drink next weekend. All three of us. No expectations.”
The air left the room. The hum of the refrigerator grew deafening. Next weekend. A drink. No expectations. Which was, of course, a lie. The expectation would hum in the space between their bodies, a live wire.
Alex didn’t pull his hand away. He felt the soreness in his body amplify, becoming a pulse. A memory. An invitation. He saw the careful hope in her eyes, veiled behind a show of casualness. This was the next step on the map she’d drawn in bed. The roadmap without a destination.
He squeezed her fingers. “Okay,” he said, the word simple and final. “Let’s get a drink.”