7. Sophie
Sophie
I'm sitting on Grant's bed when I hear the truck pull into the driveway.
Footsteps on the stairs. Coming closer. Stopping outside the door.
The handle turns. Grant walks in.
He sees me and stops.
Just stops — like he's making sure I'm real, like he was expecting to open a door onto a normal afternoon and I've disrupted the premise.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi."
He closes the door. Locks it. Crosses the room in three strides and kisses me.
It's different than the first time. Less frantic. More certain, like he's been thinking about this, like he's been thinking about exactly this and now he's arrived.
His hands cup my face, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss. I make a sound against his mouth that I'd describe as undignified but he seems to have a different opinion about, because he smiles.
"Missed you," he murmurs.
"It's been two days."
"Long two days."
His mouth moves to my neck and I tilt my head and think here we go, I'm completely done for — not as a complaint, more as an observation, the way you note weather.
"We have time," he says against my skin. "Hours. No interruptions."
"Patty's downstairs."
"She always naps after appointments. And these walls are thick." He pulls back to look at me. His eyes are dark. "Thick enough that you can be as loud as you want."
Oh.
"Grant—"
"I've been thinking about you for two days.
" His hands move to the hem of my sweater — the one I spent four minutes selecting, for the record, time well spent apparently.
"Thinking about everything I didn't get to do the first time because we were both so desperate.
" He pulls it over my head. "This time, I'm taking my time. "
He unhooks my bra with the easy confidence of a man who has done this before, many times, in possession of information I apparently haven't had access to, and I file that observation under things to appreciate about the age gap.
He sets me back on the bed. Stands at the foot of it and looks at me — a long, unhurried look that makes me feel more exposed than actually being undressed does, like he's cataloguing me the same way I've been cataloguing him.
"Beautiful," he says. Not a line. Not flattery. Like he's noting a structural fact about the room.
My face gets warm. "You don't have to say—"
"I know I don't have to." He kneels on the bed, hands going to the button on my jeans.
"I want to. I'm going to tell you exactly what I've been thinking.
" He pulls my jeans down. Then my underwear.
I'm completely bare and he's fully dressed and the power differential is doing things to me.
"Spread your legs for me. Let me see you. "
I do.
My face is on fire. I'm also wetter than I've been since the first time, probably since approximately one second after he said thick enough that you can be as loud as you want.
"Perfect," he says softly. "Look how wet you are for me."
"Grant—"
"Shh. I'm going to take care of you."
Then his mouth is on me.
I arch off the bed with a sound that would absolutely carry through less-than-thick walls.
His tongue is hot and deliberate — deliberate, always deliberate with him, like he's working from a map of my specific nervous system that he somehow already has — and he explores me with the same focused attention he gives everything else.
He knows exactly what he's doing, I think with startling clarity as his tongue finds my clit. He has been doing this for — however many years he's been doing this — and the math is working very much in my favor right now.
Two fingers inside me and I grip the pillow and make a sound I'll be reviewing later.
"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Let me hear you."
"Patty's—"
"Sleeping." He curls his fingers and I lose the thread of the sentence entirely. "No one here but us."
He builds the pleasure slowly, and every time I get close he backs off — a slow retreat, a shift in pressure, a pause that leaves me chasing him with my hips before I even realize I'm doing it — and I have a complex emotional response to that, somewhere between frustration and gratitude, because the frustration is good, the frustration is building me toward something I can already tell is going to be different than what I've been having access to for the better part of a decade.
"Please," I gasp. "Grant, please—"
"Please what?"
"Let me come—"
"Not yet." He adds a third finger and I whimper, which I've done approximately three times in my life until this week.
"You're going to come on my tongue first. Then on my fingers.
Then on my cock." His voice is even, almost calm, and that calm while he is doing this to me is deeply, specifically unfair.
"We've got all afternoon, baby girl. We're taking our time. "
The baby girl again. I thought the first time was a fluke. It's not a fluke. It hits me the same way it did in the apartment, this warm rush from somewhere I didn't know was accessible, and I clench around his fingers involuntarily.
