Company 39 #2
“You said eight,” I said, trying very hard not to stare at the ink on his muscular arms. Yes, I noticed that he probably spent a good chunk of the week in a gym. “It's eight-fifty.”
“I'm aware.” Something moved in his expression. “Were you asleep?”
“No.”
“Good.” He held up the toolbox. “Show me the bathroom.”
He was in my bathroom for less than ten minutes. Maybe more — I couldn’t say. Stalking the clock didn’t feel particularly appealing anymore. He was here. In my space. And I didn’t know what to do with myself. Time was meaningless.
He came out drying his hands on the small towel I kept on the rack; the very act was so casually domestic it made something in my chest do a… thing.
“Needs a washer,” he said. “I can have it fixed by Monday.”
“Okay,” I said and noticed his t-shirt was drenched.
He noticed me noticing. “Want to take it off?” He grinned.
I think I may have short-circuited then.
Our eyes met. His pale grey against my green.
“What?” I blinked.
“You keep looking at it. I figured maybe you want it as a souvenir.”
Was that a… joke?
I felt heat rise to my cheeks, realizing he'd caught me staring. Something shifted in the air between us, charged and electric.
“I wasn't—” I stopped myself. No point in lying. “I've just never seen you dressed so... normal. And the tattoos!”
His lips quirked into a half-smile. “Disappointed?”
“No,” I said too quickly. “Just surprised.”
He walked deeper into the apartment, looked around — at the furniture, at the walls, at the everything in between — and went straight to the adjoining kitchen. Didn’t say anything, though.
“I… Uh. You want sweet tea? I just made some before you came over—”
“No.”
He turned around fully and leaned back against my kitchen counter and finally looked at me.
I stayed where I was.
“You going to stand in the hallway?” he asked.
“I'm considering it.”
Judah smirked and did something that outdid all the other somethings that left me speechless in the past fifteen minutes. He reached for his collar and pulled the t-shirt over his head.
I froze. Wasn’t sure I wasn’t hallucinating. The heat could’ve scrambled my brain — cooked it real good.
I blinked. Still there.
Shirtless. In my kitchen. “Come here, Mercy.”
And the thing was — the truly damning thing — was that my feet moved before my brain had finished the sentence. Two steps into the kitchen, close enough that I had to look up at him, close enough to smell the cedar and the heat off his skin, and I stopped.
“Closer,” he said.
“I'm fine here.”
“I didn't ask if you were fine.”
My heart was doing something inadvisable. “Judah—”
“Yesterday,” he said. “At Darlene’s. I heard you.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
“I went over to pick up some things. Heard the shower running.” He paused and took a step toward me, leaving his shirt on the counter. “Heard you.”
The kitchen was very small. He was very close.
“Moaning.”
My body froze while my face burned. I couldn't look at him, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
I forced my eyes up, meeting his unnervingly pale gaze. The kitchen light carved shadows across the planes of his chest, highlighting intricate tattoos that disappeared beneath his waistband — religious symbols intertwined with something darker, more ancient.
“You could have said something,” I managed.
“I could have.”
“That's—” I cast around for the right word. “That's an invasion of—”
“Yes,” he said simply. “It was.”
He moved closer. I had no place else to retreat. One tattooed arm extended past me to press against the wall, caging me without touching. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
His left hand moved up, slow, over the fabric of my tank top, thumb tracing the line of my ribs like he was reading something written there. I felt every inch of it. My hands went to his shoulders without me deciding they would and he caught them and pushed them back by my sides.
“No,” he said.
I stared at him. “What?”
“No.”
“That's—” My voice came out wrong. Breathless. I hated it. “That's not fair.”
“No,” he said for the third time, but this time agreeing with the sentiment, and went back to what he was doing. His hands moved up further, slow enough to be its own kind of torture. I stood there, against the wall, unsure what was going on. But I knew I didn’t want him to stop.
“I couldn’t fix your shower,” he said suddenly, voice quiet, eyes fixed on my chest. I kept thinking how thin the fabric was and how visible my nipples must’ve been.
“No,” I agreed, almost breathless when his fingers slipped below my tank top. Just an inch. But it was enough.
“I feel like I owe you,” he continued, tracing his fingers down my stomach. Lower. And lower. “For the missing shower head.”
When I looked up at him, I saw him grinning. Then, he got down on one knee and hooked his fingers behind the waistband of my shorts.
“Should I stop?” he asked.
I shook my head. Mumbled a reply.
