Chapter 7: The New Feature
The hum of her thoughts vanished, replaced by a white-noise static that existed only in the wake of his mouth on her skin. His lips traced a burning path to the collar of her worn t-shirt. He hooked a finger under the cotton and pulled it down, just enough to expose the sharp line of her clavicle. He kissed there, a slow, wet press that made her hips twitch.
“Cane,” she breathed, but it wasn’t a protest. It was an anchor to the moment, a confirmation that this was real.
He understood. He lifted his head, his brown eyes dark and focused, the sleepy ease completely gone. “Yeah?” His voice was gravel.
She couldn’t form a sentence. Instead, she brought her hands up, framing his jaw, feeling the flex of it under her palms. She pulled him down and found his mouth with hers.
This kiss was different. Last night had been discovery, a shocked collision of wants. This was confirmation. It was deep and hungry, all slick heat and searching tongues. He groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her teeth. One of his hands slid under the back of her shirt, his palm broad and warm against the small of her back, pressing her up into him. The other hand fisted in her hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring her to him.
The blanket slithered to the floor. The morning air was cool on her legs, but everywhere he touched was fever-hot. He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gusts against her cheek. He looked at her, really looked, his gaze dropping to her mouth, swollen from his, then back to her eyes. “Tell me this is still okay.”
“It’s more than okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s all I’ve thought about for weeks.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Weeks, huh?” He shifted his weight, rolling until she was straddling his lap, the rough fabric of his sweats an abrasive contrast to her thin cotton shorts. He leaned back against the couch arm, his hands settling on her hips. “Since when?”
She could feel him, hard and thick beneath her. The direct contact sent a jolt through her core. She rocked against him, experimentally, and watched his eyes flutter closed for a second. “Since I walked in on you changing after your run. The gray sweatpants. It was… a very informative accident.”
He barked a laugh, his head falling back. “You pervert.” His hands tightened on her hips, guiding her into a slow, grinding rhythm. “All that stuttering about the weather. You were checking me out.”
“I was having a theological crisis.” She gasped as the friction built a sweet, aching pressure. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He obeyed, pulling her down against his chest, swallowing her moan. His hands left her hips, sliding under her shirt again, pushing it up. She broke the kiss long enough to let him pull it over her head and toss it onto the puzzle box. The cool air pebbled her skin, but his gaze was hotter.
“Fuck, Jess,” he murmured, his eyes drinking her in. He traced the line of her freckles across her chest with a reverent finger, then cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple. The touch was electric. She arched into his hand, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.
He replaced his thumb with his mouth, licking, then sucking, deep and thorough. The sensation was a live wire straight to her clit. She tangled her hands in his short hair, holding him to her, her hips moving against him with a desperate, ragged pace.
“Off,” she managed to grit out, tugging at his shirt. “This needs to be off. Now.”
He released her breast with a wet pop and yanked his own shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him, bare-chested and breathing heavily beneath her, was almost too much. The defined planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair leading down… she’d seen it before, but now she could touch. She leaned forward, kissing his sternum, tasting salt and sleep and him.
His hands went to the waistband of her shorts. He looked up at her, a question in his eyes. She answered by lifting her hips. He peeled the shorts and her panties down her legs in one rough, swift movement. They joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
She was naked in her living room, in the gray morning light, straddling her best friend. The reality of it should have been absurd. It was the most natural thing in the world.
He ran his hands up her thighs, his callouses scraping deliciously against her skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” His voice was wrecked. He leaned forward, kissing her stomach, her hip bone, while his thumbs swept inward, parting her.
She cried out when his mouth found her. There was no tentative exploration. He licked into her with a confident, filthy stroke, his tongue flat and broad against her clit. His hands clamped on her ass, holding her still, opening her wider for him.
“Oh, god. Cane.” Her words dissolved into a choked sob. Her hands scrabbled at his shoulders, her fingers digging in. He was relentless. He devoured her, his tongue circling, flicking, penetrating shallowly before returning to the frantic, swollen heart of her. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room, mingling with her sharp, pleading cries and his low, encouraging grunts.
The coil in her belly wound tight, unbearably so. She was trembling, her thighs shaking where they gripped his sides. “I’m… I can’t…”
He pulled back, his chin glistening. His eyes were black with want. “Yeah, you can. Come on my mouth, Jess. Let me feel it.”
