Chapter 6: Morning Worship
The first thing Millie became aware of was weight. A solid, warm line along her back, an arm slung heavy over her hip. Then memory, vivid and tactile, flooding in: the hallway wall, the slow fuck against her bedroom door, the dizzying peace of falling asleep wrapped around him.
She blinked awake. The grey dawn light painted her room in soft, shapeless monochrome. The whiskey bottle on the nightstand stood sentinel. She could feel him awake behind her, his breathing too still to be sleep.
He was propped on an elbow, just looking at her. His gaze was a physical touch in the quiet.
“Hey,” she whispered, her voice rough with sleep.
“Hey.” His finger traced the line of her shoulder, down her arm. A simple touch that felt like a claim. “You look beautiful.”
She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, turning onto her back to see him better. “I look wrecked.”
“That’s what I said.” A slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes held that same unnerving intensity from the night before. He leaned down and kissed her, soft and deep, a morning exploration. When he pulled away, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Time to show you just how beautiful.”
He kissed her again, but this time he moved. His mouth left hers, trailing a line of heat down her jaw, her throat. He nipped at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, making her gasp. He moved lower, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone, his hands sliding down to cup her breasts through the thin cotton of her camisole. He took a nipple into his mouth, fabric and all, sucking until it was a hard peak and she was arching off the mattress.
“Josh,” she breathed.
He didn’t answer, just hooked his fingers in the straps of her top and pulled it down, baring her. The cool air and his hot mouth on her skin was a devastating contrast. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, biting just enough to make her yelp before soothing the sting with his tongue. He kissed a path down her quivering stomach, his stubble scraping deliciously.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her panties—his briefs from the night before, she realized dimly—and pulled them down her legs. He tossed them aside. She was completely bare to him in the weak light.
He settled between her thighs, pushing her legs apart with his shoulders. He looked up the length of her body, his dark eyes locking with hers. He held her there, exposed, for a long moment, just looking. The vulnerability was sharper than anything they’d done against the wall. Then he lowered his head.
His tongue found her clit immediately—a flat, wet, perfect stroke that made her hips jerk off the bed.
“Fuck,” she choked out, her hands flying to his hair.
He didn’t start slow. He went at her like a man starving, his tongue circling her clit with ruthless precision before laving broad stripes through her dripping folds. He groaned against her, the vibration shooting straight to her core. He was messy, avid, his face buried in her.
“Taste so fucking good,” he muttered, the words muffled against her skin.
He pushed two fingers inside her without warning, curling them upwards, searching. He found the spongy spot deep within and pressed. Pleasure, white-hot and shocking, arced through her.
“Right there!” she cried out, her back bowing.
He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure, his fingers pumping in and out, crooking against that perfect place with every thrust. The dual sensation was overwhelming. It was too much, not enough, a coil pulled taut to breaking.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice strangled. “Josh, I’m gonna—”
He looked up, his chin glistening with her wetness. “Yeah. Come on my face. Let me feel it.”
The crude permission shattered her. The orgasm tore through her, violent and consuming. She cried out, a raw, broken sound, as her cunt clenched rhythmically around his fingers, her juices flooding his hand. He didn’t stop, licking and sucking her through the tremors, until she was whimpering, pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and spent.
He finally pulled away, kissing the inside of her thigh before crawling back up her body. He kissed her stomach, her breasts, her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips, salty and musky.
“Morning,” he said, his voice husky.
She was too shattered to speak. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a proper kiss. His hard cock pressed against her thigh, a blunt, insistent demand.
Before she could reach for him, his phone buzzed on the floor, a violent rattle against the hardwood.
He went still. So did she.
It buzzed again. And again. Someone was calling.
He let out a long, frustrated breath against her neck before rolling off her. He snatched his jeans from the floor, digging the phone from the pocket. The screen illuminated his face in a cold blue glow. She saw his jaw tighten.
“It’s Zoe,” he said, his voice flat.
Millie’s stomach dropped. The warm, sated bubble of moments ago popped, leaving a cold, sick dread. “Are you going to answer it?”
He stared at the screen until it stopped vibrating. “No.” He threw the phone onto the rumpled sheets. It landed between them, a silent judge.
“She’s probably just wondering where you are,” Millie said, hating the thin note of hope in her own voice.
“She thinks I stayed at Matt’s after the game last night.” He ran a hand over his face. “She’ll buy it. She usually does.”
The words ‘usually does’ hung in the air. This wasn’t a one-time transgression for him. The realization was a splash of ice water. Millie pulled the sheet up to her chin.
He saw the shift in her. He reached for her, but she stayed still. “Hey. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she asked, her voice small.
“Don’t get quiet. Don’t think whatever you’re thinking.” He moved closer, his body heat cutting through the sudden chill. “This is different.”
“How?” The question was a challenge.
He didn’t have a ready answer. He just looked at her, frustration and something else—something like genuine confusion—in his eyes. His phone buzzed again, a text this time. He ignored it, his gaze fixed on her.
“I don’t know,” he finally said, the admission stark. “It just is.”
He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, convincing kiss meant to quiet the questions. She let him, because the alternative was to start screaming. His hand slid under the sheet, cupping her breast, his thumb brushing her nipple. Desire, traitorous and fast, ignited again, burning away the doubt.
His phone buzzed once more, then fell silent.
He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “I have to go to work.” He said it like a curse.
“Okay.”
“I’ll text you.”
She just nodded.
He got out of bed, a lean silhouette against the grey window. He dressed quickly, efficiently. He didn’t look like a lover lingering in the morning after; he looked like a man escaping a crime scene. When he was done, he came back to the bed, leaning over to kiss her one more time. It was hard, possessive.
“Tonight,” he said, a statement, not a question.
Before she could answer, he was gone. She heard the soft click of her apartment door closing.
The silence rushed back in, louder than before. It was filled with the smell of him, of sex, of the whiskey they hadn’t drunk. Her body still hummed from his mouth. Her skin still bore the marks of his teeth.
Her own phone, charging on the nightstand, lit up with a notification. A message from Zoe. A photo of a ridiculous-looking latte art, followed by: This barista is an artist! Movie night tomorrow? My place? Josh says he’ll make his famous nachos.
Millie stared at the screen. At her friend’s innocent, smiling emoji. At the casual mention of his name.
She dropped the phone as if it had burned her. She slid down in the bed, pulling the sheet over her head, trying to block out the light, the smells, the relentless truth.
Down in the street, she heard the distinct, growling start of his car engine. It idled for a moment, then faded into the morning traffic.
He was gone. And she was here, in the wreckage of her own making, waiting for him to text. Waiting for tonight.
The bottle of whiskey gleamed on the nightstand. She reached for it, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, burning swallow. It didn’t help. It just made the room, and the feeling in her chest, feel warmer and far, far more dangerous.