Chapter 7: Morning After
The smell of pepperoni and warm cardboard filled Hannah’s apartment. Matt wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving faint streaks of dust from the dresser. It stood now in the corner of the nursery-to-be, a solid, oak anchor in the sea of pastel yellow paint samples and unopened boxes.
“Tight fit,” he said, nodding at the narrow doorway he’d navigated. “But it’s in.”
“Thank you,” Hannah said, handing him a paper plate laden with two slices. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Pizza was the contract,” he said, taking a bite. He surveyed the room, chewing thoughtfully. “You need curtains up in here. That streetlight’s gonna shine right in.”
“I know. The rod’s in the closet. I just… haven’t gotten to it.”
“Where’s your drill?”
“Matt, you don’t have to—”
“I’m already here. And I hate seeing a job half-done.” He finished the slice in two more bites, a practical efficiency to his movements. “Drill. Curtain rod. Brackets. Five minutes.”
She pointed to the hall closet, a jumble of tools and cleaning supplies. He found the drill, its battery dead, and plugged it into the wall charger in the kitchen. While it hummed, he opened the box for the curtain rod, laying out the pieces on the living room floor like a surgeon’s kit. Hannah watched him from the couch, her feet tucked under her. There was a focused competence to him that was entirely separate from the warehouse, from the charged moments between them. This was domestic. This was a man who saw a problem and fixed it.
The simple act of it sent a warm, dangerous curl through her lower belly.
He worked quickly. The whir of the drill biting into drywall was a sharp, productive sound. He measured twice, his brow furrowed. He held the brackets level, his biceps tightening as he drove the screws home. He didn’t ask for help. He just accomplished.
“Hand me the rod?” he asked, not turning from the window.
She got up, her body feeling heavy and slow. She passed him the long, white pole. Their fingers brushed. A static jolt, or maybe just her imagination. He slid the curtains onto the rod, hoisted it up, and settled it into the brackets with a solid click. He drew the curtains closed, plunging the small room into a soft, shadowed calm. The intrusive glare of the sodium light was gone.
“Better,” he said, dusting his hands off.
“Much.” The word came out breathy. She cleared her throat. “The faucet in the bathroom drips.”
He looked at her, a slow smile spreading. “You’re making a list, aren’t you?”
“You’re the one who said you hate a half-done job.”
He laughed, a real, easy sound that warmed the room more than the lamp. “Alright. Show me the faucet.”
The bathroom was small, steam from her earlier shower still clinging to the mirror. He leaned over the sink, his broad shoulders filling the space. He jiggled the handle, listened to the persistent plink… plink… plink into the porcelain basin.
“Probably just a worn washer,” he muttered. “You have a wrench?”
She didn’t. He made a trip to his truck, returning with a red metal toolbox. He shut off the water under the sink, his movements sure. Hannah lingered in the doorway, watching the flex of his back as he worked, the concentration on his face. The scent of him—clean sweat, laundry detergent, the faintest hint of gasoline from his toolbox—mixed with the damp, soapy air. It was unbearably intimate. Him here, in her most private space, fixing things. Building something. Providing.
Her arousal was a slow, thick tide, rising without permission. It was in the capable span of his hands on the wrench. In the quiet grunt of effort as he loosened the nut. It was in the sheer, mundane helpfulness of it all. This was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? Someone to share the weight. The sight of it, of him giving it so freely, was the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever known.
The drip stopped. He turned the water back on, tested the handle. Silence. “Sorted.”
“Thank you,” she whispered again. The words were starting to feel inadequate, a thin cover for the riot inside her.
He packed his tools, avoiding her eyes. The air between them had thickened, charged with all the things they weren’t saying, all the lines they’d drawn and were now toeing. He carried the toolbox back to the living room, setting it by the door. “That’s probably my cue,” he said, his voice low.
“Yeah.” She couldn’t let him go. Not with this heat crawling under her skin. “I, um… I still have that shirt of yours. The hoodie. From when I was sick. Let me get it.”
She fled to her bedroom, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, her heart hammering. She could hear him moving in the living room, gathering his things. This is a disaster waiting to happen, his words from the parking lot echoed. But the parking lot felt like another lifetime. Here, in the warm cave of her apartment, with the smell of him and pizza and fixed things, the rules seemed abstract, foolish.
Her eyes fell on her dresser. In the top drawer, folded beneath her sweaters, was his grey cotton shirt. She’d washed it, but it still carried a ghost of his scent. She pulled off her own top, her breasts feeling full and sensitive. She didn’t reach for a bra. She simply pulled his shirt over her head. The soft, worn cotton fell to mid-thigh. She wore only her panties beneath.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The shirt swallowed her, but the curve of her pregnancy was unmistakable beneath the fabric, a round, proud swell. She looked vulnerable. Offered. She ran her hands over her belly, then down her thighs, a shudder of anticipation moving through her.
