Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
LAUREN
I feel myself get sleepy listening to the soothing hum of her voice and I almost drift off into sleep when there’s a knock on the door.
Determined and loud, it startles me awake.
I blink hard, heart thumping slow and heavy, not sure where I am for a second.
Was I asleep? What time is it? Sandy’s voice hums faint from somewhere—something about Daniel—but it’s distant, muffled, like it’s sinking into the walls.
I sit up, the sofa creaking loudly under me, my head foggy as hell.
I don’t even know where my phone is—dropped it, maybe, lost in the blanket or the junk.
The knock comes again, a little louder, and I freeze, breath catching.
It’s late—too late for visitors. I ease off the sofa, legs shaky, and shuffle over, stepping carefully through the dark, the floor cold under my socks.
My toe catches some damn box on its hard edge, and I curse.
“Ow, fuck!” Pain stings up my leg. I stop, lean against the wall to rub it, then hobble to the door.
I grab the handle, turn it slowly, and pull it open. The hinges groan like a horror movie.
And there he is—neighbor guy, tall, dark, and… shirtless, just standing there, framed in the night like he belongs to it. I stare, mouth dry, shocked still, my pulse thudding in my ears. He steps in, uninvited, and I’m thinking—why the hell am I letting him?
“Look,” he says, voice low, steady, “we got off on the wrong foot.” Moonlight spills through the window, pale and cold, catching his face, and shit—he’s gorgeous, those gray eyes glinting, sharp like they’re slicing me open.
I want to say something—offer tea, snap at him, anything—but my tongue’s stuck, heavy.
He’s closer now and, slowly, brushes hair off my face, his fingers grazing my ear, soft, warm.
I should push him—should—but those eyes lock on mine, deep and quiet, and my strength just slips away, draining out slowly, leaving me standing there, lost. What the hell is happening?
“You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,” he says, his voice low and rough. My eyes widen with shock. The air between us vibrates with the intensity coming off him. Each word hangs heavily in the cold night air.
My head spins, a dull whirl behind my eyes. It feels as if the room is tilting. I lean against the wall for support.
He steps closer, his shadow stretching over me, and murmurs, “I’ve come to taste you. May I?”
It’s a question, but his eyes—those gray, cutting eyes—say he’s already decided.
I don’t think I nod—don’t feel my head move, don’t remember—but then his lips brush mine, slow, warm, tasting like mulled wine and heat, spicy and deep.
My breath catches and sticks in my chest. I just stand there, frozen, feeling the press of him, soft at first, barely there.
Then it shifts—his mouth moves harder, deeper, and lust crashes in, fast and thick, lighting me up from the inside.
My hands twitch, then I’m grabbing his jacket, fingers curling tight as I pull him in.
My actions seem to make him hungrier, needier, his tongue finding mine, desperate as hell.
But wait—it hits me slow, a cold trickle through the raging heat—what the fuck am I doing?
He’s a stranger, an asshole, the insensitive jerk from earlier.
My chest tightens, and I shove him back, palms flat against him, gasping hard.
“What are you… Why are you here?” My voice shakes, and I’m panting.
It feels as if the cold night air burns my throat.
He doesn’t move—just looks at me, eyes dark as the nightfall—and then he’s back, grabbing my arms, pulling me in, kissing me harder.
His lips crush mine, bruising. I sag against the wall, the bare stones rough on my back, legs trembling and unsteady.
My mind’s screaming—stop, stop—but it’s far off, drowned out by the thud of my pulse, the way my body leans into him despite it all.
His hands slide up, slow, deliberate, under my shirt, rough fingers brushing my skin, leaving trails of heat.
They find my breasts, cupping them, squeezing them.
Needy, oh so needy. I suck in a sharp and jagged breath.
His mouth drops to my neck, hot lips pressing, then sucking—hard, wet, pulling the skin tight till it stings, leaving a mark. The mark pulses and burns under my jaw.
He moves lower, his fiery breath on my chest, as his hands yank my bra down, the fabric scraping as it falls.
