Chapter 2: The Aftermath at Dawn
The silence stretched, taut and resonant as a drum skin. He stood by the door, she sat on the floor, the flask a shared confession between them. His gaze was a physical weight, traveling from her bare feet, up her legs, lingering on the drape of his own jersey across her body, to her mouth where the taste of his whisky still lingered.
He moved first.
A single, deliberate step into the room. Then another. His eyes never left hers, but his intent was clear. They dropped to the flask in her hands.
“Mine, I think,” he said, his voice rough.
A slow smile spread across her face. She uncurled from the floor, a fluid, rising motion. “Finders keepers.”
She was off before the last syllable faded, a barefoot dash across the deep pile carpet towards the open-plan kitchen. Her laughter, bright and challenging, bounced off the minimalist walls. He was after her in an instant, his longer strides eating up the space, but she was agility incarnate. She spun around the marble breakfast island, keeping it between them like a shield.
He feinted left. She mirrored, her eyes gleaming. He went right, and she slid along the opposite side, the flask held high like a trophy. “Too slow, big man.”
He braced his hands on the marble, muscles in his arms corded. A predatory grin touched his lips. “You have to sleep sometime.”
“Not tonight I don’t.”
She ducked under his reaching arm and bolted for the living area, weaving between the low sofa and the grand piano. He followed, a study in focused pursuit. She led him on a frantic, silent chase through the penthouse—around the piano, behind the floor-to-ceiling drapes, back past the kitchen island in a dizzying loop. Their breathing, the only sound, grew quicker. The space felt suddenly like a pitch, a game of one-on-one with the highest possible stakes.
He cornered her near a bookshelf, his arms out, blocking her escape routes. She darted forward, as if to go under his arm, then pivoted on the ball of her foot, slipping past his other side with a whisper of fabric. He caught only air.
“Christ, you’re quick,” he breathed, admiration mixing with frustration.
Her heart hammered, not from fear, but from the pure, unadulterated thrill of it. Of him chasing her. Of her being just barely out of reach.
She saw her chance—the sliding door to the vast, wraparound balcony was slightly ajar, the night air beckoning. She sprinted for it, fingers scrabbling at the heavy glass panel. He was right on her heels. She shoved it open, the cool night wind rushing in to greet her, and spilled out onto the dark balcony.
The city was a carpet of diamonds below, the river a strip of black silk. She had a half-second of triumph before his body boxed her in. He’d moved with that terrifying, silent burst of speed. One hand closed around her wrist, anchoring it. The other reached for the flask.
She twisted, trying to wrench free, but he had her cornered between the cold glass railing and the solid heat of his chest. His fingers pried hers loose, one by one, until the cool metal of the flask was back in his possession. He held it up, a quiet victory in the dark.
But the victory created a new problem.
In securing the flask, he had caged her. His body pressed hers gently against the railing, his arms on either side of her, palms flat on the cool metal. He was breathing heavily, his face inches from hers, the city lights painting his sharp features in shades of blue and gold. The heat radiating from him was immense. The charged silence from the room below was back, amplified by the vast, open sky.
He looked down at her, at her lips parted from the chase, at the wild triumph still in her eyes. His own gaze softened, the hunter’s focus melting into something warmer, more confused. He began to lean back, to give her space, to break the unbearable tension.
She didn’t let him.
Before he could move away, she surged up. Her hands flew to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape. She pulled him down and kissed him.
It wasn’t like the almost-kiss in the car. This was direct, unhesitating, and gloriously messy. It was all pent-up energy and the taste of shared whisky and the sharp, clean scent of his skin. It was years of sidelong glances and inside jokes and hands that always found a way to touch in passing. She poured all of it into the kiss, until they were both breathless.
She broke away, just enough to speak, her forehead resting against his. Her voice was a ragged, joyous whisper in the space between their mouths.
“I want to make a stupidly drunk decision.”
