Chapter 4: Unexpected Fit
The coffee shop was a bustle of normalcy that felt like a shared secret. They sat at a small iron table, Wendy’s frame making the chair seem like a toy, Jace’s feet barely brushing the ground. They didn’t talk about the kiss. They talked about everything else—the bitter notes in the dark roast, the absurd mural of jazz cats on the wall, Leo’s terrifyingly intense focus. The conversation flowed like a river finding its old bed, easy and deep. But underneath every word, beneath the clink of mugs, thrummed the live wire of what had happened in the dusty workshop light.
As evening bled into dusk, the chatter around them faded into a soft buzz. Jace reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb tracing the vast, soft plane of her knuckles. “Where to now?” he asked, his voice low. “My place has… stairs. And a landlord who thinks a ‘spacious studio’ means you can turn around without hitting the fridge.”
Wendy felt a familiar clench of anxiety in her gut, the old voice whispering about bed frames and judgment and impossible logistics. Then she looked at his face, open and waiting, and the voice quieted. She thought of the steel-framed chair that hadn’t flinched. “Mine,” she said. “It’s a fortress. A messy one.”
Her apartment building was a pre-war monolith with an elevator that groaned in protest but held. The hallway carpet was thin, the lights fluorescent and unforgiving. She fumbled with her keys, acutely aware of him standing beside her, of the sheer domestic strangeness of it. The door swung open on a wave of warm, contained air scented with lavender plug-ins and, underneath, the ghost of fried food.
“Welcome to the bunker,” she said, a defensive edge in her voice as she led him in.
Jace didn’t scan the room with judgment. He observed it like a journalist, like an anthropologist of her life. The reinforced sofa, the wide pathways cleared through the clutter, the television mounted high on the wall. His eyes landed on the massive bed in the adjoining room, a landscape of rumpled sheets and deep impressions.
“It’s perfect,” he said, and she knew he wasn’t talking about the decor.
He turned to her, there in the dim living room light. The space between them vanished again, but this time there was no hesitation, no slow approach. He stepped into the shelter of her body, his hands sliding up her sides, over the incredible, soft slope of her hips. She gasped as his fingers found the bottom edge of her blouse, slipping underneath to press against the warm, smooth skin of her belly. His touch was firm, exploratory, claiming.
“Jace,” she breathed, her own hands coming up to frame his face, to pull him closer.
“I want to see you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick. “All of you. Every single inch.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum. This was the precipice. The moment where fantasy met the overwhelming, fleshy reality. She nodded, a tiny, desperate motion, and took his hand, leading him toward the bedroom.
The overhead light was too much. She switched on a small lamp on the nightstand, casting the room in a soft, amber gloom. The bed dominated everything. She stood before it, feeling more exposed than she ever had in her life. With trembling fingers, she began to unbutton her blouse. Each button released was a surrender. The fabric fell open, then away. She let her pants slide down her monumental thighs, stepping out of them with a soft grunt. She stood before him in just her bra and panties, vast and trembling, the curves and folds of her body illuminated in the warm, shadowy light.
Jace’s breath hitched. He didn’t speak. He approached her like a man approaching a sacred site. His hands, so small against her, came up to rest on the hanging swell of her lower belly. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the soft, warm skin just above her navel.
A shockwave went through her. Not just pleasure, but a profound, disorienting sense of being cherished.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, his voice muffled against her flesh. His kisses moved, slow and worshipful, across the landscape of her stomach. He found the stretch marks, silvered rivers on a map of her history, and traced them with his tongue. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark strands.
He sank to his knees before her, his hands sliding down to the enormous expanse of her thighs. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, looking up for permission. Her vision was blurry with tears. She nodded.
He peeled the fabric down, revealing the dense, curly hair beneath. The cool air hit her, followed immediately by the heat of his breath. He didn’t bury his face in her. He admired her first, his hands spreading her outer lips, his gaze intense and hungry.
“Fuck, Wendy,” he groaned, and the obscenity was a prayer. Then he leaned in.
His tongue was a point of blazing, wet light in the darkness. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe from her perineum up to her clit, which was already swollen and exposed. She jolted, a guttural sound tearing from her throat. He did it again, and again, learning her rhythm, her taste—musky, salty, profoundly her. He focused on her clit, circling it with a relentless, perfect pressure, then sucking it gently between his lips.
