Chapter 17 Human Reproductive Biology #2
What followed was an hour of abject humiliation as we tried to drag a seven-foot balsam fir through the city without killing any pedestrians or ourselves.
The net result was a trail of needles through the lobby, an irritated doorman who might’ve threatened to fine us for sap stains if I hadn’t brought him so many cookies over the last few weeks, and several hundred calories burned in passive-aggressive bickering.
Then came the tree stand. Andreas had bought the most expensive one on the internet, which claimed to “self-center” and “lock in seconds.” It didn’t.
It took us forty-five minutes to get the tree vertical, and it listed like a ship half flooded.
Andreas’s mood, which had started at “mildly testy,” decayed in half-lives to “active volcanic rage.” He began shouting in Italian.
Eventually, we figured out how to fill the reservoir for water without unleashing a tidal wave onto the parquet.
We high-fived when it finally stood upright and didn’t immediately topple.
The moment lasted exactly three minutes, until we realized we hadn’t put anything down to protect the floor.
Which meant: remove tree, empty stand, mop, line with plastic, then repeat all prior steps.
I’d laughed through most of it, which Andreas did not appreciate, but even he couldn’t deny that the result—one haggard, needle-dropping, fully upright tree—was impressive.
But now, with the post-holiday-trauma haze settling, he looked at me like I’d personally invented Christmas for the express purpose of making him suffer.
I walked over and straddled his lap, resting my hands on his shoulders. He was all angles and tension, a physical object lesson in stubbornness. As soon as my butt hit his thighs, his hands automatically migrated to cup it, holding me in place like he’d been born with that evolutionary adaptation.
“Thank you for setting up the tree with me,” I said, and kissed the tip of his nose.
He maintained eye contact, refusing to smile, a gesture of resistance that made my insides fizz. I lowered my mouth to his neck and whispered, “I’d like to show my gratitude, if you’ll let me.”
The hands at my backside slipped up under my shirt, fingers tracing bare skin at my lower back. His voice was wary but hopeful. “What do you have in mind?”
I licked his earlobe, slow and deliberate, then breathed, “Anything you want.”
A full-body shiver passed through him, like a seismic wave. His hands roved upward, pausing at my ribs, then higher, fingers skimming the band of my bra. He found the clasp, flicked it open with deft precision, and said, “I would like very much to taste you.”
I frowned, just a little. Not because I disliked the offer—far from it—but because I’d been trying to get him to let me reciprocate for days, and every single time I attempted to put my hands or mouth on him, he’d redirected the focus to me.
His generosity was infuriating. I wanted to worship his body, to have him at my mercy, and he just kept giving and giving until my bones felt like they might dissolve.
I kissed down the side of his neck, letting my hair fall across his jaw. “Can we focus on you tonight?” I whispered. “I miss your body.”
He exhaled, a hot rush of air against my temple, but didn’t reply.
“Can I unbutton your shirt and touch you?” I murmured, letting my hands drift up the planes of his chest.
He hesitated—just for a beat—and then, voice rough, said, “Yes.”
I slid my fingers down the row of buttons, popping them open one by one.
As his shirt parted, I saw the flushed line of muscle down his sternum, the ridge and shadow of each ab.
I could feel him getting hard, urgent and insistent against my inner thigh.
The sight sent a thrill through me, and I had to lean back to really take him in.
He was so beautiful, so perfectly put together, and yet right now, under my hands, he trembled.
I finished the last button and ran my hands over his skin, savoring the heat and the way he flexed beneath my touch. “Where else am I allowed to touch you?” I asked, half teasing, half daring him to answer.
He swallowed, throat working. “Anywhere you want.”
Emboldened, I spread his shirt wide and let my palms roam, fingers mapping his chest, down his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his pants. “May I unbutton this?” I asked.
He gritted his teeth, seeming to wrestle with himself, and then nodded. “If you want.”
I wanted. God, did I want. I slid my hands lower, unfastened the button, and began to unzip his pants. He watched, transfixed, cheeks blotched with heat and something else. Hesitation?
