Chapter 3: Smooth and Ready in the Kitchen
Devin pressed a wet palm flat against Marcus's chest and pushed.
He didn't move at first. Just stood there under the dying spray, water beading on his shoulders, staring down at her like she'd asked him to cut off his own hand.
"Go downstairs," she said.
"What?"
"Go downstairs and wait in the kitchen."
Marcus's jaw worked. "Devin—"
"I need a minute." She softened it with a kiss to his sternum, quick and dismissive. "Alone. Go."
He went. Not without a look—that heavy, searching look that asked a dozen questions she wasn't ready to answer—but he went. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and then his footsteps retreated down the hall, heavy on the stairs, fading into the lower level of the house.
Devin exhaled.
The mirror was still fogged from the shower, a blank white eye staring back at her. She wiped it clear with her forearm, smearing condensation across the glass in streaks. Her reflection emerged slowly. Wet hair. Flushed cheeks. Lips still puffy from use. The love bites on her collarbone had deepened to a mottled purple, and there were new marks on her hips—finger-shaped bruises blooming where Marcus had gripped her against the tile.
She looked like someone who'd been thoroughly fucked.
She looked like someone who wanted more.
Her gaze dropped lower. The dark triangle between her thighs, still visible through the foggy residue on the glass. Curls that had been there since puberty, that she'd never once thought to remove. They belonged to the old body. The old Devin. The one who'd never been spread open on a kitchen counter, never been bent over and taken from behind, never come so hard she forgot her own name.
That Devin was gone.
She opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside: toothpaste, floss, a bottle of ibuprofen, and tucked in the back, a fresh pack of razors Marcus must have bought during his stay. She pulled one out—still in its plastic casing—and set it on the counter. Next to it, she added Marcus's can of shaving cream, the expensive kind in the matte black bottle that smelled like sandalwood and something else she couldn't name.
She climbed onto the bathroom counter.
The marble was cold against her bare ass, but she barely noticed. She spread her legs wide, knees falling open, feet braced on the edge of the sink on either side. The position was obscene in the mirror—her cunt on full display, pink and puffy and still glistening from everything Marcus had done to her. She could see the evidence of him there, too. The way her folds were slightly swollen. The deeper flush that wouldn't fade for hours.
Devin shook the can of shaving cream and squirted a dollop into her palm. It was cold, foamy, smelling like Marcus's skin. She smoothed it over her mound in slow circles, covering the dark curls in a thick layer of white. The scent filled the small bathroom, and for a moment she just breathed it in.
Then she picked up the razor.
The first stroke was tentative. She dragged the blade through the foam in a short line, from the top of her mound downward, and watched the hair disappear in its wake. Dark curls clung to the razor's edge, trapped in the shaving cream. She rinsed it under the tap, watching the water run gray, then brought it back to her skin.
She worked slowly. Methodically.
Each pass of the blade left smooth, pale skin behind. She rinsed the razor after every stroke, tapping it against the sink edge to dislodge the accumulated hair, then returned to the task with the same deliberate patience. The foam parted under the blade, revealing inch after inch of skin that hadn't seen daylight since she'd hit puberty.
The sensation was strange. Vulnerable.
She'd never realized how much the hair had protected her. Without it, the air felt colder, sharper, more intimate against her skin. She could feel every small movement—the shift of her thighs, the brush of her own fingertips, the faint vibration of the pipes in the wall behind her.
Her mound was bare now. Smooth. She rinsed the razor and considered stopping, but the image in the mirror stopped her. The bare patch of skin at the top looked unfinished, a half-completed thought.
She spread her legs wider.
The razor dipped lower, into the crease of her thigh, following the line of her labia. This was delicate work. The skin was thin here, tender, and she had to angle the blade carefully to avoid nicking herself. She used one hand to pull the skin taut, the other to guide the razor in short, precise strokes.
The foam disappeared in patches, and underneath, the skin emerged pink and slick.