He didn’t get a chance to respond, to question, to protest. She kissed him again, deeper this time, and his answer was the low groan that vibrated from his chest into hers, the flask falling from his limp hand to clatter, forgotten, on the balcony floor, and the way his arms finally, fully, wrapped around her, lifting her clean off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all.
She kissed him again, deeper this time, and his answer was the low groan that vibrated from his chest into hers, the flask falling from his limp hand to clatter, forgotten, on the balcony floor, and the way his arms finally, fully, wrapped around her, lifting her clean off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all.
For one breath, two, he held her there, his mouth moving against hers with a stunned, slow fervor, as if he’d been waiting for this permission his whole life and now couldn’t quite believe he had it. Then a shudder went through him. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting heavily against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.
“Juda,” he muttered, the word strained. “We are… this is…”
He was trying to set her down, his grip loosening, the rational part of him fighting a magnificent, losing battle. She felt the conflict in the tremble of his arms. She kissed the shell of his ear, her voice a warm, insistent whisper. “Shut up, Erling.”
That was all it took. The resistance in him snapped. A guttural sound escaped him and he kissed her back with a hunger that stole the air from her lungs, his hands gripping her thighs to hike her higher against him. He turned, carrying her back through the sliding door, his mouth never leaving hers.
He didn’t make for the hallway to the bedroom. He moved on instinct, blinded by need, navigating the open space by memory. He reached the kitchen island and in one sweeping motion of his arm, he cleared the marble surface, sending a fruit bowl, a stack of mail, and her discarded key card scattering across the floor with a crash and a flutter.
He placed her on the cool stone, the contrast with his body heat a shock, and let her go just long enough to step between her knees. Her hands were already at the hem of his black t-shirt, yanking it upward, but it was caught on the hard plane of his chest and shoulders. With a soft growl of impatience, he grabbed the collar in both fists and ripped it apart, the sound of tearing fabric shockingly loud in the quiet apartment. Buttons pinged against the cabinets.
He didn’t pause. His mouth found her neck, kissing and sucking a path down her throat to the collar of the haaland jersey she still wore. His large hands slipped under the fabric, palms hot against her waist, and pushed it up and over her head. The cool air touched her skin, followed instantly by the heat of his gaze.
The black silk and lace of her bra seemed to arrest him for a moment. He exhaled, a shaky breath, and bent to press his lips to the delicate lace curving over her breast. The feeling was so acute, so unexpectedly tender, a moan slipped from her. His fingers found the clasp at her back, fumbled for a second, then released it. The silk fell away.
He looked at her, his eyes dark and utterly serious. Then he lowered his head, his mouth closing around her nipple, and she cried out, her fingers spearing into his blonde hair. He worshiped her there, with a focused, devastating attention that made her back arch off the cold marble, before his lips began a slow, maddening descent.
He kissed his way down the tense plane of her stomach, his hands hooking into the waistband of her underwear. He paused, his breath warm against her skin, and looked up at her from between her legs. His voice was ragged, foreign, and profoundly earnest. “Er du sikker? Virkelig sikker?” Are you sure? Really sure?
She understood. She held his gaze, her own unwavering, and answered in the language of her mother’s childhood, the one she used for truths too big for English. “Sí. Por favor.” Yes. Please.
A muscle flexed in his jaw. He nodded, once, and pulled the last scrap of fabric down her legs and away. He didn’t look away from her face as he gently pushed her shoulders back until she was lying fully on the counter. Then he dipped his head.
The first touch of his tongue was lightning. Her whole body tightened, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. He didn’t tease. He devoured her with the same intense commitment he brought to everything, learning her rhythm, her responses, with ruthless efficiency. The sensations coiled tight and tight and tighter, a pressure building in the silence broken only by her ragged cries and the soft, wet sounds of his mouth.
She chanted his name, then nonsense, her heels slipping against the smooth cabinets below. The world dissolved into pure sensation, a brilliant, white-hot point of focus. It crested without warning, a seismic release that shuddered through her, leaving her trembling and breathless on the cold marble.
He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving her flushed, spent form. He looked wrecked, triumphant, and unbearably tender all at once.
