Chapter 16: Morning Mouth and Ride
The first thing he became aware of was the warmth. A deep, slick heat surrounding him, pulling him up from a heavy, dreamless sleep. Then the pressure, gentle and rhythmic.
Josh groaned, a low, involuntary sound from the back of his throat. He opened his eyes to the grey-gold light of morning slicing through the blinds. The duvet was a mound over his hips. He lifted it.
Millie was there, a pale shape in the half-dark under the covers. Her blonde hair was loose now, a messy curtain around her face. Her green eyes, fixed on his, reflected the dim light. Her mouth was stretched around his cock, which was already fully hard in the wet, tight cavern of her throat.
She released him slowly, a slick pop breaking the silence. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to the glistening head. She didn’t smile. Her expression was one of intense, focused concentration.
“I wanted to repay the favour,” she said, her voice husky with sleep and use. “Wake you up this way.”
Before he could form a thought, she dipped her head again. This time, she took him all the way, her nose pressing into the coarse dark hair at his base. He felt the constriction of her throat, the slight gag as she fought her reflex. She held there, her eyes watering, looking up at him with a challenge that was entirely new.
“Fuck, Millie,” he breathed, his head falling back onto the pillow. His hands fisted in the sheets.
She began to move, establishing a slow, deep rhythm. Her mouth was an expert contradiction—soft lips, hard suction, the relentless scrape of her tongue along the sensitive vein on the underside. She’d use her hand to twist at the base when she came up for air, her spit making the glide smooth and filthy. The sounds were obscene, wet and guttural, magnified under the duvet.
He let her control it, the pleasure a steady, building current. His hips began to push up minutely, meeting her descent. He was close, the tension coiling tightly in his gut, that familiar, urgent climb.
Suddenly, she stopped. She released him with a final, teasing lick and crawled up his body. Her skin was cool where it brushed his. She straddled his hips, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. Her cunt was already wet; he felt the slick heat of her against his stomach.
“Not like that,” she said, her breath coming fast. “I want to feel you when I come.”
She reached between them, took his cock in her hand, and guided him to her entrance. She hovered there, the head just nudging at her folds, making them both gasp. Then, keeping her eyes locked on his, she sank down.
It was a slow, devastating surrender. He watched her face, the flutter of her eyelids, the parting of her lips as she took him inch by inch. She was so fucking tight, the residual soreness from last night making her clamp around him like a silken fist. When she was fully seated, she leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest. Her breasts, small and pale with pink, hard nipples, brushed his skin.
“You’re in charge,” he said, his voice rough. “Take what you need.”
She began to move, a tentative rock of her hips at first, then finding a rhythm. Up and down, grinding against him on the downstroke so he felt every contour of her inner walls. Her hair fell around her face, a blonde veil. Her breaths became shallow pants.
He let her ride him, his hands resting lightly on her thighs, feeling the muscles work. But the sight of her—the determined set of her jaw, the flush spreading down her chest—was too much. A possessive heat surged in him.
His hands snapped to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He stilled her. “My turn,” he growled.
He drove upwards, a hard, deep thrust that knocked a sharp cry from her lips. He set a punishing pace, fucking up into her from below, using his grip on her hips to slam her down onto him in time with his upward drives. The bed slammed against the wall in a frantic, creaking cadence.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, sweat beading on his temples. “To be fucked stupid first thing in the morning?”
“Yes!” she gasped, her head thrown back, her neck a taut line. “God, yes, Josh. Right there. Don’t stop.”
He could feel her orgasm building, her internal muscles beginning to flutter and spasm around his cock. He shifted one hand from her hip, slid it between their sweat-slicked bodies, and found her clit. It was a swollen, needy peak. He rubbed it hard, in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
Her composure shattered. A raw, broken scream tore from her throat. Her body seized, back arching violently, as her cunt clamped down on him in a series of relentless, pulsating contractions. She shook, completely overcome, her inner walls milking him.
The sensation pushed him over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and let go. His release was a hot, surging flood, pumping deep into her, a claiming that felt more profound than the one in her ass the night before. He held her there, impaled and trembling, as the last pulses faded.
For a moment, the only sound was their ragged, syncopated breathing. The room smelled of sex and sleep and sunlight on dust.
Slowly, he softened inside her. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her body boneless, her face tucked into the hollow of his neck. He kept his arms around her, one hand absently stroking the damp skin of her back.
The previous night’s words hung in the air, unspoken. You greedy little slut. The tenderness of the cleanup afterwards. Now this: a savage, shared morning hunger.
Her phone buzzed on the floor, a violent vibration against the hardwood. Then again. And again.
She didn’t move.
“Yours,” he said.
“I know.”
“You should check it.”
“I know what it is.”
He shifted beneath her. “Zoe.”
“Yeah.” Millie finally pushed herself up, wiping a strand of hair from her face. She swung her legs off the bed, hissing slightly at the movement, and retrieved her phone. The morning light painted her naked back in stripes of gold and shadow. She stood there, reading, a stillness settling over her that felt different from the quiet intensity of before. This was the weight of the outside world pressing in.
“She’s asking if I got home okay,” Millie said, her voice flat. “She says she feels bad for ditching me. Wants to get coffee later to apologize.”
Josh watched her. The elegant line of her spine, the curve of her ass, the faint red marks from his fingers still visible on her hips. The evidence of him was all over her, inside her. And she was standing there, crafting a lie to his sister.
“So tell her you got an Uber,” he said, sitting up against the headboard. “Tell her you’re hungover. Tell her whatever you need to.”
She turned to look at him. The sharp green eyes were guarded again, the hunger from moments ago banked behind a new, complicated layer. “What do I need to?”
He held her gaze. The question was bigger than the text. It hung between them, messy and real.
“You figure that out,” he said softly. “But whatever you tell her… this stays here. In this room.”
Millie nodded, once. A simple, terrible agreement. She began to type, her thumbs moving quickly over the screen. The moment was over. The secrecy, once a thrilling layer to the desire, now felt like a cold stone in the gut.
She put the phone down and walked to the window, peering through the blinds at the quiet street below. “She wants to meet at eleven.”
Josh got out of bed. He moved behind her, not touching her, just standing close. He could see their faint reflection in the glass—his tall, lean form hovering behind her smaller, paler one. A secret picture.
“You’ve got time,” he said. His voice was casual, but his eyes in the glass were not. They tracked every minute shift in her expression. “Want to use my shower?”
She leaned back, just slightly, until her shoulders touched his chest. A silent answer. A continuation.
He knew then, with a certainty that chilled and excited him, that this was far from over. The lie was just beginning.