Chapter 18 Population Structure
POPULATION STRUCTURE
*Samantha*
When I woke in the night, I was not startled to find myself in Andreas’s bed.
This was the predictable outcome of falling asleep these days.
The only surprise was how effortlessly I’d slipped out of my own bed, traversed the hall, and tunneled into the warm hollow of his sheets like a feral raccoon searching for a heat source.
Andreas’s arm was already around my waist, his hand splayed on my stomach, trapping me between the mattress and his body.
He spooned me, of course, because apparently he only had two sleep modes: perfect monastic solitude or maximum-contact human burrito.
I’d shifted from fully asleep to waking so fast I didn’t even try to untangle myself.
It wasn’t fully dark. I lay there, in the dim light, listening to the distant city noise filtering up from the avenue.
For several seconds, I convinced myself I could fall back asleep in this position and deal with the psychological aftermath in the morning, along with the world’s worst case of bed head.
As soon as I started to drift, a soft voice rumbled behind my ear. “Are you awake?”
I considered pretending to be asleep, but that ship had sailed. “Mmm-hmm. Yeah. Sorry.”
He pulled me a fraction closer, so my ass fit snug against his hips. “Why are you sorry?”
I could have said any number of things, but in the end, I went with, “My unconscious is a menace.”
Andreas made a small, sleepy noise that was almost a laugh, then pressed his face into my hair. The sensation was unexpected but good, like being nuzzled by a big cat who’d decided not to eat you just yet. “I like you here.”
This, I realized, was permission to keep making mistakes, which felt both seductive and deeply irresponsible. I briefly entertained the option of extracting myself, slipping from his embrace, tiptoeing back to my bed. Instead, I gave up, gave in, and settled in, the weight of his arm a comfort.
We lay there for a while, neither of us talking, but also not sleeping. At least, I wasn’t sleeping. Based on the steady increase in his respiration rate, I doubted Andreas was either. His hand on my stomach was warm, his thumb absently stroking slow circles through my shirt.
Eventually, I let my breath out, slow. “Should I go?”
He didn’t answer right away, but then, with measured deliberation, he shifted closer and hooked his leg over mine, caging me more completely.
“No.” His mouth was right at my ear, and his voice was a raw-sounding whisper. “Stay.”
My whole body prickled, a line of heat tracing from my ear down to my chest and belly. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. And the mood seemed to shift, growing tense with anticipation.
After several more seconds, I cleared my throat and said, “You’re still awake, aren’t you?”
“Very,” he replied, the word a breath.
Now, it was my turn to freeze, because I could feel exactly how awake he was.
His erection pressed to my lower back, large and not at all understated about its existence.
My pulse spiked, and my pragmatic brain suggested several ways I could ignore this development, all of which were instantly vetoed by the rest of me.
Andreas’s hand, which had been content to linger at the equator of my waist, moved up.
He shifted back an inch. With careful, almost excruciating patience, he slipped his fingers beneath the hem of my shirt and traced the bare skin there.
He didn’t say anything, but his fingers broadcasted their intent with all the subtlety of a PowerPoint presentation.
Andreas was going to touch me, and unless I explicitly asked him to stop, he would not stop.
And so, I made no protest. I let him.
His palm slid upward, knuckles feathering along my ribs, the pads of his fingers searching for the soft edge of my breast. He cupped it—gently, as if testing the physics of its weight—and I felt my nipples harden so suddenly and sharply, the sensation was almost painful.
Still, I did not move. If anything, I breathed slower, deeper, making it more inviting for him to explore.
Andreas squeezed softly, his thumb brushing over my nipple in lazy, deliberate strokes. After a minute of this, he moved his body so his mouth was at my ear again, and whispered, “Do you want me to stop?”
I shook my head. “No. Don’t stop.”
Andreas kissed the spot behind my ear, a soft, hot press of lips that sent an immediate pulse of electricity to my core. He let his hand wander, alternating between fondling my breast and tracing the curve of my waist, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch me most.
At some point, my breathing got loud enough that I felt self-conscious, so I brought my hand up to cover his, pressing his palm harder into my skin. This provoked an appreciative-sounding exhale from him, which made my thighs clench together in an automatic, instinctive movement.
“I know something that will help you relax and help you sleep,” he said, the words so sincere that I nearly laughed. But instead of laughing, I let him slide his hand down, past my stomach, over the curve of my hip, and into the waistband of my pajama pants.
There was a moment of suspense, a question hovering in the air between us, before he moved forward. His fingers crept inside my underwear, skimming over the skin, lower, lower, and then—without ceremony—he touched me, his fingers seeking out the wet, sensitive place between my legs.
I inhaled, a gasp, and pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the sound. He parted me with his middle and ring fingers, not entering but circling my clit with small, firm strokes that made my hips arch, made me want to grind back against him. I didn’t. But the need was there, building, tidal.
Andreas’s voice was low, hoarse. “Is this okay?”
I nodded, then managed to say, “Yes. God, yes.”
He rewarded my approval by slipping a finger inside me, slow and maddingly gentle at first, then building in rhythm as he anticipated my reactions.
It was both familiar and new, the memory of him touching me like this months ago colliding with the now.