I reached inside, found the soft fabric of his boxers, the outline of his erection straining beneath. I stroked him, gentle at first, then more firmly, but before I could do anything meaningful, he caught my wrists.
“You do not have to,” he said, the words squeezed out like he was in actual pain.
I tried to keep a frown from my forehead. “I want to. But if you’re not ready, we can do something else.”
His grip on me loosened slightly. “Like what?”
I considered, genuinely. What could we do that wouldn’t be all about me, but also wouldn’t push him past where he wanted to go? I bit my lip, then said, “You could watch me touch myself.”
His eyes opened fully, dark and sharp, and his eyelashes fluttered as if the concept had winded him. For a long second, neither of us moved. Then I gave him a slow, sweet kiss. When I broke away, I easily twisted my wrists out of his lax hold and began to unbutton my own shirt.
“Would you like that?” I asked, just above a whisper.
He nodded, the motion small, his gaze molten.
I smiled, then moved to stand, but he caught my waist, grounding me to his lap. I kissed his jaw, then leaned in and whispered, “Let’s move to the bed.”
This time, he let me go.
I stood and slowly unbuttoned my shirt, letting it fall to the floor.
Then I unzipped my jeans, shimmied out of them, and left them puddled by the couch.
My bra was loose, barely holding on, so I let it slip off my shoulders and tossed it onto a chair.
I was now in nothing but underwear and a cocky smile.
I walked to his bedroom, well aware he was following, and once inside, I flicked on the light and glanced over my shoulder to see if he was still watching. He was. Every step, every movement, his eyes tracked me with a hunger that bordered on devotional.
I sat on his bed and patted the spot next to me. “Sit wherever you want.”
Instead, he stood in the doorway, arms at his sides, chest rising and falling. I lay back on the bed, parallel to the headboard, legs dangling off the edge. For a minute, I just let him look.
Then, with deliberate slowness, I cupped my breasts, rubbing and pinching my nipples, rolling them between my fingers.
I could feel his eyes on me, like a current of heat, and I let myself imagine what he saw.
My flushed skin, my hips pressed into the mattress, my hands working myself into a shudder.
I sucked my middle finger into my mouth, getting it wet, then slid it under the elastic of my underwear. The touch was electric, I barely needed to move before I began panting. I kept my eyes closed, wanting to memorize the feeling of his gaze, and started to work slow circles around my clit.
I heard him step further into the room, the sound of his feet soft on the floor. I cracked opened my eyes and saw him looming over me, shirt open, pants hanging half undone. His face was flushed and his mouth was open, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
I got close, so close, the ache building and building. Kicking off my underwear, I brought my heels to the edge of the bed, and opened my legs wide. I slid a finger inside and let myself moan.
Andreas dropped to his knees next to the bed, face level with my body, his eyes burning with something primal. “May I?” he asked, voice hoarse and thick.
“Tonight isn’t about me,” I said, fighting to keep my hand in place. “I wanted to do something for you.”
He licked his lips and said, “This is for me.” Then, without waiting, he gently pulled my hand away and replaced it with his own, touching me with the perfect pressure, the perfect rhythm. “You are so wet,” he murmured, almost reverent.
I almost came right then, the sight of his hand moving and his eyes fixed on my body was enough to push me to the edge. Before I could protest or even process, he bent forward and licked me, slow at first, then with intent.
My whole body jerked, a shock of pleasure racing up my spine.
I tried to brace myself, but Andreas was relentless.
He slid his thick finger inside me, curling it just so, while his mouth worked in wet, greedy laps.
He groaned into me, the vibration like a tuning fork, and the sensation sent me spiraling.
I tried to hold back, to draw it out, but I couldn’t.
I came hard, knees locking around his head, fingers tangling in his hair as I bucked against his mouth.
My voice echoed in the room, wordless and raw, and the orgasm just kept going, wave after wave, until I was certain I’d left my body behind and was now just a field of pure, radiant energy.
He didn’t stop until I physically had to push him away, my skin so sensitive it hurt. He kissed his way up my stomach, lingered at my breasts, then settled over me and kissed me deep, tongue tasting me, hands cupping my face like I was something precious.
