Chapter 5: The First Taste
The kiss wasn’t soft. It was a collision. A desperate, clumsy meeting of lips that dissolved instantly into something hungry and wet. Jennifer’s hands flew from his chest to his face, her fingers gripping the rough stubble of his jaw, holding him to her as if he might vanish. Randall’s response was a guttural sound, half-surprise, half-relief, as his arms wrapped around her, crushing her against the bare, hot skin of his chest.
He tasted of coffee and the mint gum he always chewed. His tongue slid against hers, claiming, exploring, and the years of friendship evaporated in the heat of that single, open-mouthed kiss. It was all tongue and teeth and shared, ragged breath. She melted into him, her body fitting against his with a rightness that terrified her. The hard line of his erection pressed insistently against her stomach through his jeans, a blunt, shocking reality.
She broke away, gasping, her forehead resting against his. Her whole world had narrowed to the scent of him, the feel of his rapid heartbeat thudding against her own.
“Jen,” he breathed, his voice cracked.
She didn’t let him finish. She pushed him back, just a step, her hands on his hips. The look in his eyes was wild, questioning. She sank to her knees on the hardwood floor.
The air left his lungs in a sharp hiss. “Fuck.”
Her fingers, clumsy with urgency, went to the button of his jeans. The metal was cool, the denim rough. She fumbled, cursing under her breath, until the button gave way. The zipper sounded obscenely loud as she dragged it down. He didn’t help, didn’t move. He just stood there, watching her with a intensity that burned.
She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and his boxer briefs and pushed them down over his hips in one rough motion.
His cock sprang free, thick and fully hard, curving upward against his stomach. The photo had been a frozen image. This was living flesh, veined and heavy, the head flushed a deep, ruddy purple. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. For a second, she just stared, the reality of it, of him, stripping her mind blank. This was Randall. Her best friend. This was the secret flesh she’d obsessed over, and it was here, inches from her face.
She heard the shaky inhalation above her, felt the tremor in his thighs. The power of the moment, of his vulnerability, crashed over her. She didn’t tease. She didn’t hesitate. Driven by weeks of gnawing, secret hunger, she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
He gasped, a sharp, broken sound. The taste was musky, salty, uniquely male. She closed her lips around the shaft, her tongue flattening against the velvety skin underneath. She moved, slowly at first, learning the weight and shape of him. Then with more confidence, spurred on by the low, continuous moans ripping from his throat.
“Jesus, Jen… oh god, just like that.”
His hands came down, his fingers tangling in her chestnut hair, not forcing, just holding, anchoring himself. The feeling of his grip sent a fresh bolt of wet heat between her own legs. She looked up, meeting his gaze. His green eyes were dark, dilated, his face a mask of stunned pleasure. Seeing him watch her, seeing the utter wreckage of his composure, unlocked something feral in her.
She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, ignoring the instinct to gag as the head bumped the back. She swallowed around him, and the shudder that wracked his body was the most profound reward. She worked him with her mouth and tongue, one hand coming up to cradle his balls, feeling their tight, heavy weight. The other wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking in time with her bobbing head.
“I’m not… I can’t last,” he choked out, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust. “Your mouth… fuck, your fucking mouth…”
She didn’t stop. She wanted him to lose control. She wanted to be the reason. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking harder, her own breath coming in desperate huffs through her nose. The sounds were filthy, wet, explicit. She was lost in the rhythm, in the taste, in the sheer, degrading thrill of it.
“Jen, stop… stop, I’m gonna come…”
She gripped his hips, holding him in place, and took him all the way, her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. He swore, a raw, shattered string of obscenities, and his body went rigid. His cock pulsed violently on her tongue, and the first hot, bitter spurt hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, taking every drop as he emptied himself with ragged groans, his legs trembling.
When the last shudder passed, she released him slowly, her lips slick and swollen. She stayed on her knees, looking up at him. He was breathing like he’d run a marathon, his chest glistening with a faint sweat, his eyes hazy with post-climax blankness.
He looked down at her, at her flushed face, her smudged mouth. Something shifted in his expression. The dazed pleasure hardened into a focused, dark heat.
Without a word, he reached down, his hands under her arms, and hauled her to her feet. His strength was startling. He didn’t kiss her. He spun her around, her back to his front, and walked her the few stumbling steps to her large, overstuffed sofa. The fabric backdrop crumpled under their feet.
He bent her over the arm of the couch, the worn velvet rough against her cheek. His hands were at the button of her jeans, yanking them and her underwear down to her knees in one brutal, efficient motion. The cool air hit her bare skin.
“You have no idea,” he growled into her ear, his voice rough, his body already hardening again against her backside. “No fucking idea what you’ve been doing to me.”
One hand pushed between her shoulder blades, holding her down. The other slid between her legs from behind. His fingers found her wet, swollen flesh, and he grunted in approval. “Look at this. Soaked. For me.”
He didn’t tease. He drove two fingers inside her, deep, and she cried out, her body arching. It was too much, too fast, after the slow burn of fantasy. It was real, and it was rough, and it was everything. He pumped his fingers, crooking them, finding a spot that made her vision spark white.
“Randall… please…”
“Please what?” he demanded, his teeth grazing her earlobe. “You kneel in front of me, suck my cock like a dream, and then say ‘please’?”
“Fuck me,” she gasped, the words torn from her. “Just fuck me. Now.”
He withdrew his fingers. She heard the tear of a foil packet—his wallet, he’d had a condom in his wallet—and the rustle as he rolled it on. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cock, nudging against her entrance.
He pushed inside her with a single, relentless thrust.
The fullness was shocking, a stretch that bordered on pain before dissolving into a deep, piercing pleasure. She screamed into the couch cushion, her fingers clawing at the fabric. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each thrust driving her harder into the arm of the sofa. The angle was brutal, perfect. He hit a place inside her that felt connected to every nerve ending.
“This what you wanted?” he panted, his hands gripping her hips, his body slamming into hers. The sound of skin on skin, of his groans and her choked cries, filled the sunlit room. “All those weeks… thinking about this cock?”
“Yes!” she sobbed. “God, yes.”
“You looked at my phone,” he grunted, driving into her. “You saw it. And you dreamed about it. Didn’t you?”
She couldn’t speak. She nodded wildly, her face mashed against the velvet.
“Say it.”
“I dreamed about it,” she cried. “I touched myself thinking about it.”
His rhythm stuttered. A ragged groan tore from him. He bent over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth at her neck. “You’re gonna come for me, Jen. You’re gonna come on my fucking cock, right now.”
The command, the filthy, possessive truth of it, sent her over the edge. The orgasm ripped through her, violent and uncontrollable, clenching around him in fierce, rhythmic pulses. She shattered, her cries muffled by the couch.
Feeling her convulse around him was his undoing. With three more frantic, deep thrusts, he followed her, his own release a hoarse shout against her shoulder, his body rigid and trembling as he emptied himself inside the condom.
He collapsed onto her, his weight pinning her to the couch, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken unison. The only sound was their gasping breaths and the distant hum of the city.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out and slumped beside her on the floor, his back against the sofa. He disposed of the condom in a tissue from the coffee table, his movements sluggish.
Jennifer pushed herself up, her legs wobbly, and pulled her jeans up over her trembling hips. She sank down beside him, not touching, the space between them suddenly vast and charged with something new and terrifying.
The afternoon sun slanted across the floor, illuminating the discarded camera, the crumpled backdrop, his shirt lying in a heap. The pristine photoshoot was a ruin. So was she.
He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. His touch was gentle now, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the animal force of minutes before.
“Well,” he said, his voice hoarse. “That wasn’t in the shot list.”