Chapter 10: Mouthwatering Distraction
The anticipation of Sunday dinner was a low-grade hum in Hannah’s veins, a constant background noise to everything else. Saturday stretched before them, empty and quiet. They’d slept late, a tangle of limbs in his bed, and the day had passed in a lazy blur of takeout coffee and aimless driving in his truck. Now, back in his apartment, the evening felt charged. The unspoken weight of tomorrow pressed in from the edges.
Matt put a movie on, some sprawling sci-fi epic he loved. He settled onto the worn couch, and Hannah curled into his side, her head on his chest. The familiar scent of his laundry detergent and skin was a comfort. But her mind wouldn’t quiet. His mother. His sister. Their questions, their eyes on her belly, on him, on them.
She shifted, pretending to get more comfortable, letting her hand drift across his stomach. She felt the muscles tighten under her palm. On screen, spaceships whirled silently. She tilted her head back, looking up at him. His profile was sharp in the flickering light, his attention seemingly on the film.
Slowly, deliberately, she slid down the couch, turning so her cheek rested on his thigh. He wore soft, grey sweatpants. She nuzzled the fabric, feeling the heat of him beneath. A soft sigh escaped her, not entirely acted. She let her lips part, her breath warm and damp through the thin cotton. She felt him stir, a thickening, a hardening against her face.
She closed her eyes, feigning the steady breath of sleep. She let her mouth go slack, her lips pressing more firmly against the now-rigid length of him. She made a small, sleepy sound and shifted again, this time dragging her open mouth along his cock, leaving a patch of dampness on the grey fabric.
His hand, which had been resting on the back of the couch, went still.
She did it again, a slow, pretending-to-be-accidental glide of her lips. His breathing hitched. Emboldened, she turned her face more fully into him, her nose nudging the base of his shaft, her lips brushing the swollen head through the cloth.
“Hannah.” His voice was a low warning.
She pretended to startle, blinking sleepily up at him. “Hmm? Sorry, must’ve dozed off.” She made to sit up, but his hand shot down, his fingers threading roughly into her hair, holding her in place.
“You’re not asleep,” he said, his eyes dark pools in the dim light. The movie’s glow played across his face. “You’ve been teasing me for two days. Since the wall. Since the kitchen.”
She looked up at him, all faux innocence gone. “And?”
“And you know what it does to me.” His grip tightened, not painful, but unquestionably firm. “You think I don’t see you? The little looks, the way you brush against me, the way you paraded around here last night? You’re begging for it.”
“So give it to me,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
With a sharp tug, he pulled her head back down. His other hand yanked the waistband of his sweatpants down, just enough to free his erection. It sprang out, thick and fully hard, the tip glistening. He guided himself to her lips.
“Open,” he commanded.
She obeyed, her mouth falling open. He didn’t wait. He pushed forward, the broad head parting her lips, sliding over her tongue. He filled her mouth, his grip in her hair controlling the pace. He pulled back slowly, then thrust back in, a little deeper this time.
“Suck it,” he grunted. “You wanted it in your mouth? Now suck it like you mean it.”
She hollowed her cheeks, applying pressure as he fed himself to her. The taste of him was musky, clean, uniquely him. She relaxed her throat, taking him deeper with each push. His control was absolute. He set a slow, brutal rhythm, using his hold on her hair to piston his cock into her willing mouth. Saliva gathered, slicking his length, dripping from her chin.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice rough with lust. “Look at this pretty fucking mouth stretched around my dick. This is what you needed, wasn’t it? To not think about tomorrow. To just be used.”
He was right. The crude words, the physical domination, it silenced the whirlwind in her head. There was only this: the stretch of her jaws, the weight on her tongue, the scent of him, the sounds of wet, rhythmic sucking. Her own hand crept between her legs, pressing hard against her shorts.
He saw it. “No. You don’t touch yourself. You take your pleasure from this. From serving this cock.” He thrust harder, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but he didn’t relent. “Swallow it. Take it all.”
She struggled to breathe through her nose, her body pliant under his hands. The submission was a drug. He fucked her face with increasing urgency, his hips bucking off the couch. The wet, slapping sounds were obscene, a counterpoint to the movie’s score.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his fingers tightening painfully in her hair. “You’re gonna swallow every drop. You understand?”
She couldn’t speak, could only moan around him, a vibration that made him curse. With a final, deep thrust, he held himself there, pulsing. Hot, salty release flooded her mouth. She swallowed convulsively, again and again, until he was spent. He finally pulled out, slick and softening, and released her hair.
She collapsed against his thigh, gasping, her lips bruised and wet. He looked down at her, his chest heaving. Gently, he wiped a stray trickle from her chin with his thumb.
Then he moved. In one fluid motion, he hauled her up, turned her, and bent her over the arm of the couch. He pulled her shorts and underwear down to her knees. She was exposed, dripping, more turned on than she’d ever been.