He looked wrecked, triumphant, and unbearably tender all at once. His breath was still hot against her skin, her own limbs liquid and heavy from the climax he’d wrung from her. Before she could recover from the peak, Erling already had his lips on hers again in a searing, possessive kiss as he picked her up from the counter.
He carried her through the dim apartment, his mouth never leaving her skin, tasting the salt on her shoulder. They moved past the grand piano, its silent keys a witness, and into the hallway towards the bedroom. He shouldered the door open without breaking stride, the dark room swallowing them whole.
Once in the bedroom, the soft glow from the city below outlining the vast bed, Juda quickly spun them. Using his momentum and her own coiled strength, she twisted in his arms until Erling ended up with his back against the mattress, Juda straddling his hips on top of him. The sudden reversal left him blinking up at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
He chuckled, a low, breathy sound of pure male appreciation at the sight of her silhouetted against the window. That chuckle caused Juda to get annoyed. A flash of competitive fire ignited in her gut, far from extinguished. She leaned down and started to attack his neck with her teeth and tongue, biting the corded muscle there hard enough to make him gasp.
She pulled away, her eyes holding his in the dark. Then she moved down his body, her hands tracing the hard lines of his abdomen to the edge of his pants. She hooked her fingers in the waistband, then leaned close and slowly licked a hot, wet stripe from the fabric’s edge all the way up to his chin. It was an oddly seductive, deliberate act that made Erling’s breath hitch.
Before he could speak, she started to massage the hard bulge straining against his zipper with the heel of her hand, applying a firm, rhythmic pressure. He moaned, his head falling back against the sheets, his hands fisting in the duvet. “Juda,” he rasped, a warning and a plea.
She undid his pants and his jocks with impatient tugs, letting his stiff cock spring free. He was thick and heavy in her hand, pulsing with heat. She moved her head down, her breath ghosting over the tip. She blew a soft, cool stream of air on it, causing him to choke a little bit on a stifled groan, his hips jerking involuntarily.
Then she took him fully into her mouth. However, she didn’t even reach his end before she choked as he hit the back of her throat. The sudden, overwhelming fullness made her eyes water. However, she kept pushing through, relaxing her jaw, forcing herself to take more. She sucked him off with a desperate, focused rhythm, one hand working his base, the other braced on his thigh.
She sucked him off with a desperate, focused rhythm, one hand working his base, the other braced on his thigh. His groans were low, guttural things, vowels torn from a language older than words. One of his hands, which had been clenched in the sheets, found its way to her hair, not grabbing, just resting there, a warm, grounding weight.
Then his fingers slowly tightened, gathering the thick braids into his fist. He guided her, a gentle pressure, and she followed it, taking him deeper. She felt herself tightening, a clench low in her belly, every time he pushed her further down, her throat opening for him. The sounds she made were muffled, strained, and they seemed to undo him completely.
A shudder wracked his frame, a tectonic shift. “Juda—Jeg kommer—” he choked out, a raw warning. She didn’t pull away. She held still, her eyes shut tight, and took it as he came, a hot, pulsing release that spilled into her mouth and over her lips, onto her chin.
He collapsed back, breathing like he’d just finished extra time, his hand falling from her hair. She pulled off slowly, swallowing. She was panting, her own need a sharp, renewed ache between her legs. She looked down at him, at the mess on him and on her, and a feral, possessive hunger rose up, blotting out all rational thought.
She couldn’t get enough.
Without a word, she bent and began to lick him clean, her tongue tracing him from root to tip with a slow, thorough attention that made him gasp. The taste of him, salt and skin and sex, was intoxicating. Beneath her mouth, she felt him stir again, thicken, harden fully against her tongue.
“You are… unbelievable,” he breathed, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes.
She climbed up his body, her knees settling on either side of his hips. She was slick and aching, and she began to rub herself against the length of him, a slow, maddening grind that made them both gasp. The friction was exquisite, almost enough, but not quite. She rocked against him, her head falling back, letting him feel exactly how wet she was for him.