"You like that," he says. Not a question.
"Apparently," I say, a little desperately.
"Good." He finds my clit with his mouth again and I stop being able to form thoughts in complete sentences.
My first orgasm hits me like something breaking loose, rolling through me in waves that seem to start behind my eyes and move all the way down to my curling toes.
I say his name at volume. He works me through every second of it, unhurried even now, like watching me fall apart is its own reward and he's got no intention of rushing it.
Before I've fully landed, he's kissing up my body — stomach, ribs, each breast with specific focused attention that makes me squirm.
I want to taste him. I want to do things to him.
I want to have the conversation where I have some agency in what's happening here, which I apparently need to negotiate because he's still fully dressed and clearly operating on a schedule.
"Your clothes," I manage.
"In a minute."
"Grant."
"Sophie." He moves to my other breast. "I told you. We have time."
His hand slides back down and I twitch when he touches my clit again. Oversensitive, post-orgasm, and the sensation is almost too much.
"Too much—"
"You can take it." Steady. Sure. "Be a good girl and give me another one."
The good girl lands with the same precise effect it always does, which I'm filing under useful information about myself that I did not previously have, and I stop arguing.
He works me with patient hands, reading every response, and I come a second time with my fingers threaded through his silver hair, holding on, my whole body shaking under the sustained, relentless attention of him.
"Beautiful," he says softly, watching my face the way he always watches my face during this, like I'm something worth looking at even at my most undone. "That's my good girl."
I’m still floating when he finally strips.
I watch him shed his clothes, unhurried, like a man with nowhere else he’d rather be.
And then his cock—thick, heavy, flushed dark at the head, already hard and glistening at the tip from how ready he is.
The sight of it in this room, the same room that still has the faded blue walls and the old desk in the corner, makes my mouth go dry in an entirely new direction.
“I want you.”
I sit up, push him back against the pillows that still smell faintly of laundry detergent and boyhood, and wrap my hand around him. He’s so thick my fingers don’t quite meet. I stroke once, slow, watching the way his stomach tightens, then lean down and take the head of his cock into my mouth.
He swears under his breath.
I sink lower, letting the heavy weight of him stretch my lips, tasting salt and heat and the faint remaining slick of me from earlier.
I hollow my cheeks and take as much as I can, slow and deliberate, the way he’s been with me—learning the exact pressure that makes his hips twitch, the exact depth that pulls that low, broken sound out of his chest. His hand finds the back of my head but doesn’t push.
Just rests there, fingers flexing every time I take him deeper.
“Sophie—fuck—”
I keep going. Wet, filthy sounds fill the quiet of his childhood bedroom.
I think about the teenage version of him who probably lay in this same bed and jerked off to whatever girls he was allowed to want, and now I’m here, grown, on my knees between his legs, swallowing as much of his cock as I can fit.
The thought is so wrong it makes me moan around him.
His control starts to fray. The hand in my hair tightens. His thighs tense under my palms. I can feel him throbbing against my tongue, can taste the fresh bead of precome that spills onto it.
“Enough,” he growls, voice rough. “Sophie—enough. I need to fuck you. Now.”
He hauls me up like I weigh nothing, rolls us so I’m on my back in the middle of the narrow twin mattress that still has the old wooden headboard, and settles between my thighs.
The thick, spit-slick head of his cock presses against my entrance—already soft and open from the first time—and he slides in with one long, deliberate thrust that has me gasping and grabbing at his shoulders.
We both go quiet.
He’s so deep. Deeper than before. The angle of the small bed forces us closer, his weight pinning me into the mattress that used to belong to a boy, and the stretch of his thick cock filling me completely makes my eyes sting.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth. “Sophie. Look at you taking me like this. In this room.”
He starts to move.
Slow, deep strokes at first—nothing like the first time.
More intentional. Like he’s savoring the fact that he’s burying his cock in his brother’s ex-wife on the same bed he grew up in.
Every drag of that heavy length against my walls is deliberate.
I wrap my legs around him and the angle changes and he groans, a low, ragged sound I feel more than hear.
“There?” he asks.
“There,” I confirm.