“Oh god, oh fuck,” she chanted, her knees buckling. Her hands fell from his head to brace on the bed behind her, her body swaying. The pleasure was an annihilating tide, pulling her under. He ate her with a focused devotion, one hand coming up to slide a finger inside her, then two. She was soaking wet, clenching around him. He crooked his fingers, finding a spot that made her scream.
“I’m gonna… Jace, I’m gonna come…” she gasped.
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue and fingers working in a filthy, perfect synchrony. The orgasm ripped through her like a seismic event, a series of convulsions that shook her entire frame. She roared, a raw, unfeminine sound of pure release, bucking against his mouth until the waves finally, slowly, receded.
She slumped onto the bed, the mattress groaning and dipping profoundly under her weight. She was boneless, gasping. Jace stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark with desire. He shucked his own clothes quickly, revealing a compact, muscular body, his erection standing thick and urgent.
He climbed onto the bed, crawling over the terrain of her body until he was straddling her stomach. He was so small there, a rider on a soft, vast hill. He leaned down and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips.
“My turn,” she panted, her hunger roaring back, different now, possessive. “I want you inside me. Now.”
He shifted, his cock brushing against the dense cushion of her lower belly. The logistics were comical, impossible. He couldn’t just slide into her from here. But the desire was a solved equation. “How?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Like this,” she commanded, her old insecurities burned away by a new, blazing confidence. She rolled onto her side, a monumental effort that shifted the entire universe of the bed. She pulled him with her, so they lay facing each other, her belly a soft, warm barrier between them. She hooked her top leg over his hip, opening herself to him. “Here. Now.”
He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slippery folds. He looked into her eyes, a question there. She answered by pushing her hips forward, taking him inside.
They both cried out.
For him, it was the overwhelming, wet, tight heat, the sensation of being utterly enveloped. For her, it was the delicious, filling stretch, the profound rightness of his body connecting to hers. He began to move, short, deep strokes, his pelvis bumping against the soft wall of her belly with each thrust. The sound was obscene, wet slaps and creaking bedsprings and their ragged breathing.
“You feel… fucking incredible,” he grunted, his hands gripping the massive curve of her ass, pulling her into him.
“Harder,” she demanded, her own hands clutching his back, her nails digging in. “Don’t you dare hold back.”
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, his small body driving into hers with a power that belied his size. Each impact sent shockwaves through her, stoking a new fire. She met him thrust for thrust, their size difference not an obstacle but the very engine of their pleasure—a perfect, piston-like friction.
“I’m not gonna last,” he warned, his face buried in the column of her neck.
“Then don’t,” she growled into his ear. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
It was the permission, the filthy command, that undid him. With a choked, broken shout, he came, pulsing deep inside her. His orgasm triggered her own, a second, shocking climax that gripped his still-throbbing cock and milked him dry. They clutched each other as the tremors subsided, a tangled, sweating, breathless heap in the canyon of her bed.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing. He was still inside her, soft now. He nuzzled her chest, his lips against the swell of her breast above her bra.
“The chair was a good prototype,” he mumbled, drowsy and sated. “But this… this is the real custom fit.”
She laughed, a rich, full sound that vibrated through both of them. She shifted, and he slipped out of her with a soft, wet sound. She pulled the blankets over them, enveloping him completely in the warm, private darkness of her body and her bed.
“Stay,” she whispered, not a question but a statement.
“Nowhere else,” he sighed, already half-asleep against her, his small hand splayed possessively on the great curve of her hip.
In the quiet dark, Wendy listened to his breathing even out. The ghost smells of takeout and regret were still there, but they were being overwritten, note by note, by the scent of sex and skin and this new, unnameable thing that felt, for the first time in her life, like peace. The fortress walls were still standing, but the gates, at long last, were open.
The fortress walls were still standing, but the gates, at long last, were open. Dawn filtered through the blinds, striping their tangled bodies in pale light. Wendy woke to the unfamiliar weight of another person, the warm press of Jace’s back against her stomach, his even breath rustling the hair on her arm.
Her body ached in new, profound ways. A pleasant soreness throbbed between her thighs. The memory of the night flooded back, not as a shameful secret, but as a tangible series of sensations etched into her skin. She shifted slightly, the mattress groaning beneath them.
Jace stirred, mumbling something incoherent into the pillow. He flipped over, blinking sleep from his eyes. His gaze found hers, and a slow, unguarded smile spread across his face. “Morning,” he rasped.
