Chapter 8 The Real Andrew Harding #3
And then he presses his whole face right into her pussy, nose pushed to her asshole, jaw buried deep between the wet folds, mouth open wide, breath spilling wet. Fire pours straight into her, every nerve sparking awake.
He hasn’t licked her, hasn’t used his tongue.
But she can feel everything, and how his mouth hangs open at her entrance, soaking her with nothing but wet breath and steam.
How he stays buried, jaw dragging her wide, face grinding rough through her folds.
It has her gushing, her arousal coating his lips, his chin collecting the drip, his whole face glazed in her.
She fists the cushions, but it doesn’t stop her legs from shaking or the soaked mess from sliding down her thighs.
“Mmm—fuckkk,” he groans, fingers digging into her cheeks. “Hold still.”
She tries, her knees stiff, thighs shaking, but it’s too fucking much.
The second his shaky breath rolls hot over her clit, she shatters.
An orgasm takes her by the spine, snapping her open from the inside.
He pulls her hips back, knees sliding over the cushion, and he holds her open, pressing his mouth deeper into her orgasm. She’s panting, strung out, her elbows shaking now. She’s never come apart like this. Inside someone. Inside his mouth.
Then his tongue swipes, soft at first.
One slow lick into her opening.
Then again, dragging up her slit, collecting every bit of mess she’s made.
Another warm spill runs down her thigh. His tongue catches it, doesn’t let it go far, and he licks up the long line of her crack, the tip of his tongue catching on the rim, and he pushes deep into her asshole with a groan.
She sees stars behind her eyes. Whole constellations, just shattering.
“Oh, fuck—yeah,” she growls, rocking back into his face. “You’re a fuckin’ god, Harding.” Her lashes flutter shut. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare stop.” Every nerve’s lighting up again—building, burning, begging to break.
She convulses when the next orgasm hits, her pussy punching his tongue as she comes. He licks her slowly, tongue working with the same ruined rhythm he started with.
She sobs, body twitching and shuddering in his grip.
He slaps her ass once, like—shut the fuck up and stay there.
“Nah, you wanted my mouth, now you’re fuckin’ stuck with it,” he mutters into her, dragging her back until his mouth latches on, sucking slowly, tongue fucking deep, licking inside like he’s eating the grief.
Elle collapses forward, whole body limp and jolting with aftershocks.
She didn’t think she’d win this fast. She didn’t think he’d want her this much. She didn’t think he’d fall mouth-first into her pussy and eat her out ‘til the sun came up.
The next day, Elle sent the perfect little mindfuck: You’re sweet. Just don’t start catching feelings. That’s not what this is…
Dot-dot-dot—sweet poison. A way to confuse him, make him question himself: Did I say too much? Did I go too far? Did I fuck up? Wait—do I have feelings for her?
Most of all, she sent it because she needed to know if he was going to ghost her.
He never texted back, and his silence told her everything she needed to know.
If he felt nothing, he would’ve hit her with a cool and moved on.
She spent the next week knowing he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He was probably at work, reliving the night on the porch—the wet of her, the grip of her thighs, the sound she made after he groaned into her. He probably read the text on repeat, typing some smug shit, then deleting it. She imagined it happening—his thumb hovering, scared to say the wrong thing.
So she waited and let the silence do the talking, and every day that passed, she knew the image of her ass only burned deeper in his mind.
Elle didn’t double-text—she refused to seem desperate—but a week went by, and her phone stayed dry. So maybe he never got it.
She sent another: I wasn’t gonna ask, but… can you come sit with me? I don’t want anything. I just can’t be alone tonight.
Then again, a few hours later:
Forget it. You don’t need to come. I’ll be fine.
That night, he showed up. The recipe wasn’t hard to figure out: say she’s not okay, then say she’ll survive to make him feel guilty.
That’s how to summon Andrew Harding.
And for a couple weeks, it worked. She texted. He showed.
As long as she got him in front of her, he went down on her—every time. Out of all his big, bad Don’ts, he’d already broken one for her: he doesn’t double back. And if she could break one rule, that only told her the rest were breakable too.
By week three, she didn’t have to pretend anymore.
She texted:
You up?
You busy?
I’m horny. You at work?
And he started stopping by routinely, ate her like he gave a fuck, kissed her thighs, licked her as if it hurt to be apart from her. He hummed and groaned, tongue making love to her pussy.
