Chapter 7 Ant
SEVEN
ANT
The drive to Eli’s place is short, but it feels like my pulse is stuck in the red the whole way. My hand still tingles from holding his, like my skin hasn’t realised we let go. The easy, laid-back rhythm we’ve had for weeks hasn’t gone—it’s just been rewired. Sharper. Hungrier.
Something happened in that moment by the bench. Something that took us from smooth and relaxed to a tension so sweet, it’s almost dizzying.
And then he invited me over, and my brain short-circuited—went from picturing slow, tender kisses to wondering how fast I can get his mouth on mine and mine on his cock.
By the time he pulls into his driveway, the air between us is crackling. We’re not saying much. Don’t need to. Every glance, every accidental brush of arms as we walk up to his door just adds fuel.
Inside, it smells faintly of sawdust and lemon oil, the kind of scent that emanates from wood shavings and fresh polish. The light in here is softer than outside, spilling across the warm timber floors and over a low, handcrafted coffee table that has to be one of his.
He closes the door behind us, and the quiet that settles isn’t awkward—it’s expectant.
“You want a drink?” he asks, but his voice is low, like he’s not really thinking about drinks.
I shake my head, stepping closer. “No.”
He tilts his head, a flicker of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “No?”
And then I’m in his space, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough to see the faint gold flecks in his eyes.
“No,” I murmur, and before I can talk myself out of it, my hand finds his jaw. His stubble is rough under my palm, warm and solid and real, and then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s a hit of heat and want that’s been coiled up between us for weeks, unspooling fast. He tastes like ginger beer and unexpected sweetness, and when his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, I can’t stop the low sound that escapes me.
We stumble back a step, then another, until my spine meets the wall. He presses into my body, firm and sure, his mouth shifting against mine in a way that makes my whole chest tighten.
The kiss deepens, and it’s like every bit of casual banter, every almost-touch, every moment we didn’t act on is here now, condensed and burning hot between us.
My hands find his shoulders, his chest, the solid lines of muscle under his T-shirt.
I can feel his heart hammering, matching mine beat for beat.
When we finally break for air, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and he’s smiling—slightly wild around the edges, like maybe he’s as gone in this as I am.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he says, voice rough.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Me too.”
Eli’s thumb traces along my jaw again, his mouth close enough that his breath skims my cheek. “Want a proper tour of the house?” he murmurs.
I hold his gaze. “I’m interested in seeing your bedroom.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—surprise, then a shadow that runs deeper. My pulse jumps, and I swear I feel the faintest twitch low in my gut.
“All right,” he says, voice a little rougher now.
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall.
Each step feels heavier, loaded, like we both know exactly what’s waiting but neither of us is willing to rush the walk there.
The hall is dimmer, quieter. By the time we step into his room, the late sun spilling across the bed in a warm stripe, the air between us feels tight with anticipation.
He closes the door with a soft click, then turns back to me.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then we’re together again—mouths crashing, bodies slotting together, hands finding heat through fabric.
I curl my fingers into the back of his T-shirt, pulling him closer until there’s nothing but the press of us, the warmth and solidity.
The kiss turns messy, urgent. I can feel his breath stutter against my mouth, hear the small sounds he makes when I nip at his bottom lip. His hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my back, sliding lower, gripping like he can’t decide where to land.
Somehow, we make it to the bed, half stumbling, half pushing. We break apart just long enough to strip away layers, tossing shirts and shorts aside until skin meets skin, hot and unfiltered.
We fall onto the mattress, still entangled, moving against each other without thinking, chasing the friction and the warmth. The mattress dips under his weight, his body pressing into me in a way that feels both grounding and electric.
His skin is hot and smooth where it meets mine, the solid planes of his chest sliding against me with every breath.
I can feel the tight coils of muscle in his thighs bracketing my hips, the subtle shift of them as we move.
There’s no space between us now—just the urgent push and drag of our bodies, the deep thrum of want in every point where we connect.
