Chapter 7: The Aftermath
The silence in the truck was a physical thing, thick and charged. The twinkling lights of the ranch had disappeared behind a curve in the road, swallowed by the vast Montana darkness. Matt drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Dasha’s thigh, a permanent, warm brand through the silk of her dress. She stared out the window at the rushing black, her body still humming from the violence of their last coupling against the tent post.Her skin felt too small for everything inside it.
They didn’t speak until the gravel of the driveway crunched under the tires, leading not to the main house but to a smaller, older cabin tucked against a stand of pines. “Guest cabin,” Matt said, his voice rough.“Megan thought we’d want… privacy. After the reception.”
The unspoken ‘knowing what we’d be doing’ hung in the air. Dasha felt a fresh wave of heat, part shame, part thrill.
Inside, it was a sunlit space frozen in a nighttime snapshot. A large bed with a wrought-iron frame dominated the room.A jigsaw puzzle lay half-completed on a table by the stone fireplace. The air smelled of sage, old books, and dust. Matt locked the door behind them, the click of the bolt echoing in the quiet.He turned to her, leaning back against the heavy wood. In the soft light from a single lamp, he looked exhausted, stripped bare, the charming actor nowhere in sight. “Talk to me,” he said. “You’ve been quiet for twenty miles.”
“What is there to say?” Her own voice surprised her, how small it sounded. “We just had… that… with two hundred people fifty feet away.My head is…”
“Spinning. I know.” He pushed off the door and crossed the space between them. He didn’t grab her.He simply cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Mine too.But the spinning… it’s not regret.For me. Is it for you?”
She looked into his blue eyes, seeing the fear there, a mirror of her own. “No,” she whispered, and it was the truth.“It’s terror. But not regret.”
He kissed her then, a deep, soul-searching kiss that was more question than demand. Her hands came up to clutch his shoulders, anchoring herself. The kiss slowed, softened, became a languid exploration.It was different from anything that had come before.It was a conversation.
When he broke away, he kept his forehead against hers. “I need you in a bed,” he murmured. “I need to take my time.”
He led her to the edge of the mattress and sat her down. Kneeling before her, he slowly slid her shoes off, his hands kneading the arches of her feet. He looked up at her, his gaze unwavering, as he lifted the hem of her dress. He guided it up, over her hips, her stomach, her breasts, and finally over her head, tossing it aside. She sat in just her torn lace panties from earlier, the evidence of their frenzy still damp on the fabric.
He hooked his fingers in the sides and peeled them down her legs.The cool cabin air touched her bare skin, and she shivered.
“Look at you,” he breathed, not a growl this time, but a reverent observation. He gently spread her knees apart, his eyes fixed on her. She was exposed, glistening, swollen.His breath hitched.“Still full of me. I can see it.”
He didn’t lick her immediately.He just looked, his expression one of awed hunger. Then he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh, kissing softly. He trailed kisses upward, achingly slow, until his breath ghosted over her wet folds.
“I want to taste everything,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin.Then his tongue found her.
It was not the frantic cleaning of his fantasy from the night before.It was deliberate, worshipful. He licked long, flat strokes, gathering the mingled taste of their bodies onto his tongue with a soft groan. He circled her clit with maddening patience, then suckled it gently between his lips. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, not to push him, but to hold on.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips moving against her.“Let me hear you. No one to muffle you here.”
He added his fingers, pushing two deep inside her, curling them.The stretch was exquisite, a delicious fullness that complemented the sharp, focused attention of his mouth. He fucked her with his fingers in a slow, thorough rhythm, his tongue never leaving her clit.The dual sensation built a coil of tension so tight she thought it might snap her spine.
“I’m… Matt, I’m gonna…”
“Come,” he ordered softly, and drove his fingers deeper, sucking harder.
The orgasm washed over her not as a violent crash, but as a deep, rolling tide. It pulled her under in a series of pulsing waves, a release that felt more emotional than physical, wringing a long, sobbing cry from her throat. He worked her through it, gentling his touch until she was a trembling, boneless heap on the bed.
He slid up her body, kissing her stomach, the valley between her breasts, the hollow of her throat.He tasted of her.“On your stomach,” he whispered into her mouth.
Still shuddering with aftershocks, she rolled over. He arranged her, pulling her hips up so she was on her knees, her face pressed into the quilt. He knelt behind her, his hands roaming her ass, spreading her cheeks apart.“So open for me,” he muttered. He spat, once, onto his fingers, and she felt the cool, slick pressure of a fingertip circling her other hole. She tensed for a second, then moaned as he pressed just the tip inside. The invasion was shocking, taboo, and it made her already-sensitive pussy clench around nothing.“Relax, baby.Just a little. Just to feel you there.”
He kept that faint, insistent pressure as he used his other hand to guide his cock to her soaked entrance. He pushed in, not with a savage thrust, but with a relentless, deep slide that filled her completely. The dual penetration, so slight from behind, was overwhelming. She felt impossibly full, possessed in a way that bordered on obscene.“Oh god,” she wept into the bedding.