She worked her way down one side, then the other. Each pass brought her closer to the center, until finally she was navigating the most sensitive part of herself—the folds that Marcus had licked and sucked and fucked, now exposed and vulnerable and gleaming under the bathroom light.
She saved the last patch for the very end. The strip directly over her cunt, the curls that shielded her clit from view. She held her breath as she brought the razor down, dragging it carefully through the foam, watching the hair fall away.
Then she was done.
She rinsed the razor one final time and set it aside. Her hand shook slightly. She didn't know why.
The mirror showed her everything.
Bare. Completely bare. Her cunt looked different without the hair—smaller somehow, more exposed. The pink of her inner lips stood out in sharp contrast to the pale skin around them. Her clit was visible now, a small, swollen pearl peeking out from its hood. She could see the glisten of wetness that had nothing to do with the shower.
She looked like a different person.
Devin reached for a towel and patted herself dry. The terrycloth was rough against the freshly shaved skin, and she hissed at the sensitivity. Every nerve ending felt amplified, raw, like her body had been stripped of a protective layer she hadn't known she needed.
She climbed down from the counter on unsteady legs.
Her old clothes were still in the guest room. She didn't want them. Instead, she crossed the hall to Marcus's room—the master bedroom he'd claimed for his stay—and opened the closet. His things hung in neat rows: t-shirts, button-downs, a single suit for emergencies. She pushed past the hangers until she found what she was looking for.
A flannel shirt.
It was soft from years of washing, faded blue and green plaid, the kind of thing he wore on lazy weekends. She pulled it off the hanger and pressed it to her face. It smelled like him. Sun-warmed leather and cedar and something underneath that was purely Marcus.
She shrugged it on.
The flannel fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her wrists. She rolled them up twice. The buttons were worn, and she left the top three undone, exposing the hollow of her throat and the top of her breasts. The hem brushed against her bare thighs with every step, the coarse fabric catching on her sensitized skin.
She looked at herself in the mirror on Marcus's dresser.
The shirt swallowed her. Her bare legs emerged from the bottom, and her hair was a tousled mess around her shoulders. She could see the shadow of her nipples through the fabric, still peaked and tender. She looked like something out of a fantasy. The kind of thing men wrote bad poetry about.
She wondered what Marcus would do when he saw her.
She found out.
The kitchen was quiet. Sterile. White cabinets and stainless steel appliances gleamed under the overhead light, but the moonlight bleeding through the blinds threw jagged shadows across the countertop. The hum of the fridge was the only sound. The air smelled like coffee and something else—that faint trace of Marcus's cologne, the one he'd worn since high school, something warm and familiar.
Marcus was leaning against the counter. His arms were crossed over his chest. He'd pulled on a pair of boxers, but they didn't hide anything—his cock was already thick and hard, pressing against the fabric, a dark stain already forming at the tip.
He'd been waiting for her.
His eyes swept over her the moment she stepped into the room. They dragged from her bare feet to the hem of his flannel shirt to the undone buttons to her wet hair. His jaw tightened. His arms unfolded.
"Devin."
She didn't answer.
She crossed the kitchen in slow, deliberate steps. Marcus's eyes tracked her every movement, hungry and dark. When she reached him, she didn't stop. She turned and hopped onto the granite counter, planting her hands behind her and leaning back. The marble was cold against her bare ass, but she didn't flinch.
She spread her knees.
The flannel rode up, exposing everything. The freshly shaved skin. The pink, slick folds. The evidence of everything they'd done, still glistening, now displayed against the backdrop of his shirt.
Marcus didn't move.
He just stared. His eyes fixed on the bare, gleaming cunt between her thighs like a man seeing the face of God.
"You—" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "You shaved."
"Mm-hmm."
"For me?"
Devin tilted her head. "For you."
The sound Marcus made was somewhere between a groan and a growl. He dropped to his knees with a force that shook the floor.
