Chapter 47: Chapter 47
She comes to him in the deepest hour of the night. His bedroom door opens and there’s a crack of light from the living area, swiftly extinguished as she closes
the door.
He’s instantly awake, eyes following her shadowy shape as she moves into the room. In the light of a thou- sand stars through the window, he can see she’s wearing a towel wrapped around her body, tucked tightly between her breasts to hold it in place.
“Are you okay?” The words lodge in his throat, for she drops the towel.
It pools at her feet and she’s naked, gloriously naked. She walks toward him, the dark patch between her thighs mysterious and beckoning. She stands by the bed and her smile is a secret, inward one. Then she’s pulling
back the quilt and sliding inside.
He can hardly breathe. “Thea,” he says, and then more urgently, “Thea.”
The words are stopped in his throat for she’s kissing him as if she’s falling into him, her tongue sliding into his mouth, and her hands, oh, my god, her hands, are on his body, running down his chest to his groin. She palms his cock, running her fingers along his length.
He bucks up into her hand willing her to continue, even as some befuddled part of his brain is wondering, why here, why now? They’re housemates and their friendship has never included benefits—until now. But he doesn’t think too hard, as her hands caress him closer to the edge. He stares up at her as she rears over him, her body gilded with starlight, dusky with shadows. She’s beautiful even when she’s slouching around the house in manky sweats, but naked, her short spiky hair tipped with silver, she’s ethereal and otherworldly.
He has to be sure even though he fears he’ll shatter the mood, so he says her name once more, and then when she remains silent, her gaze on his cock, he repeats it again.
She lifts her eyes to his face, tips her head to one side as if she’s heard a whisper in the shadows and kisses him. She’s not gentle; her lips mash into his and he tastes the copper tang of blood where she’s caught his teeth. Without breaking the kiss, she straddles his prone body and her moist pussy is hot on his belly.
He touches her then, his hands stroking up her thigh,
dancing over her waist, fingertips grazing her nipples, and when she pushes her breast into his hand he circles, pinches lightly.
His cock prods her backside, but she seems in no hurry to impale him. So he concentrates on her plea- sure—nipples, skin, and when he can no longer stand it, her pussy, slick with arousal. He wishes he could taste her, push his face between her thighs until he’s as wet as she, but her legs are tight around his waist and he can’t move. So he uses his fingers in light, flickering move- ments on her clit.
Her face is curiously distracted, as if she’s only half in the moment. He feels a twinge of unease—she can’t be asleep, can she? But as if she senses his concern she smiles and lays a hand softly against his cheek. He wishes she would say his name, but he’s reassured by the touch.
And doubt is blown out the window as her vise grip eases and she rises, positions herself and sinks down, taking him inside her, a smooth movement, no fumbling, no hesitation.
He’s wide-eyed with the ecstasy and the completion of a long-held dream. His fingers find her core once more. He knows he won’t last, and he wants this to be good for her too.
He grasps her hip, urges her on, and then he’s feeling her internal muscles flutter around his cock in rhythmic pleasure pulses. “Oh, god,” he starts to say, but he can’t continue as the pleasure is so intense. Physical feelings, yes, but they’re overlaid with a veneer of caring that he’s
never let himself show before, not to Thea, never to her with her wisecracks and cocky, independent attitude.
As he pours himself into her, he thinks he might love her. He closes his eyes, winds the words into a tight knot so that they can’t escape.
She swings off him, and the cool air caresses his cock to softness.
He opens his eyes and she’s once again standing by the bed. She bends and retrieves the discarded towel.
“Stay,” he entreats, holding out a hand for her to take and be drawn back to his embrace.
She turns without a word and the sound of the door closing feels like the end.
He lies and watches the numbers on the clock turn over until morning. In the hours before dawn, he’s besieged by doubts: maybe he just ruined a wonderful friendship. What will she say in the morning? And he wonders, horrifyingly, what if she was asleep all along?
He’s sitting at the counter nursing his third mug of coffee when she appears.
“Morning,” she trills, and as she always does, asks, “Any more coffee in that pot?”
Not trusting his voice, he waves at the pot and she pours a mug and sits down next to him.
“You’re quiet,” she says, and her eyes are inscrutable over the rim of her mug. “Did you have a bad night?”
There’s a sick, dark feeling in his stomach and he has to swallow hard before he can trust himself to speak. “I had a great night actually.”
“Good.” Her palm rests against his cheek for a fleeting moment, just as it did in the frantic dark hours past. Her voice hums with satisfaction. “So did I.”