He began to move, a deep, grinding pace that emphasized every inch of his length. His finger remained where it was, a static, claiming presence. “You take it so good,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard.“This perfect ass.This perfect, used pussy. All mine.Say it.”
“Yours,” she sobbed, the word torn from her. “All yours.”
His rhythm broke, became harder, faster. He slid his finger out and replaced it with his thumb, applying more pressure. The new sensation tipped her into another climax, this one sharper, brighter, a white-hot wire of pleasure that electrocuted her from the inside out. Her convulsions milked him, and with a ragged shout, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his release hot and pulsing deep within her.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her with him, spooning her from behind.They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. He nuzzled her damp hair.Minutes passed, measured only by the slowing of their hearts. The room came back into focus: the puzzle of the Grand Canyon, the shadows on the log walls.
The room came back into focus: the puzzle of the Grand Canyon, the shadows on the log walls. His breath warmed the back of her neck, his arm a heavy, comforting weight across her ribs. She felt hollowed out and remade, her skin still buzzing from his mouth, his hands, the relentless fullness he’d inflicted.
“I can hear you thinking,” Matt murmured, his lips brushing her shoulder. “It’s like a hive of bees in there.” He traced the line of her spine with a single finger, a slow, meandering path that made her shiver.
Dasha caught his hand, lacing her fingers with his. The silence between them now was different from the truck—softer, but threaded with a new, raw curiosity. She rolled onto her back to look at him, finding his blue eyes already waiting, dark with satiation and something else, something watchful.
“All that time,” she said, her voice scratchy from crying out. “That whole year of just being friends.” She swallowed, feeling the risk gather on her tongue. “What did you think about? When you were alone, I mean.”
Matt’s gaze didn’t waver. A slow smile touched his mouth. “What didn’t I think about?”
“Tell me.” She pushed herself up on one elbow, the quilt falling to her waist. “I want to know the worst of it. The dirtiest, most fucked-up fantasy you had about me while you were pretending to be my friend.”
He exhaled, a sharp, amused breath. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, to where the sheets covered her hips. “You’re asking for trouble.”
“I’m already in trouble.” She held his gaze. “So tell me.”
He sat up against the wrought-iron headboard, the lamplight carving the muscles of his chest into sharp relief. He ran a hand through his hair, curling a dark strand around his finger. “Okay.” The word was a concession, a door opening. “There’s one from early on. Maybe six months ago.”
He looked at her, and his voice dropped, turning conversational yet intimately coarse. “You were at my apartment, helping me run lines for that courtroom drama. You were in those black pants, the ones that hug your ass like they’re praying to it.” He paused, letting the image settle. “You got up to get a glass of water, and you bent over the counter to reach a cabinet. I was supposed to be reading a scene, but all I could think about was walking up behind you, putting my hands on your hips, and just fucking bending you over that marble island.”
Dasha felt a lick of heat in her belly. Her breath shallowed. “Go on.”
“I’d hike that skirt—no, those pants—down just enough,” he continued, his words deliberate, painting the scene. “No underwear. I’d spit on my hand, get it good and wet, and rub that spit over your cunt until you were dripping. Then I’d just push in, no warning, just one hard shove until I was balls-deep in that tight, polite editor pussy of yours.” His eyes glazed, fixed on a point past her shoulder, seeing it. “You’d gasp, and your script pages would go flying. And I’d fuck you like that, bent over my kitchen counter, my hand fisted in your hair, telling you to say your lines while I pounded into you. I’d want to hear you stutter, lose your place, completely fall apart while I used you.”
She was wet again, a fresh, aching throb between her legs. The casual, graphic detail of his fantasy was more arousing than any gentle touch. “What else?”
“I’d make you come like that, with my fingers digging into your hips,” he said, his voice now a rough whisper. “Then I’d pull out, turn you around, and make you suck me clean. I’d watch your pretty mouth struggle with it, your lips stretched, tears in your eyes. And when I was hard again from your throat, I’d lay you out on that cold marble and eat you until you came a second time, screaming. Then I’d fuck you again, missionary, so I could see your face when I filled you up.”
He reached out, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “I thought about that for weeks. Every time you smiled at me, I saw you on your knees with my cum on your chin.” He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “That’s the fantasy. You wanted the dirt. That’s it.”
That’s it.” Matt’s words dissolved into the room’s quiet, leaving a palpable charge. Dasha felt them vibrate in her bones, each graphic detail stoking a fresh, urgent fire in her belly. Her skin was hypersensitive, remembering every place his mouth had been.
She turned onto her side to face him, the quilt rustling. The lamplight caught the sweat on his temple, the earnest hunger still darkening his blue eyes. Her own breath came short, a tightness coiling low.
“Okay,” Dasha whispered, her husky voice cutting through the stillness. She reached out, her fingertips brushing his jaw. “What else?”