“Hi.” Her voice was gravelly with sleep.
He stretched, a compact uncoiling of muscle, then rolled toward her. He didn’t hesitate. He laid his head on the immense, soft pillow of her breast, his hand coming to rest on the curve of her belly. His fingers absently traced one of the silver lines he’d worshiped hours before. “Still beautiful,” he said, as if commenting on the weather.
A lump formed in her throat. She let her hand settle in his hair. They lay in silence for a long while, listening to the city wake up outside. The ordinary magic of it was almost too much to bear.
Her stomach growled, a deep, cavernous sound that vibrated through both of them.
Jace laughed, the sensation buzzing against her skin. “Someone’s hungry.”
“It’s a permanent state of being,” she said, but she smiled.
“Stay here.” He kissed the skin beneath his lips and slid out from under her arm and the heavy blankets. The cool air rushed in where his body had been. She watched him pad naked across her bedroom, unabashed, picking up his jeans from the floor. The sight of his bare, muscular back, the easy ownership of his space in her chaotic world, made her chest tighten.
He returned from the kitchen with two bowls. He’d found her cereal, the cheap, sugary kind she bought in bulk. He’d filled both bowls to the brim, a small ocean of carbs and artificial flavor. He handed her one, keeping the other, and climbed back onto the bed. He didn’t sit beside her. He sat facing her, cross-legged in the nest of blankets, his bowl in his lap.
“Dig in,” he said, taking a huge, crunchy mouthful himself.
She ate. The cereal was stale, the milk colder than she liked. It tasted like heaven. They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the crunching and the distant hum of traffic. When she finished, she set the bowl aside on the nightstand with a soft clink.
Jace set his own half-eaten bowl next to hers. His eyes were on her, dark and intent. He wiped a drop of milk from his lip with his thumb. “You’re still hungry.”
It wasn’t a question. He could see it. The food had been a placeholder. The real appetite, the one he’d unlocked, was now wide awake and staring back at him from behind her eyes.
“Yes,” she said, the word simple and stark.
He moved then. He didn’t crawl over to her. He put a hand on her massive thigh and pushed himself to his knees, rising before her like a pilgrim before a monument. The morning light gilded the lines of his shoulders, the dark trail of hair below his navel leading down to his cock, which was already half-hard, stirring back to life.
“Tell me what you want,” he said. His voice was low, a rough invitation.
“I want your mouth again,” she heard herself say. The demand felt crude and powerful on her tongue. “I want you to finish what you started last night. I want to come with your face buried in my cunt while I watch you do it.”
A sharp, eager breath hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, yes. Okay. How do you want me?”
Her mind, usually a storm of doubt and calculation, was crystal clear. She remembered the perfect, accepting support of Leo’s steel-framed chair. She leveraged herself up, shuffling to the very edge of the bed where the mattress was firmest. She planted her feet wide on the floor, the wood creaking under her weight. She let her knees fall open, a vast and vulnerable invitation. The cool air of the room whispered against her wetness.
“Right there,” she said, pointing to the floor between her feet. “On your knees.”
He was there in an instant. He didn’t need to be asked twice. He knelt on the worn carpet, his hands immediately sliding up the insides of her thunderous thighs, pushing them wider. He looked up at her, his expression one of pure devotion to the task. He saw the flushed, swollen lips of her pussy, glistening in the morning light. He groaned, a sound of deep, visceral need.
“You’re so wet already,” he murmured, his breath hot against her. “Just from talking about it.”
“Stop talking,” she commanded, her voice trembling not with fear, but with anticipation.
He obeyed.
He leaned in and licked her from bottom to top in one long, slow, devastating stroke. His tongue was flat and hot and perfect. Her head fell back, a strangled gasp escaping her. He settled into a rhythm, not the frantic exploration of the night before, but a deliberate, studied consumption. He ate her like she was his only meal, like he was starving for her.
One hand held her thigh open. The other came up, his thumb finding her clit and circling it with a pressure that made her vision spot. His mouth was busy lower, his tongue fucking into her entrance with shallow, urgent thrusts. The sounds were obscenely loud—wet, sucking, sloppy noises that echoed in the quiet room. She could smell herself, musky and ripe, and the scent drove her higher.
“Right there, yes, god, just like that,” she babbled, her hands fisting in the sheets. She looked down, watching. The sight of his head between her legs, his features obscured by her own flesh, his shoulders working, was the most brutally erotic thing she had ever witnessed. “You love it, don’t you? You love eating this fat cunt.”