Gradually, it became more than him stopping by to make her come. Sometimes he’d bring her food, ask her questions, stay longer after the orgasm hit. He still wouldn’t go inside her house, wouldn’t kiss her, but Elle was playing the long game and knew not to push it.
She posted a photo of the daybed once—his hand barely in the corner of the picture, his ring against a Coke bottle—and let the likes roll in.
Her friends started asking— “So uh… are you and Andrew Harding like… a thing?”
Elle only shrugged, smirking. “We don’t need labels. But yeah, he’s mine.”
Halfway through September, he finally fucked her.
It started like any other night—the creak of the porch steps, the scent of the Clover and his cologne sticking to his collarbone. He stepped in close, breath warm at the back of her head, then pressed her cheek-first to the porch beam.
He stayed dressed—jeans hanging open, zipper caught mid-drag, shirt damp and clinging from the rain earlier.
She’ll never forget the jingle of his belt buckle, the snap of the condom, the heat of his hand between her thighs lingering as if he’d been thinking about being inside her for weeks.
Then he lined himself up, cock thick and hot, thrusting in inch by inch.
Elle moaned, her head falling back as his hand curled around her hip, holding her.
She arched into him, looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes, hoping if she looked at him, he’d press closer… And for a second, he did. For a second, his chest melted against her back, his lips brushed across her cheek. His rhythm slowed, hand flexing at her waist as he pulled her into him.
But then he pulled back, eyes dropping down to watch his cock slide right into her, harder now.
She reached behind her as he thrust, fingers searching for the back of his neck, wanting to feel more than only his cock inside her, trying to hold on to something that wasn’t just bump and grind. She wanted to feel the sweat clinging to his hairline, the breath stuttering when he was close.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered, taking her hand in his, guiding it back to the wooden post. His other hand slid down to her pussy, the pad of his finger circling her clit. “Give it to me—lemme feel you drippin’ all over me, yeah?”
When the orgasm hit, she moaned, mouth open against the wood.
He fucked her through it, finger stroking her clit, pulling the orgasm out ‘til it cried. “That’s it… come for me, right on my cock,” he murmured, breath hot at her neck, lips close but never kissing.
“You got a reputation, Harding,” she told him afterward.
He rolled his head back, eyes on the ceiling. “Do I now.”
“Yeah. You go down, you don't take. Then you disappear. Nobody's got a bad thing to say. Even just now—you fucked me, but you didn't come. I know you didn't. What's that about?”
He leaned back, still a little breathless.
“My fuckin' point,” he muttered. “Sex gets done to girls, not for 'em. Half the time, they don't even get to finish. You did, now you actin' all surprised. Shit's backwards.”
“You think you're teachin' somethin'?”
He shook his head. "Not teachin'. Unteachin'.”
“So that's your thing, untouchable savior?”
He laughed under his breath, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“Nah. Just that it's fucked up that girls don't get safety like that.
With me, it don't cost 'em nothin'. They can breathe, be themselves, not hide, let go, and feel good without payin' for it later.” His eyes flicked to her.
“Lets be real. A woman's orgasms are either secondary, ignored, or transactional.”
“So why do you do it?”
He shrugged, gaze sliding into the dark.
“Half the girls walkin' up think it's all bullshit.
Or that there's some kinda catch. That's how rare it is.
The other half still think they're askin' for somethin' they gotta survive, like they're ashamed or self-conscious just spreadin' their legs to have their pussy worshipped.
But every single one of 'em walks out feelin' good, not used.
That's it. That's the win. You can see it when they walk away—the confidence they're carryin'.
Like they remember who the hell they are, what they got, and what they want. That glow don't fade.”
“Still didn't say what you get outta this.”
“Ain't about me.”
Later, she rewound it, replayed the night frame by frame. The first push inside her. The drag of his mouth across her cheek. His hands gripping her as she came. His breath against her neck. How he didn’t leave right away. Then she filed the footage in her head. She marked it: Evidence of Weakness.
She watched the movie of them over and over again.
And most of all, she broke another Harding rule.
// SEPT 29, ‘24, 10:53 PM - ELLE'S BACK PORCH - BLOOMFIELD, NJ //
Elle’s got them both laughing into the night, feet bare on the porch rail, toes painted, a bottle of Prosecco sweating between her thighs. The buzz hums just right in her blood. It makes her golden, not messy. Fun, not drunk—not yet.