When his hips roll, the heat between us spikes. The firm, insistent shape of him rubs against me. The sensation drags a low sound from my throat before I can catch it. He’s hard, and I am too. Every movement brings us closer, grinds sharper, the friction making my whole body light up.
His mouth finds the curve of my neck again, lips warm, breath quick, like he’s mapping every inch of me he can reach. I grip his back, sliding my fingers over the damp heat of his skin, feeling the flex of muscle under my palms as he moves against me.
The rhythm builds with urgency—our hips finding each other without needing to speak, the heat and pressure between us climbing until it’s the only thing either of us is chasing.
The sounds in the room are nothing but breath and the whisper of skin, the occasional muffled groan when one of us presses just right.
Then Eli slows—not stopping, just changing the pace. His mouth drags from my neck down over my chest, the warmth of his breath and the scrape of stubble sending jolts through me. His hands anchor at my sides, steady but suggestive, coaxing me to stay exactly where I am.
I can’t help the shiver that runs through me as his lips wander lower, tasting, teasing. Every brush of his mouth pulls another ragged breath from me, the anticipation pooling hot and heavy in my gut.
“Eli….” It’s half a warning, half a plea.
He glances up briefly, the corner of his mouth quirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, then dips his head again.
His movements slow, grow more deliberate, the tension between wanting and getting almost too much to bear.
My fingers twist in the sheets, my body arching into his touch before I can stop it.
When his movements finally dip lower, the change in sensation is immediate—a rush of heat and a firm, insistent pressure around my dick when he sucks me into his mouth that makes my breath catch.
Pleasure spikes so suddenly, it steals the air from my lungs, pulling a startled sound out of me before I can bite it back.
My hips twitch in response, instinct urging me to chase more, but his hands are steady at my sides, holding me right where he wants me. It’s deliberate—every shift, every pass of his mouth over me—and it leaves me raw in the best way.
“God….” The word tears out of me with an edge of desperation.
He answers with a low, satisfied hum that I feel as much as hear, a vibration that seems to pulse right through my core. My head tips back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut, focusing on the confident way he works me over.
I can’t take it anymore. The pressure inside me is wound too tight, the coil of it burning through my chest and down my spine. My hands find his shoulders, fingers digging in like I’m anchoring myself to solid ground.
“Up here,” I gasp. It’s not a request.
He stills, lifting his head just enough to look at me. His eyes lock on mine, steady, searching, and for a moment, it feels like we’re both holding our breath. Then, whatever he sees there—the heat, the need, the fact that I’m hanging on by the thinnest thread—has him moving.
He shifts without hesitation, the mattress dipping and creaking as he changes position, fluid and sure of himself. Even now, with the urgency radiating between us, he moves like someone who knows exactly where this is going and is planning to enjoy every step.
“Right here,” I say, my voice low, rough. The words sound heavier than I mean them to, weighted with all the wanting I’ve been keeping at bay for weeks. “I want to taste you.”
That small, knowing smile curves his mouth, and my stomach flips. But the way he moves closer isn’t teasing—it’s purposeful. Facing away from me, he plants a hand on either side of my waist, bracketing me in, the heat from his skin reaching me even before he touches me.
When he finally guides himself above, I part my lips without thought, anticipation sharp and sweet all at once.
His scent fills my head, with warm skin, a trace of salt, and a pull that has my mouth watering, aching to suck him down.
The first taste is enough to make my whole body jerk with pleasure, a deep, instinctive pull that has my breath stuttering.
I grip his thighs, needing to hold on as his weight and warmth settle in.
The solid pressure of him is overwhelming in the best way, flooding every nerve I have with sensation.
My breathing quickens, but his is right there, too, ragged and close, blending with mine until the room feels thick with it.
“Christ…,” he groans, pulling up briefly for air. The sound vibrates low in his chest. It’s not just the word—it’s the way it comes out of him, half a sigh, half a struggle to keep control.
I manage a grunt before he licks the head of my cock and sucks me down once more.
The tremor running through me sharpens, every muscle tuned to the slow, deliberate rhythm he’s keeping. My hips shift on instinct, chasing more, chasing him, and the motion makes my stomach tighten almost painfully.