One more swirl of his tongue, one more firm suck, and she shattered. A raw, broken scream tore from her throat as the orgasm ripped through her, blinding and violent. She convulsed over him, her vision whiting out at the edges, her entire body clenching around the sensation.
He held her through it, gentling his mouth, softly lapping at her until the last tremors subsided and she slumped forward, boneless, her forehead resting on his shoulder. She was dripping sweat, gasping for air that smelled like sex and him.
He soothed a hand up her spine. “Okay?”
She could only nod against his skin.
Gently, he laid her back on the couch cushions. She was limp, her vision still hazy. She watched him stand, his body a silhouette against the window. He shoved his sweatpants and boxer briefs down in one hard push, kicking them aside.
He was fully erect, thick and flushed, the tip glistening. Her mouth went dry. He fumbled in the pocket of his discarded pants, pulling out a wallet, extracting a condom. The rustle of foil was loud in the quiet.
He sheathed himself, his movements quick, practiced. He didn’t speak. He came back to her, leaning over, bracing one hand on the couch by her head. He used the other to guide himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her, nudging through her wet, swollen flesh.
He met her eyes. There was no teasing now. His expression was stripped raw, intense. “This?” he asked, his voice guttural.
“Yes.” It was barely a sound. “Please.”
He pushed inside.
She cried out again, a different sound—a full, stunned release of breath. He was stretching her, filling her in a way that was profound, almost too much. He went slow, an inch at a time, letting her body adjust, his own jaw clenched with the effort of restraint.
“Fuck,” he ground out, sweat beading on his temple. “Jesus, Jess. You feel… you feel insane.”
When he was fully seated, he stopped, buried to the hilt. He dropped his forehead to hers, his breath hot and ragged on her lips. They were joined, utterly. The last secret between them gone.
He began to move.
It wasn’t gentle. It was deep, pounding strokes that drove the air from her lungs. Each thrust rocked her body up the cushions, the coarse fabric abrading her back. The couch springs complained with a rhythmic squeak. He hooked an arm under her knee, hiking her leg higher, opening her wider, changing the angle.
The new position made her see stars. He hit a spot inside her that sent electric shocks through her nerves with every drive. “Right there,” she gasped, her nails raking down his back. “Oh, fuck, right there, don’t stop.”
He didn’t. His pace became punishing, animalistic. The smooth, easygoing Cane was gone, replaced by this primal, sweating, grunting creature above her. His face was a mask of fierce concentration. “You take me so fucking good,” he snarled. “This perfect, tight cunt. All mine now.”
The filthy words, coming from his mouth, ignited her all over again. A second orgasm was building, low and deep, coiling tighter with every brutal, beautiful thrust.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She forced her eyes open, locking onto his. The connection was devastating. She was laid bare, physically, emotionally. He was seeing everything.
“Come with me,” he choked out. His rhythm was starting to fracture, becoming erratic, desperate. “Now, Jess. Come on my cock.”
It was the command in his voice that pushed her over. She shattered again, her internal muscles clamping down on him in violent, pulsating waves. A silent scream ripped through her, her body bowing off the couch.
The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a guttural roar that was pure release, he drove into her one last, final time and held, his body rigid as he emptied himself into the condom deep inside her.
The world collapsed into sound—their ragged, mingled breaths, the creak of the couch settling, the distant hum of the city waking up outside. He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing, perfect. She welcomed it, her arms coming around him, holding him as he shuddered through the last pulses of his climax.
Slowly, he softened inside her. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping them connected. He nuzzled into her neck, his breath hot and damp. Neither of them spoke. The silence was thick, saturated.
Minutes passed. The gray light warmed to a pale gold. A truck rumbled by on the street below.
Cane finally shifted, pulling out of her gently. He disposed of the condom in a takeout container on the floor with a grimace of apology. He returned, gathering her against him, pulling the discarded blanket over their cooling bodies.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “So,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Coffee?”
A weak laugh bubbled out of her. She felt bruised, used, sublime. “Yeah,” she murmured, tracing the welts her nails had left on his shoulder. “Coffee sounds… necessary.”
They lay there, entangled in the wreckage of her living room, in the new, terrifying, exhilarating wreckage of them. The puzzle was still half-finished on the table. The pizza boxes still smelled. Everything was the same.
Everything was different.