His lips close over my breast, soft at first, just a graze, then sucking slow and deep, his velvety tongue swirling over my nipple, circling.
lazy and warm. Teeth scrape—light, just a hint—and I moan, low and raw, the sound dragging out, bouncing off the quiet walls.
He shifts, mouth finding the other, pulling it in, wet and greedy, sucking harder now, every tug a measured jolt straight down my spine.
I’m arching into him, gasping softly, my hands gripping air, then his shoulders, feeling every pull, every throbbing pulse.
I’m done asking questions because this feels too good and, for some weird reason, I’m pretty sure I have lost my voice and the ability to speak.
He drops lower, knees hitting the floor, and his hands slide roughly down my sides, onto my hips.
His fingers hook into my jeans, tugging them off, inch by inch, the denim dragging against my skin, cool air kissing my thighs as it falls.
My panties slide down next, slow, catching on my knees, then pooling at my feet, and I whine, “No, stop,” but it’s quiet, frail, my voice trembling in the dark.
He doesn’t pause—just looks up, those stunning eyes pinning me, then he spreads my legs wide, with his big, strong hands firm and warm on my thighs.
My knees start wobbling, trembling slowly, like they’re melting under me.
My fingers slide into his thick, damp hair, twisting tightly as I press myself against his mouth.
His hands grip my thighs, rough and warm, holding me open, and his breath brushes me first—teasing the edges of me.
Then his lips find my pussy, soft, just a graze, and I suck in a sharp breath, my chest tightening.
He kisses me, slow, deliberate, lips pressing warm against my swollen sex, and I feel the heat bloom, low and deep.
His tongue comes next—sliding out leisurely, flat, tracing me, tasting me, and I moan, a low sound that drags out from the depths of my throat.
He sucks then—gentle at first, pulling me into his mouth, lips sealing around me, and it’s heavy, wet, a slow draw that makes my head tip back against the wall.
Every stroke is deliberate—his tongue dips in, thick and warm, curling slowly, then pulls back, sucking again, harder now, a deep, greedy pull.
I feel it—fuck, it’s overwhelming—every tug, every lick, unraveling me, driving me crazy.
My hips shift, slow, rocking into him, and he groans, the low sound vibrating against me, sending a jolt up my spine.
My fingers tighten in his hair and pull harder.
In response, he presses deeper, sucking long and firm, his tongue swirling inside me, dragging out the ache.
God, I’m so wet.
I feel it—warm and slick, spilling out slowly, and running down my thighs.
A thick drip I can’t stop. I know it’s on his lips and smeared all over his chin, but he doesn’t seem to care at all—just keeps going, sucking me relentlessly, like a ravenous man who has finally found food after days of starving in the wilderness.
Like his life depends on it. My breath hitches, breaking into gasps, soft then louder, and my whole body shivers as heat pools unbearably between my legs.
The slow, deep ache builds and builds, starting low and spreading through me.
It’s heavy and it pulses like a living thing.
My toes curl against the floor, and I whimper helplessly.
Quiet, little sounds that I can’t hold back.
He sucks harder, lips tight, tongue pressing deep, and I feel the edge of the abyss creeping up.
Slow, but unstoppable. My thighs tremble, wet with my slick trails sliding down, and I’m gripping his hair so tight my hands ache.
The orgasms come upon me like a dream. Slow at first, a shudder rolling through me, then hard, crashing, and I climax—a cry spills out, loud, raw, tearing from deep inside me.
My body quakes, slow waves shaking me apart, and I’m leaning heavily against the wall, panting, shuddering, my sex pulsing crazily under his mouth.
He pulls back, leaving me slick and wrecked.
He rises, slow, his hands sliding up my arms, rough palms grazing my skin, leaving a faint burn where they touch.
His fingers curl under my elbows, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
His chest is pressed close, and his hot, triumphant breath brushes my neck.
His heartbeat is a slow thud against me.
My legs dangle limply, as he carries me—each step deliberate.
The sofa looms ahead, old and sagging, but right now it looks like the most luxurious divan.
Fit for a king. He lowers me onto it, his arms flexing under my weight.
The springs groan deep in the frame as we sink in.
The weight of us settling into the worn fabric of the cushion causes it to tear. It smells like dust and old wood.