He moaned against her, the vibration traveling straight to her core. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly at her clit while his thumb continued its relentless circles. His nose was buried in her. He was drowning in her, and he was thrilled to be going under.
The orgasm built not as a wave, but as a shattering internal pressure. It tightened every muscle in her abdomen, stole the air from her lungs. She tried to warn him, but only a ragged squeak came out. It detonated. Her body locked, then convulsed, a series of brutal, pulsing clenches that milked at the nothingness inside her. She screamed, a raw, unhinged sound, and bucked against his face, grinding herself into his mouth as he drank every last shuddering spasm from her.
When it was over, she was boneless, panting, slumped back on her elbows. Jace slowly pulled back, his chin and lips slick with her. He looked utterly debauched, and utterly proud of himself. He climbed up onto the bed, crawling over her. He kissed her, letting her taste the tang of her own satisfaction on his tongue.
She could feel his hard cock pressing against her hip. The hunger, momentarily sated, roared back, fiercer now, more specific. She pushed at his shoulder, rolling him onto his back beneath her. The bed screamed in protest at the violent redistribution of weight.
“My turn,” she panted, her eyes blazing. She straddled his hips, her incredible mass completely engulfing him. He looked up at her, dazed with awe, his hands coming to rest on the mountainous slopes of her thighs.
She reached between her own legs, took his cock in her hand, and guided it to her entrance. She was so wet it slid against her without friction. She positioned the head, and then, looking directly into his eyes, she sank down.
She took him all in one slow, inexorable descent.
He cried out, his back arching off the bed. The feeling of being sheathed inside her, so completely surrounded and compressed by her heat and softness, was overwhelming. “Wendy… fuck…”
She began to move. She raised herself up, almost letting him slip out, then slammed back down, using the full, powerful leverage of her hips and ass. The impact shook the bedframe. A picture rattled on the wall. She set a punishing rhythm, fucking him with a hungry, selfish intensity. Each downward thrust forced the air from his lungs in a grunt.
“Is this what you wanted?” she demanded, her voice guttural. She rode him hard, her tits swaying, her belly quivering with the effort. “This fat bitch on top of you? Using your pretty little cock?”
“Yes! God, yes!” he choked out. His hands gripped her thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, trying to meet her thrusts. His face was a mask of agonized pleasure. “You feel… so fucking good. So deep. I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Come inside me,” she growled, leaning forward to put more weight behind her movements. “Do it. Fill me up.”
That was all it took. With a shattered cry, he came, his body locking tight beneath hers. She felt the hot, pulsing release deep inside her, and it triggered another, sharper orgasm of her own, a clenching, milking reflex that drew his climax out until he was whimpering, sensitive and spent.
She collapsed forward, careful to keep her weight on her elbows, burying his face in the softness of her chest. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken sync. The room stank of sex and sweat and sugar.
After a long while, he managed to speak, his voice muffled by her skin. “We broke the bed.”
She laughed, a breathless, exhausted puff of air. “It was already broken.”
“No.” He turned his head to the side, his lips against her sternum. “I think we actually broke it. I heard wood crack.”
She listened. The frame did have a new, permanent list to the left. She didn’t care. “Leo can fix it.”
Jace’s laughter shook through both of them. He slid out of her, a soft, wet sound, and she rolled beside him, the ruined bed groaning in definitive protest. The sun was higher now, a solid beam of gold cutting across the wreckage of sheets and their entwined bodies.
Her stomach growled again, long and loud.
Jace propped himself up on one elbow, a smirk playing on his swollen lips. “Round three demands sustenance. I saw pancake mix in your cupboard.”
“You’re going to cook?” she asked, skepticism and hope warring in her voice.
“I’m going to try,” he said. He swung his legs off the bed, stood on slightly unsteady legs, and pulled his jeans on. He looked back at her, a king surveying his conquered, voluptuous domain. “And then,” he said, his eyes dark with a promise that sent a fresh thrill through her spent body, “I’m going to see how many times I can make you come before the syrup gets cold.”
He walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. Wendy listened to him clattering in her kitchen, whistling tunelessly. The fortress walls stood. The gates were open. And for the first time in her life, someone was walking in, not with pity or curiosity, but with a frying pan and a boundless, hungry intent to stay.
HE FEEDS HER DESIRE.