Andreas’s hand drifted back down between my legs, and he stroked me, gentle and patient, coaxing. He looked down at me, his eyes hopeful and greedy all at once, whispering, “Do you think we can do that again?”
I laughed. Not a full-bodied laugh, but the soft, incredulous kind, and spoke my mind. “Don’t you want me to go down on you?”
His whole body stilled. The question hung in the air, visible and vibrating. For a second, he looked shy, speechless. Utterly bashful.
I sat up, propping my arms behind me, and arched my back just a little, because if he was going to stare at me, I might as well give him a show.
He slid backward, away from the bed, and then knelt on the carpet at the edge of the mattress. He looked up at me, licking his lips. The movement was small, but it felt almost dangerous, like a warning that things were about to get very, very interesting.
“Andreas,” I said, drawing his name out, “don’t you want me to make you come?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head once. Not a no, but an attempt to clear it, to get back to the topic at hand. When he opened them again, the look on his face made my insides twist. It was desperation.
I let the silence bloom. I wanted him to say it, or at least admit it to himself.
Then, softer, I added, “I don’t have to use my mouth. I can use my hand, like before.”
He inhaled through his nose, then exhaled slow, nostrils flaring just a bit. I waited, studying the tension in his jaw, the lines of muscle along his neck.
Finally, while still kneeling, still refusing to move, he nodded. Once. Just enough to confirm that he’d heard, and he wanted. A thrill ran up my spine.
I watched him a second longer, then cocked my head and said, “Do you want me to use my hands or my mouth?”
He looked up at me, eyes wide and vulnerable. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then he said, “Your mouth,” and it sounded like the words were forced out of him, a confession.
I suppressed a smile and stood up, still naked, and reached for his wrists, gently encouraging him to stand. He did, but looked uncertain, so I took charge and gave him a slow come-hither gesture toward the bed, pushing his pants all the way down his legs and turning him.
I pushed his shoulders gently and Andreas sat on the bed.
Kneeling between his knees, I lowered my gaze.
He still wore his black boxer briefs, but the fabric was already tented.
For a second, I just looked at him, loving the way his entire body was wound up, his muscles tense, his fists gripping the mattress.
I met his eyes and didn’t break contact as I reached under the waistband and tugged the boxer briefs down his hips.
He lifted himself off the bed automatically, like he’d been trained in this.
The second the fabric slipped over the head of his cock, it sprang up, full and flushed and utterly, beautifully exposed.
He was big. Not comically or cartoonishly, but enough that my first thought was, That is not all going to fit in my mouth.
The shaft was perfectly straight, but with a slight curve at the end, the head thick, a slick bead of precum already gathered at the tip.
The skin was smooth, and I realized with another jolt of pride that I was probably the first person to ever see it like this, up close and in the wild.
My mouth watered. I mean, literally. I swallowed, then smiled up at him, and wrapped my hand around the base. He sucked in a breath, lips parting, and his eyes rolled back for just a second before he brought them back to mine, still desperate looking.
I stroked him a few times, slow, just to get the feel of him. He was heavy, hot, the pulse of blood in the veins like a tiny earthquake under my palm.
He tried to speak, voice wrecked, and choked out, “I am not a good person.”
I almost laughed, the words so out of left field I thought maybe I’d misheard. But he looked dead serious, like he genuinely believed his body was a weapon of mass destruction. Instead of arguing, I just leaned forward and, without breaking eye contact, pressed my lips to the tip of his cock.
He groaned. But then in the next moment, he shook his head and reached for me.
“No. I can’t. We—we can’t,” he said.
Before I could say anything, Andreas grabbed me by the waist, hauled me up onto the bed, and crushed me against his chest. He kissed my neck, my jaw, my shoulder, everywhere he could reach, speaking in that frantic, beautiful language, and this time I was sure it was Norwegian and not Italian.
He kissed my breasts, my collarbone, my lips. He held my hands down so I couldn’t touch him. And when I tried to speak again, ask him why he’d stopped me, he kissed me deeply and wouldn’t answer.