His hands came up to grip her thighs. They were warm, rough, calloused from years of construction work. He spread her open with his thumbs, exposing her completely, and leaned in close enough that she could feel his breath against her bare skin.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, Devin. Look at you."
She looked. The moonlight caught the sheen of wetness on her lips. Without the hair, everything was visible—the way her inner lips parted slightly, the way her clit stood exposed and begging, the way her hole fluttered with anticipation. She'd never seen herself like this.
Marcus kissed her bare mound.
It was soft, almost reverent, his lips pressing against the smooth skin at the top of her cunt. Then his tongue came out, dragging downward in one long, starving stroke that started at her asshole and ended at her clit.
Devin's back arched off the counter. Her hands flew back, scrambling for purchase, finding nothing but smooth marble. Marcus's grip on her thighs tightened, holding her in place, and he went to work.
He licked her like she was the last meal he'd ever eat.
His tongue was everywhere—dragging through her folds, dipping into her hole, circling her clit with a pressure that made her see stars. Without the hair to cushion the sensation, everything was sharper, more intense. Every brush of his tongue felt like fire against her sensitized skin.
"Marcus—" Her voice broke. "Fuck, Marcus, oh fuck—"
He hummed against her, the vibration ripping through her entire body. His tongue pressed flat against her clit and worked it in slow, deliberate circles. His hands slid up from her thighs to her waist, holding her steady, keeping her from bucking off the counter.
She couldn't stop shaking.
She could feel everything. Every ridge of his tongue. Every breath against her wet skin. The way his cock was pressed against the cabinet, hard and leaking, evidence of how much he wanted this. Wanted her.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
He pulled back just long enough to speak, his lips shiny with her wetness. "You shaved for me."
"Yes—"
"You made yourself bare for me."
"Yes, fuck, yes, I did—"
Marcus's grin was feral. "Then you're going to come on my tongue, and I'm going to feel every second of it."
He buried his face between her thighs.
The flat of his tongue dragged up her cunt, parting her lips, pressing hard against her clit. Then he circled it again. Then he sucked.
Devin screamed.
The orgasm ripped through her without warning. Her body convulsed, walls clenching around nothing, desperate for something inside her. Marcus didn't let up. He kept his mouth on her, licking her through the aftershocks, dragging every last shudder from her body until she was limp and boneless against the counter.
He pulled back. His chin was glistening. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
"Perfect," he muttered. "Fucking perfect."
Devin couldn't speak. She could barely breathe.
Marcus stood. His cock was straining against his boxers, the fabric soaked through with pre-cum. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down, kicking them aside. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward.
"Now," he said. "Now you're going to get down on the floor and show me how grateful you are."
Devin slid off the counter. Her legs were shaking. She didn't care.
She dropped to her knees on the cold tile, looking up at him. The position felt right. Natural. She reached for his cock and wrapped her fingers around the base, feeling the heat of it, the throb of his heartbeat against her palm.
"You want me to suck your cock?" she asked.
Marcus's eyes flashed. "You know I do."
"What if I want something else?"
His brow furrowed. "What?"
Devin rose to her feet. She pressed both palms against his chest and pushed him back, using his momentary surprise to take control. He hit the opposite counter with a grunt, and she followed, trapping him there.
"What if I want to ride you?" she asked.
Marcus's mouth fell open.
"On the floor," she clarified. "I want to ride you on the floor. And I want you to lie there and take it."
For a moment, she thought he'd protest. But then he laughed—a low, rough sound that made her stomach flip.
"Bossy," he said. "I like it."
He sank to the floor.
Devin straddled him.
The position gave her power. She could feel it in the way his hands came up to her hips, in the way his eyes tracked her every movement, in the way his cock lay heavy and hard against his stomach. He was giving her control. Letting her lead.
It was intoxicating.
She positioned herself over him, one hand braced on his chest, one hand reaching back to guide his cock to her entrance. The head pressed against her wet hole, and she held there for a moment, teasing them both.