She opened the door.
He was standing by the couch, phone in hand, presumably about to call a goodbye. He looked up.
He went perfectly still. Every muscle seemed to lock. His eyes darkened, the friendly brown turning to something closer to obsidian. They traveled from her face, down the length of the shirt that was so obviously his, to her bare legs, and back up, lingering on the way her body strained the soft fabric.
“Hannah.” Her name was a warning, a plea.
She walked toward him, each step a decision. The floorboards were cool under her feet. She stopped an arm’s length away, close enough for him to smell her shampoo, her own clean skin.
“You can go,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Or you can stay.”
The phone slipped from his hand, landing soundlessly on the couch cushion. The conflict that had been warring in him since the diner, since the loading dock, since the very beginning, finally snapped.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word rough and full of surrender.
He closed the distance in one swift movement. His hands came up, not to push her away, but to frame her face. His kiss was nothing like the others. It was devoid of shock or hesitation. It was pure, hungry conquest. He parted her lips with his tongue, tasting her deeply, a low groan vibrating in his chest. She met him with equal hunger, her fingers tangling in the short curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
His hands slid down from her face, over the cotton of his own shirt, mapping the curves of her shoulders, her back, coming to rest on the swell of her hips. He gripped her there, pulling her firmly against him. She could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his erection through his jeans, pressing into her lower belly. The sensation made her whimper into his mouth.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered against her lips, even as his hands slid under the hem of the shirt, his warm, rough palms skating up the sensitive skin of her thighs.
“The worst,” she agreed, arching into his touch.
He found the waistband of her panties, hooked his thumbs in them, and dragged them down her legs in one smooth motion. She kicked them aside. His hands returned, now on bare skin, cupping her ass, squeezing, pulling her tighter against his hardness. The friction of denim against her naked flesh was maddening.
“I need to be inside you,” he growled, the filthy, direct words sending a bolt of pure lightning through her core. “Right now.”
“Yes.” It was all she could manage.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the couch. He sat down, pulling her with him, so she straddled his lap. The position made her feel enormous, powerful. She looked down at his face, flushed with desire, his lips wet from her kiss. She rocked her hips, grinding herself against the thick denim barrier, a moan escaping her.
“Off,” he commanded, his hands going to his belt. “Get these off me.”
She scrambled off his lap, her hands fumbling with his buckle, his button, his zipper. He helped, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. He was thick and hard, the head flushed dark, a bead of moisture already glistening at the tip. The sight stole her breath.
He didn’t give her time to look. He pulled her back onto his lap, this time with no fabric between them. The broad head of his cock nudged against her entrance, hot and insistent. She was already wet, slick with wanting him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, bracing herself.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice ragged.
She did. Their eyes locked as he guided himself into her with one firm, relentless upward thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound of pure relief. He filled her completely, a stretching, perfect fullness that made her see stars. She was so sensitive, every nerve ending screaming to life. He held her there, impaled, both of them breathing in harsh, shared gasps.
“Jesus, Hannah,” he choked out, his hands gripping her hips like vices. “You feel… god, you feel incredible.”
She began to move. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence, rising up and sinking back down, taking him deep. The angle was perfect. Each stroke brushed a spot inside her that made her thighs tremble. His shirt rode up, bunching around her waist. He leaned forward and took one of her nipples into his mouth through the thin cotton, sucking hard. The dual sensation—the deep, claiming thrusts and the wet, hot pull of his mouth—unraveled her.
Her rhythm broke, becoming frantic, selfish. She rode him hard, chasing her climax, the sounds of their bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, obscenely loud in the quiet room. He met her thrust for thrust, driving up into her, his own control fraying.
“Come on,” he urged, his breath hot against her damp shirt. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”
It was the permission she needed. The coil in her belly snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and catastrophic, ripped through her. She clenched around him, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milked his length. She threw her head back, a raw, uninhibited cry tearing from her throat.
The feeling of her pulsing around him shattered his last restraint. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came. A harsh, choked groan was punched from his lungs. She felt the hot, liquid rush of his release flooding her, and the aftershocks of her own orgasm intensified, drawing every last drop from him.
She collapsed against his chest, spent, her face buried in the sweat-damp hollow of his neck. His arms came around her, holding her tightly as they both shuddered through the descent. His cock, still mostly inside her, twitched with final, fading pulses.
The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant sigh of traffic. The reality of what they’d done—the broken promise, the shattered boundary—began to seep into the room, cold and quiet alongside the fading heat.
He didn’t let go. His hand came up, stroking her hair, his touch surprisingly tender amidst the wreckage.
“Well,” he said finally, his voice a rumble in his chest under her ear. “So much for being friends.”