“You’re fucking drenched,” he said, running a hand through her slick folds. “Just from sucking my cock.” He didn’t bother with preliminaries. He positioned himself and drove into her from behind in one relentless stroke. She screamed, the fullness a shocking delight.
He fucked her with a focused, driving intensity, each thrust punishing the arm of the couch, driving her into the worn upholstery. One hand clamped on her hip, the other fisted in her hair again, pulling her head back, arching her spine.
“This cunt is mine,” he snarled, his voice guttural. “You go to my mother’s house tomorrow, you remember that. You remember who you belong to. This sweet, tight, pregnant pussy belongs to me.”
“Yes!” she cried, the words torn from her. The claiming, the raw possession, undid her completely. Her orgasm ripped through her with violent, silent spasms, her inner muscles clamping around him like a vise.
It tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep grind, he emptied himself inside her, his release hot and copious. He stayed there, buried, his weight heavy on her, both of them panting, slick with sweat.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He righted her clothes with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the prior roughness. He pulled her onto his lap, cradling her against his chest. The movie credits were rolling, casting the room in soft, shifting light.
They sat in silence for a long time. Her ear was pressed to his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart gradually return to normal.
“I’m scared,” she whispered into the quiet, the admission small and stark.
His arms tightened around her. “I know.”
“What if they hate me?”
“They won’t.”
“What if they think I’m some… white trash you knocked up? Some burden?”
He cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were serious, unwavering. “Listen to me. My sister, Chloe, she’s blunt. She’ll ask direct questions. My mom… she’s softer, but she’s protective. They might be wary. For about five minutes. Then they’ll see you. They’ll see how you look at me. And they’ll see how I look at you.” He brushed a thumb over her swollen lower lip. “And that will be that.”
She wanted to believe him. The solid certainty in his voice was a lifeline.
“And if it’s not?” she asked, the vulnerability laid bare.
He kissed her forehead, a long, lingering press of his lips. “Then we leave. We come back here. And it changes nothing. You’re with me. That’s the only thing that matters.”
He stood, lifting her effortlessly in his arms, and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her in the bed and crawled in beside her, pulling the covers over them. He placed his hand on her belly, as he always did. The baby was quiet.
“We face it together,” he said into the darkness. “Okay?”
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, holding his hand to her. “Okay.”
She lay awake long after his breathing evened out into sleep. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach. But underneath it, forged in the heat of his touch and the steel of his words, was a new, fragile strand of courage. Tomorrow, she would walk into his world. And he would be right beside her.
And he would be right beside her. His breathing deepened, the steady rhythm of his chest against her back a tangible proof of his exhaustion. The day’s tension and the night’s raw intensity had drained him completely. His arm, slung heavily over her waist, went slack.
She waited, listening, feeling the exact moment his consciousness slipped away. The city’s distant groan through the window seemed to grow louder. Slowly, carefully, she shifted under the weight of his arm. She turned just enough to face him, studying his relaxed features in the murky dark.
Her fingers were deft and silent on the waistband of his boxers. She found him soft, warm, nestled in coarse curls. She drew him out, her movements deliberate. He stirred with a faint, sleepy murmur but didn’t wake. She positioned herself, lifting her leg over his thigh, guiding the blunt, soft tip of him to her entrance.
She was already slick, an arousal that had never fully ebbed. She pushed back, taking just the swollen head inside. A sharp, quiet gasp escaped her. She held there, stretched, full in that specific way. Then she moved again, a slow, rolling retreat and a careful, hungry advance.
Matt’s breathing changed. It hitched, deepened. She froze, watching his face. One of his eyes slid open, a sliver of dark awareness. He watched her, his expression unreadable in the shadows, his lip caught tight between his teeth. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just watched her fuck herself on the tip of his cock, his silent, heavy breaths filling the space between them.
The voyeuristic intensity of his gaze ignited her. She braced a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart, and increased her pace. Each shallow, controlled impalement sent a jolt through her core. Her own breaths became ragged pants, matching his. She was using him, servicing her own need, and his silent, heated observation was permission, was participation, was its own form of dominance.
“That’s it,” he finally rasped, the words thick with sleep and lust. “Take what you need. Use my cock.”
His hand came up, not to guide her, but to cradle the curve of her belly, his thumb stroking the tight skin. The dual sensations—the stretch below, the possessive warmth of his hand above—drove her to a swift, shuddering peak. She clenched around him, a silent cry on her lips, her body bowing.
The pulsing tightness of her orgasm finished the job his sleep had started. As she came down, trembling, she felt him swell and harden fully inside her. A low groan rumbled in his chest. His hips gave one sharp, involuntary thrust, seating himself to the hilt, and he followed her over, his release a hot flood inside her as he bit back a louder sound.
They collapsed together, a sweaty, spent knot. He was still inside her, softening again. He nuzzled into her hair, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”
She smiled against his skin, the last of the day’s fear finally dissolving into a weary, sated peace. “But what a way to go.”