"Please," Marcus breathed.
"Please what?"
"Please ride my cock, Devin. Please."
She sank down.
He filled her completely. The stretch was intense—he was thick, and her body was still tender from everything before—but the pleasure was overwhelming. She could feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him as she took him inside her.
"Fuck," Marcus groaned. His hands tightened on her hips. "Fuck, you're so tight."
Devin gave herself a moment to adjust. Then she started to move.
She rode him slow at first. Steady. Rocking her hips, finding the angle that made him hit that spot deep inside her. Marcus's head fell back, his jaw clenched, and he watched her with an expression that was almost worshipful.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
She didn't feel beautiful. She felt powerful. She felt feral.
She rode him harder.
The rhythm changed—faster, rougher, more desperate. She braced her hands on his chest and fucked herself on his cock with abandon. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the kitchen. Her thighs burned. Her cunt clenched. Sweat dripped down her spine.
"You close?" she gasped.
"Fucking—" Marcus gritted his teeth. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm close."
"Don't come yet."
She slowed down. Deliberately. Torturously.
Marcus groaned. "Devin—"
"I'm not done with you."
She moved in slow circles, grinding her clit against his pubic bone, driving them both mad. Marcus's fingers dug into her hips, bruising, desperate. He was trying to hold on. Trying to let her have this.
She rewarded him with a fast, sharp thrust.
"Fuck!" His hips bucked up.
Devin laughed, breathless and wicked. "You're so easy."
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me come. I can't—"
She stopped.
Marcus's eyes flew open. "Devin—"
"I want you to say it."
"Say what?"
"Say you're mine."
The words hung in the air between them. Marcus stared up at her, chest heaving, cock still buried deep inside her. The vulnerability in his eyes was raw. Terrifying.
"I'm yours," he said.
The words hit her chest like a physical blow.
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Devin. I've always been yours."
She kissed him.
It was messy and hard and their teeth clashed together, but neither of them cared. Devin started moving again, fast and furious, riding him for everything she was worth. Marcus's hands slid up to her back, pulling her close, holding her against him as he thrust up to meet her.
"Deeper," she gasped against his mouth. "Fuck me deeper—"
He rolled them over.
Devin's back hit the floor, the tile cold against her shoulder blades. Marcus was above her, inside her, and he fucked her into the ground with the kind of force that left no room for thought.
"Come for me," he demanded. "Fucking come for me, Devin."
She obeyed.
The orgasm shattered through her, white-hot and endless. She screamed his name, nails raking down his back. Marcus fucked her through it, his rhythm breaking, his control slipping.
"Fuck—"
His hips slammed into hers one final time, and he came. Hot, thick, flooding her completely. He collapsed on top of her, both of them panting, slick with sweat and sex.
They lay there for a long time.
The fridge hummed. The moonlight shifted. The cold tile bit into Devin's skin, but she didn't care. It was perfect.
Marcus lifted his head. He looked wrecked. Beautiful.
"Okay?" he asked.
Devin smiled. It was small. Real.
"Okay."
He kissed her forehead and pulled out slowly, leaving a trail of wetness on her thighs. Then he gathered her up in his arms and carried her to bed.
They didn't sleep for hours.
They didn't sleep for hours.
The bedroom had gone dark around them, the only light a thin ribbon of moonlight through the curtains. Devin lay tangled in the sheets, one leg thrown over Marcus's thigh, her head pillowed on his chest. His heartbeat thrummed against her ear, slow and steady now, a counterpoint to the chaos of everything they'd done.
Marcus's hand moved through her hair. Idle. Soothing.
She could feel the words building in his chest before he spoke.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked.
Devin tilted her head up. His jaw was shadowed in the dim light, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Anything."
Marcus was quiet for a moment. His fingers kept moving, carding through her tangled hair, working out knots with a patience that seemed at odds with the way he'd fucked her against the kitchen floor.
"I used to jerk off thinking about you," he said.