“I can't hear you, Mercy,” he said, fingers pausing right at the edge of the fabric, his breath hot against my skin. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Don't stop,” I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself.
His eyes darkened. “Louder.”
“Don't stop,” I repeated, finding my voice this time.
Judah smiled — not the careful, measured smile he used at church, but something wilder, hungrier. He pulled my shorts down, slowly, exposing the curve of my hips inch by torturous inch. His eyes never left mine as the fabric slid past my thighs and pooled at my feet.
I stepped out of them, feeling utterly exposed in just my tank top and underwear. The cool air of the apartment raised goosebumps across my skin, or maybe it was the way he was looking at me — like I was something sacred and profane all at once.
“I've thought about this,” he admitted, his voice rough. His hands slid up the back of my calves, thumbs tracing the sensitive hollow behind my knees. “Since the first day you walked inside the church.”
His thumbs worked higher, past my knees and my inner thighs, until he reached the soft cotton of my panties.
Each inch of progress left a trail of heat that made me shiver.
I leaned back against the wall for support, my legs suddenly unreliable.
I didn’t rightly know when the panties disappeared; I just knew they were gone, and he was urging one of my legs over his shoulder.
I gasped at the first touch of his mouth against me, so hot. My fingers scrambled for purchase against the wall, finding nothing to hold onto as his tongue made a slow, devastating path through my pussy. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
He pulled back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with something primal. “Don't hold back,” he commanded. “I want to hear you. Just like I heard you in that shower.”
The reminder of my private moment turned into public knowledge made heat flood my cheeks, but before I could respond, he returned to his task with renewed purpose.
His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open for him as he worked me with his mouth, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that had me panting in seconds.
I threaded my fingers through his dark hair, surprised at its softness. He growled against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body.
“Judah,” I whispered, my head falling back against the wall.
He hummed in approval, the sound reverberating through me. One of his hands left my thigh, and I felt his finger trace where his mouth had been. And I pulled away. On instinct.
He looked up. “What?”
“I… it’s…”
Shit.
I tried to come up with a believable lie but couldn’t.
It was lame.
“You’re a virgin,” he deduced.
I closed my eyes and nodded.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. I forced my eyes open to find him still kneeling, his expression intense but no longer predatory. “Does that change what you want?”
I swallowed hard. “No. I want you. Just…”
“You’re not sure if you’re ready.”
“Yes.”
“Is tongue okay? Should’ve asked beforehand but—” He took a deep breath.
“Tongue is fine.”
A slow smile spread across his face, and he pressed a gentle kiss to my inner thigh. “Just fine?”
“Better than fine,” I admitted, feeling myself blush. Everywhere. “Much better.”
His eyes darkened with satisfaction. He rose with my leg still resting against his shoulder and before I could understand what’s happening, I was lying on the couch with his head between my thighs.
His tongue traced patterns that made me gasp and tremble, building a tension low in my belly that coiled tighter with each passing moment.
The pleasure washed through me in waves.
My thighs began to shake as he focused his attention on that one spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. One of his hands slid up my body to cup my breast through my tank top, thumb brushing over my nipple in time with the movements of his tongue.
The dual sensations pushed me over the edge. I came with a cry I couldn't suppress, my body arching against him. He didn't relent, working me through every tremor until I was gasping and pulling away from the overwhelming sensation.
Only when I collapsed back against the cushions did Judah finally lift his head, his lips glistening in the dim light. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine.
“That should get you through the weekend,” he said.
I couldn't form words yet, just nodded weakly. My limbs felt like honey, warm and fluid.
He sat up and then stood up.
“You’re going?”
He walked back to the kitchen counter where he’d left his shirt. “I’ve excited you enough.”
I sat up and followed him with my eyes.
I… I didn’t want him to leave yet. But I didn’t know how to make him stay so I latched onto the only thing that my eyes kept tracing.
“Your tattoos,” I managed finally, watching the flames move on his back. “They're not what I expected.”
He put the damp shirt back on, hiding Eden from me. The tree, the snake, and the two lovers were a dead giveaway.
“There’s a fundraising dinner on Sunday,” he said, switching the subject. “Darlene will pick you up.” His eyes slid down my body, and I was suddenly reminded of how naked I was. And that not even five full minutes ago, his head had been between my thighs. “I think red would look good on you.”
“Red?” I frowned.
He came back. “It’s the opposite of green,” Judah said, matter-of-fact, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Lock the door after I’m gone.”
A minute later, he was gone. But his toolbox remained, and so did his breath on my skin, and somewhere deeper besides.