Chapter 8: Weekend Breeding Ground
The silence from Bren was a heavy, unseen weight they carried out of the warehouse Friday evening. It lingered between them in Matt’s car, a third passenger of dread. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding Hannah’s, his thumb tracing circles on her knuckles.
“She didn’t say a word today,” Hannah said, staring out at the passing streetlights. “Not one. Didn’t even look at me during the team huddle.”
“Same,” Matt replied, his voice tight. “It’s like we’re ghosts. Or marked.”
His apartment felt like a sanctuary, a world away from the concrete and fluorescent lights. The familiar scent of old books, coffee grounds, and his sandalwood soap enveloped them as they stepped inside. He kicked the door shut with his foot, the deadbolt clicking into place with a sound of finality. They were safe. For now.
He turned to her, leaning back against the door, and just looked at her. The fear and tension of the week were etched in the faint lines around her eyes.
“Fuck all of that,” he said softly, pulling her to him. This kiss was different. It wasn’t the frantic, clawing need of the warehouse. It was slow, deep, a reclaiming. A promise. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and thumped to the floor.
They undressed each other there, in the narrow space between the door and the couch, a silent, deliberate ceremony. His calloused hands skimmed the delicate arch of her ribs, the dip of her waist. Her fingers made quick work of his buttons. When they were bare, skin to skin, he simply lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck, and he carried her to the kitchen.
He set her on the edge of the counter, the cold laminate a shock against her thighs. The overhead light was harsh, unforgiving, leaving nothing to imagination. He stepped back, his gaze traveling over every inch of her—the pale swell of her breasts, the dark triangle between her legs, the way she bit her lip, waiting.
“I want to see you,” he murmured. “All weekend. I want to see what’s mine.”
He leaned in, but not to kiss her mouth. He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, then lower, his tongue tracing a slow, wet path down her sternum. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his hand cupping and kneading her other breast. She gasped, her head falling back. His hand slid down her stomach, through the coarse curls, his fingers finding her wet and open for him.
“So ready,” he breathed against her skin. “Always so fucking ready for me.”
He replaced his fingers with his mouth.
He dropped to his knees on the kitchen tile, gripped the backs of her thighs, and pulled her to the very edge of the counter. Then he ate her with a single-minded hunger that made her cry out, her hands fisting in his short, tight curls. His tongue was flat and broad, licking her from her aching entrance to the swollen bud of her clit, again and again, until her thighs trembled against his ears. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm that made her back arch off the cold counter. He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a firm, pulsing pressure.
“Oh, God, Matt, right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop—” The words were a ragged chant.
Her orgasm broke over her suddenly, a white-hot crack of pleasure that seized her muscles and ripped a guttural scream from her throat. He rode it out with her, his mouth gentle now, lapping at her as she shuddered and shook.
Before the last tremors had subsided, he was up, his own need a painful, rigid demand against her inner thigh. He sheathed himself in a condom from the box on the fridge with a quick, practiced tear of foil. He guided himself to her, the broad head of his cock nudging through her slick, sensitive folds. He watched his own penetration, watched her tender flesh stretch to accommodate him.
“Look at that,” he grunted, pushing in with one slow, inexorable thrust, filling her completely. “Look at you taking me. After coming so hard. Fuck, you’re greedy.”
He set a deep, relentless pace, each stroke a full, possessive claim. The counter rattled against the wall with their rhythm. Her cries were sharp, punched-out sounds. He leaned over her, bracing his hands on either side of her, his face inches from hers.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his breath hot on her cheek.
“It’s yours,” she panted, meeting his thrusts. “All yours. Fuck me, Matt. Fuck me like you don’t care who hears.”
He did. He pistoned into her, his hips a blur of frantic motion. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, rhythmic sounds of their joining, filled the small kitchen. His control shattered. With a ragged roar, he drove deep, his body stiffening as he came, his release pumping into the condom in hot, pulsing jets.
They stayed like that, joined, panting, for a long minute. Then he carefully lifted her off the counter, her legs wobbling. They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They collapsed on the worn couch, a tangle of limbs, and slept there in the blue light of the television.
The weekend unfolded in a haze of skin and sweat and murmured secrets. It was a deliberate forgetting. The world outside—Bren, the warehouse, the consequences—ceased to exist.
Saturday morning, he took her against the shower wall, the water sluicing over them as he pinned her hands above her head and fucked her with slow, grinding rolls of his hips, the steam fogging the glass.
Saturday afternoon, she rode him on the sun-warmed floor by the balcony door, her small body moving over his with a desperate intensity, her nails scratching red trails down his chest as she came, his name a sob on her lips.
They ordered pizza. They ate it naked. They talked about everything except work. He told her about his sister in Detroit. She told him about the mother she hadn’t spoken to in three years. The conversations were soft, interspersed with long, comfortable silences and softer touches.
But the current between them never fully quieted. It simmered.
Sunday evening, as a slow dusk painted the room in shades of orange and gray, he found her standing by his bed, looking at a framed photo on the dresser—him and some college friends, younger, carefree. She was wearing one of his t-shirts. It drowned her.
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. She leaned back into him with a sigh.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I don’t want tomorrow to come,” she whispered.
He turned her around. The fear was back in her eyes. He kissed it, softly, then with more heat. He walked her backward until her knees hit the mattress and she sat down. He pulled the t-shirt over her head. He pushed her back, following her down, covering her body with his.
This time was different again. It was not frantic, nor playful, nor a fierce claiming. It was a deep, aching consummation. He entered her with a sigh that was her name, and they moved together in a slow, devastating rhythm that felt less like sex and more like a conversation they couldn’t have with words.
He worshipped her. He kissed the scar on her knee from a childhood fall. He traced the curve of her ear with his tongue. He moved inside her with a profound gentleness that somehow opened her up more completely than any rough thrust ever had. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring his face above her.
“Matt,” she cried, and it sounded like a heart breaking and mending all at once.
When her climax came, it washed through her in deep, rolling waves, a sob catching in her throat. He followed her, his own release a quiet, surrendering groan against her neck, his whole body sinking into hers as if seeking refuge.
Later, in the dark, sheets tangled around their legs, he pulled her close, her back to his chest. Her breathing evened out into sleep. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant city sounds.
The sanctuary was temporary. The weekend was over. In the morning, they would have to put their clothes back on, walk back into that warehouse, and face whatever awaited them. Bren’s silence was a storm cloud on the horizon, and it was about to break.
He held Hannah tighter, a possessive, protective anger settling in his bones. Whatever came, they were in it now. Together.