Devin went still.
"Before," he clarified. "Before any of this."
The words landed like stones in still water. Devin pushed herself up on one elbow, searching his face. He wouldn't look at her. His gaze stayed locked on the ceiling, jaw tight.
"Marcus—"
"Every day." His voice was rough. "For years."
Devin's throat tightened. She didn't speak. Didn't move. Just waited.
Marcus exhaled slowly, the breath rattling out of him like he'd been holding it for a decade.
"I'd come home from work and I'd think about you. In the shower. In my bed. At my desk like a fucking teenager." His laugh was hollow. "I'd close my eyes and imagine walking up behind you."
Devin's pulse hammered against her ribs.
"You'd be bent over something. The kitchen counter. The hood of my truck. Doesn't matter." Marcus's hand stilled in her hair. "And I'd just... come up behind you. Grab your hips. Press you down."
His voice dropped lower.
"I'd imagine fucking your ass."
The words hit Devin like a fist to the sternum. She felt her cunt clench around nothing, a fresh wave of heat rolling through her belly.
"Marcus."
"I know how it sounds." He finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "You were my best friend. You were a guy. And I couldn't stop thinking about bending you over and fucking you until you couldn't walk."
Devin's mouth was dry. Her heart was a drum in her chest.
"Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"Because I thought I was losing my mind." Marcus's laugh was bitter. "I thought it was just... proximity. Or loneliness. Or some shit I could work through. But it never went away. It just got worse."
Devin sat up fully, the sheet pooling around her waist. Her bare breasts were exposed to the cool air, nipples hardening instantly. She didn't care.
"How long?"
"Since we were nineteen."
Eight years. Eight fucking years.
"Tell me," she said.
Marcus frowned. "Tell you what?"
"Tell me what you imagined."
His breath caught. She watched his chest rise and fall, watched the way his hands flexed against the sheets like he was fighting the urge to grab her.
"You sure?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. Then he shifted, turning onto his side to face her properly. The moonlight caught the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.
"I'd think about coming up behind you while you were doing dishes," he said slowly. "You'd be at the sink, and I'd just... walk up. No warning. Press my chest against your back."
Devin's breath shallowed.
"You'd freeze. I'd feel you tense up. But you wouldn't move away." Marcus's hand found her thigh under the sheet. "I'd slide my hands around your waist. Pull you back against me. Let you feel how hard I was."
Devin's legs spread slightly, an unconscious invitation.
"Then what?"
"I'd bend you over the counter." Marcus's voice was rough, scraped raw. "Push your chest down against the edge. Kick your feet apart. Pull your pants down just far enough to get my cock out."
Devin's hand drifted to her own stomach, fingers splaying over the bare skin. She could feel the heat radiating from her cunt, the wetness already gathering between her thighs.
"I wouldn't prep you," Marcus said. "I'd just... push in. Slow. Make you feel every inch."
"Fuck," Devin whispered.
"I'd fuck you just like that. Bent over the counter. My hand on the back of your neck. Your ass slapping against my hips." Marcus's grip on her thigh tightened. "I'd fuck you until you were begging me to stop. Until you couldn't remember your own name."
Devin was shaking. Her cunt was soaked, the freshly shaved skin slick with want. She could feel her own pulse between her legs, heavy and demanding.
"You never said anything," she said again. It came out breathless.
"I couldn't." Marcus's jaw tightened. "You were my best friend. I wasn't supposed to want you like that. I wasn't supposed to think about fucking you every time I saw you."
"But you did."
"Every fucking day."
Devin moved before she could think.
She swung her leg over his hips and straddled him, her bare cunt pressing against his stomach. Marcus's breath punched out of him, his hands flying to her hips. His cock stirred against her ass, already hardening.
"You imagined fucking my ass," she said.
Marcus's eyes were wild. "Yeah."
"Do it."
His whole body went rigid.