“Juda, please,” he begged, his voice shattered, his hands coming up to grip her hips. His control was gone, incinerated. “Now. Please.”
She smiled, a slow, wicked thing. She reached between them, guiding him. She placed his tip at her entrance and sank down, just an inch, just enough to make them both cry out. She held there, trembling, letting them both feel the unbearable, perfect stretch.
“More,” he demanded, a raw plea.
She moved a little, a shallow, teasing rock. He growled, a sound of pure frustration. His hands, those massive, game-winning hands, wrapped around her waist completely, his thumbs nearly touching. He looked into her eyes, his own blown black with need.
“I said,” he gritted out, “more.”
In one sudden, powerful slam, he pulled her down onto him, sheathing himself inside her to the hilt. The force of it robbed the air from her lungs in a sharp cry. Her head snapped back, her spine arching. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, she could feel the prodding pressure of him high in her belly, a full, aching completeness that bordered on pain and tipped straight into blinding pleasure.
For a second, neither of them moved, frozen in that first shocking union. The only sound was their ragged, synchronized breathing in the dark room. Then he flexed his hips, a tiny, experimental shift, and she moaned, long and low, her nails biting into the hard muscles of his chest.
Then he flexed his hips, a tiny, experimental shift, and she moaned, long and low, her nails biting into the hard muscles of his chest.
She began to move, a slow, agonizing rise and fall that made him swear steadily into the dark, his hands clamped on her waist. Every nerve ending was alive, singing a tune of pure, desperate need. He watched her, eyes glazed, utterly captive to the rhythm she set.
Then he felt it. A sharp, fluttering clench deep inside her, a tremor that raced through her entire frame the moment he’d slammed her down that last time. Her rhythm faltered, her head tipping back with a choked gasp.
He stilled, understanding dawning. A slow, breathless laugh escaped him. “You… already?” he whispered, awe and sheer male arrogance coloring his tone.
He tried to tease her, to draw it out. “Was that all it took, superstar? One good—”
But she was having none of it. Before he could finish the sentence, she braced her hands on his chest, her muscles coiling. With a grunt of effort, she picked herself up, lifting almost completely off him, leaving just the tip inside. The cool air was a shock against his wet skin.
She held there, poised, trembling with the effort of control, her eyes locked on his. Then she sank back down, a slow, deliberate, crushing descent that forced the air from his lungs in a gust. She did it again. And again. Each slow, measured impalement was a form of torture more exquisite than the last.
He threw his head back into the pillows, a raw groan tearing from his throat. His control shattered. “Enough,” he growled, the word strained.
But it was too late. The slow, teasing rhythm had ignited something feral in her. She became frantic, needy, her movements turning jerky and fast. She rode him with a broken, gasping desperation, chasing another release that was already coiling tight in her core.
His hands shot from her waist to her hips, his fingers digging into the muscle there. He took over, controlling the motion, dictating the pace. He guided her upward, then drove her back down onto him with a force that knocked a sob from her lips. He did it again. And again. Each slam was a perfect, brutal connection, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.
With each impact, he could see it—a distinct, fleeting outline against the taut skin of her lower stomach. The sight undid him completely.
With a feral noise, he flipped them. One instant she was above him, the next the world spun and she was on her back, the breath knocked from her, him looming over her, buried deeper than she thought possible. She cried out, wrapping her legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer still.
He didn’t move. He just pressed a broad, hot hand flat against her lower stomach, right where he could feel himself inside her. The pressure was intimate, possessive, overwhelming. He held her gaze, his own wild and dark.
“See?” he rasped. “That is me.”
Then he moved.
He drove into her, his pace accelerating from desperate to punishing. The new angle, the pressure of his hand, shattered her. A scream ripped from her throat, raw and unbidden. “Erling! Please, more, please—”
He gave her more. He gave her everything. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming a relentless, pounding claim. She babbled, begging in a mix of English and broken Spanish, her words fragmenting into pure sound. The pleasure was a white-hot wire, pulling tighter and tighter, vibrating through every cell.
It snapped.