His words hung in the air, a dry, exhausted acknowledgment of the line they’d vaporized. She lifted her head from his shoulder. His face was close, his expression unreadable in the lamplight—a mix of satiation and dread. She didn’t want to hear the analysis, the regret already tightening the muscles around his eyes.
Instead, she kissed him. It wasn’t gentle or questioning. She crushed her mouth to his, swallowing his next breath, his next thought. Her tongue pushed past his lips, a hot, claiming slide that tasted of salt and them. He stiffened for a second, surprised, then a low sound gathered in his throat and he gave in, his hands coming up to cradle her head, fingers threading into her hair.
Anything she needed to say—her fear of him leaving, her terrifying gratitude for his simple competence with a wrench, the love that felt like a bone-deep bruise—was drawn out through her tongue on his. She poured it all into the kiss, a frantic, silent confession. She gave in entirely to the lust and the love, a tangled knot she could no longer separate. She didn’t want him to think about it anymore either. Just do. Do her.
He understood. The kiss turned frantic, a battle for air and dominance. He shifted beneath her, his softened cock slipping from her body with a wet, intimate sound. The loss made her whimper. He stood up, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist. He carried her the few stumbling steps to the bedroom, their mouths never parting.
He laid her down on the rumpled comforter. The pregnancy made her feel ungainly, but his eyes on her, dark and hungry, stripped away any self-consciousness. He yanked his shirt—her shirt—up over her head and tossed it aside. He stared at her naked body, the full curves, the dark line running down her taut belly, the thatch of curls between her legs, glistening with their mixed fluids.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, the words ragged, as if surprised by his own truth.
He stripped his own clothes off, jeans and boxers kicked to the floor. His body was long and leanly muscular, his cock already filling again, rising thick and eager against his stomach. He didn’t join her on the bed immediately. He knelt on the floor at the edge of the mattress, hooked his hands behind her knees, and dragged her toward him until her ass was on the edge.
He buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was a flat, hot stroke through her soaked folds. She cried out, her back arching off the bed. He licked her with a focused, obscene thoroughness, lapping up every trace of their earlier joining. He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a firm, rhythmic pressure that made her thighs shake. He pushed two fingers inside her, crooking them, finding that deep, spongy spot that made her vision blur.
“Matt… fuck… right there, don’t stop…” Her words were a broken chant.
He didn’t stop. He ate her with a single-minded intensity, as if this was another task to complete, and he was determined to do it perfectly. The orgasm built quickly, a devastating wave from her toes to her scalp. It crashed over her, wringing a raw, hoarse scream from her throat. He rode it out with his mouth, gentling his touch, drinking every pulse.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was moving. He climbed onto the bed, looming over her. His cock nudged at her entrance, slick from his mouth. He looked into her eyes, his own blown black with need.
“How do you want it?” His voice was grit.
“Any way. Every way. Just don’t be gentle.”
A flash of something—concern, conflict—crossed his face, but was smothered by desire. He hooked her legs over his elbows, spreading her wide, and pushed in. This penetration was slower, more deliberate than on the couch, a relentless, stretching fill that made her gasp. He seated himself fully, his hips flush against hers.
Then he fucked her. Hard, deep, driving strokes that shifted the bedframe against the wall with a steady, rhythmic thud. The headboard knocked the drywall. She wrapped her legs around his back, meeting each thrust, her nails scoring his shoulders. The sounds were filthy: the wet slap of skin, their grunts and gasps, the creak of the springs.
“This cunt,” he panted, his forehead damp against hers. “This perfect, tight cunt. You ruin me.”
“Yours,” she sobbed, the word torn from her. “It’s yours.”
His rhythm faltered. He drove into her once, twice more, then stilled, buried to the hilt. A shudder ran through his entire frame. He came with a choked, silent groan, his body bowing over hers, his release pumping into her in hot, endless pulses.
He collapsed, rolling to the side at the last moment to avoid crushing her belly. They lay in a heap of tangled limbs, slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The room smelled of sex and sweat and him.
Minutes bled by, marked only by the slowing of their hearts. The streetlight, now muted by the curtains he’d hung, cast a dim bar of gold across the floor. Finally, he stirred. He didn’t speak. He got up, naked, and walked out of the room. She heard the bathroom faucet run—the one he’d fixed. He returned with a warm, damp cloth.
He cleaned her with a surprising tenderness, wiping the mess from her inner thighs and belly. The gesture was so intimate it brought a sharp sting to her eyes. He tossed the cloth toward the hamper and pulled the comforter over them both. He gathered her against him, her back to his front, his arm a heavy weight around her ribs, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
His breath warmed the back of her neck. She waited for him to speak, to say this was a mistake, that it couldn’t happen again.
He didn’t.
His breathing evened out into sleep. She lay awake in the dark, feeling the baby turn slow somersaults beneath his palm. The thud of the headboard still seemed to echo in the quiet. It was the sound of a door slamming shut, and another one, raw and unknown, swinging open.