"Devin—"
"I'm serious." She leaned down, pressing her palms flat against his chest. "You've been thinking about it for eight years. So do it. Fuck my ass."
Marcus stared up at her like she'd just handed him the keys to the universe.
"You've never—"
"I know." She cut him off. "I want it. I want you to do it."
Marcus swallowed hard. His hands flexed on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." She kissed him, soft and quick. "I trust you."
Something in his expression shifted. The hesitation crumbled. What was left was hunger, raw and unfiltered.
"Get on your hands and knees," he said.
Devin's cunt clenched.
She moved off him, turning onto all fours on the rumpled sheets. The position felt obscene—her ass in the air, her cunt on display, her breasts hanging heavy beneath her chest. She could feel Marcus's gaze on her like a physical weight.
He didn't move for a long moment.
Then his hands were on her.
He grabbed her hips and pulled her back against him, his cock sliding between her slick folds. The head caught on her entrance, and Devin gasped.
"Not yet," Marcus murmured. "Not there."
He reached over to the nightstand. The drawer opened. A bottle of lube appeared in his hand—she hadn't even known it was there.
"How long have you had that?"
"Since the first week I got here."
Devin laughed, breathless. "Presumptuous."
"Hopeful."
He slicked his fingers.
The first touch made her flinch. Cold and wet, circling her asshole with a pressure that was foreign, intimate, terrifying. Marcus leaned over her back, pressing kisses to her spine.
"Relax," he murmured. "Breathe."
She tried. His finger pushed inside, and her whole body seized.
"Fuck—"
"Shh." His free hand rubbed circles on her hip. "Just breathe. Let me in."
She forced herself to relax. Inch by inch, Marcus worked his finger deeper. Then two fingers. Then three. The stretch burned, a fullness she'd never experienced, but underneath the discomfort was something else. Something electric.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No." Devin's laugh was shaky. "But do it anyway."
Marcus lined himself up.
The head of his cock pressed against her hole, blunt and demanding. Devin gripped the sheets, knuckles white.
"Tell me if you want to stop," Marcus said.
"I won't."
"Tell me anyway."
"I won't. Do it."
He pushed.
The pain was immediate and sharp. Devin cried out, her body trying to clench against the intrusion, but Marcus didn't stop. He pushed slowly, steadily, until the head of his cock popped past the ring of muscle and lodged inside her.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, Devin, you're so tight."
She couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The feeling was overwhelming—the pressure, the fullness, the raw intimacy of it. She could feel every inch of him as he pushed deeper, stretching her open in ways she'd never imagined.
"More," she gasped.
Marcus obliged.
He fucked into her slow and deep, each thrust pushing her further up the bed. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back to meet him. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room.
"Eight years," Marcus gritted out. "Eight fucking years I imagined this."
"And now?"
"Better." He drove deeper, and Devin saw stars. "So much fucking better."
She reached back and spread her own ass cheeks, opening herself wider. Marcus groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Greedy little thing."
"You made me this way."
He fucked her harder.
The angle changed, and suddenly every thrust hit something that made Devin's vision go white. She was shaking, crying out with every breath, her cunt dripping down her thighs. The pain had faded, replaced by something raw and primal.
"I'm gonna come," she gasped.
"Not yet."
Marcus reached around her hip and found her clit. His fingers were rough, unpracticed, but they knew where she needed them. He rubbed hard circles while he fucked her ass, and Devin shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her, walls clenching around nothing, body convulsing. Marcus didn't let up. He fucked her through it, chasing his own release, until his hips stuttered and he came with a groan that sounded like it was being torn from his soul.
They collapsed together.
Marcus pulled out slowly, and Devin whimpered at the loss. He gathered her in his arms, both of them slick with sweat and lube, and held her against his chest.
"Okay?" he asked.
Devin laughed. Breathless. Giddy.
"More than okay."
Marcus kissed her forehead. His hand moved through her hair, slow and soothing.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.
Devin grinned against his skin.
"Same time tomorrow."