He was gentler than I remembered. Or maybe I was just more desperate.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t try anything,” I said, wanting to give him an escape if my presence tonight had somehow pushed him into this, made him feel pressured. But it was hard to concentrate on words when my whole body was focused on sensation.
He hummed against my ear. “I said I would not try anything for ten days. It has been ten days.”
Well then.
That statement fully addressed any and all concerns I’d had about Andreas feeling pressured.
He wanted this. And—as he slid his fingers out, circled my clit with slow, deliberate strokes, and then pressed his palm flat against me, grinding in tiny increments that made my legs tremble—I felt certain he’d planned this.
“Do you want me to stop?” he repeated, his voice darker, the words sounding like a dare.
My response was immediate. “Please, don’t stop.”
Andreas’s breath caught, and I realized how much he needed this, too.
He nuzzled my neck again, his lips soft and damp on my skin. “Weeks ago, when you apologized for seducing me, you said you would accept responsibility. This is the consequence. This is the responsibility you have to accept for making me fall irrevocably in love with you. Do you accept?”
I whimpered, something between a laugh and gasp. “Yes, please.”
He pushed his fingers deeper, curling them just so, and with his other hand, he pulled my top leg over his, opening me wider, giving him better access. The audacity of it—his hand buried between my legs, his body spooned up behind me, the casual dominance of the movement—made me dizzy.
He found a rhythm that was all precision, alternating slow circles with insistent pressure, then back again, reading every micromovement of my hips, every gasp, every desperate clutch of my hand at the sheets. His cock, rigid along my lower back, pressed harder against me every time I moaned.
At some point, he whispered, “When I am finished making you come, you will suck my cock.” Not a request.
I said nothing, because I was already too far gone. Instead, I pushed back, grinding my ass against his erection, letting him know I wanted everything he was offering.
He groaned—an honest, raw sound—and fingered me deeper, keeping his thumb on my clit, until I came with a stifled cry, my whole body locking up, shuddering, then releasing in waves. The aftershocks made my vision go white, my hands fisting in the pillow.
He didn’t let up. He kept touching me, softer, gentler now, kissing my neck, my hair, my shoulder.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “I love you, Samantha. I love you.” The words, at first, didn’t register, but then, as the afterglow receded and my mind returned to my body, I heard them, and they landed in a way that made me want to cry.
I turned and rolled over to face him, his hand slipping out from between my legs but staying on my thigh, like he didn’t want to break the connection. He looked at me, eyes shining in the pale light spilling in through the open door, and for a moment, neither of us said a word.
Then I grinned. “You know what’s next, right?”
He nodded, solemn, eyes huge. “Yes. I do.”
I kissed him, hard and messy, and then rolled him onto his back. He lay beneath me and I straddled his hips, pinning his wrists above his head, if only for a second. He let me, watching me with a wonderful kind of awe and reverence.
I kissed down his jaw, his neck, the warm, fragrant column of his throat.
I loved how his skin tasted. Clean and faintly salty, like someone who spent a lot of time at the gym and then a lot of time in the shower.
Lifting his shirt, I worked my way down his chest, pausing to scrape my teeth over his pecs, then further, following the line of hair down to where his sweatpants tented high and insistent.
I tugged at the waistband, and he lifted his hips to help me, the movement so coordinated it felt rehearsed. The sweatpants came off, followed by the boxers, and suddenly his cock was there, hot and hard, throbbing against his stomach.
I took it in my hand, stroked it once, and watched his eyes flutter closed, his breath hitch. He looked so goddamn beautiful like this. Vulnerable, waiting for me.
I wanted to say something funny, or smart, or biting, but all I could do was stare, then wet my lips, then bend down and taste him.
I licked from the base to the tip, slow, savoring the texture, the heat, the softness of the skin.
He made a sound, half growl, half groan, and fisted the sheets on either side of his body.
I loved that. I wanted more.
So, I licked again, this time swirling my tongue around the head, savoring the salty-sweet taste of him, then sucked him into my mouth, taking as much as I could, letting my hand stroke what my mouth couldn’t reach.
I kept my eyes on his face, wanting to see every flicker of pleasure, every tightening of his jaw, every clench of his abdomen.
He lasted longer than I expected, probably because he was trying so hard not to come too fast, but eventually his hips bucked, and he said, “Wait—wait, I’m going to come. If you do not want—Samantha—”
But I did want. I wanted all of it. I sucked him harder, faster, feeling him swell in my mouth, and then he came, hot and thick and sudden. I swallowed all of it, loving the way his body lost control, the way his voice broke when he gasped my name.
I drew it out, sucking gently until he was empty, then licked him clean, planting a kiss at the base for good measure as he flinched away, now too sensitive, a soft laugh slipping past his lips.
When I looked up, he was staring at me, dazed and worshipful, his chest heaving. I climbed up his body and kissed him along the way, and he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me so close I thought we might fuse into a single entity.
Burying his face in my neck, Andreas held me tight, repeating over and over, “I love you, Samantha. I love you so much.”
I smiled into his hair, feeling a rush of something fierce and unnameable. “I know,” I whispered. “I know.”
I didn’t need or want to qualify it. I didn’t wish to hedge or joke or run away. I let myself be loved. And it was the best, worst, and most terrifying thing I’d ever done.