Chapter 16 #2
“Get down here with me.” She catches my wrist and pulls me down, so I’m beside her, not above.
We’re face to face on the faded pink sheets, and I realize I’m still half-laughing, a little incredulous this is actually happening.
She’s so beautiful this close-up—freckles, mouth, the scar on her chin from a childhood fall. So present I almost can’t look at her.
But I do.
“Audrey,” I whisper, awe in my voice. She smiles at me, then kisses me again, softer now, sliding her hand down my side to the waistband of my jeans.
There’s nothing subtle in the way her fingers move, their heat, their intent.
It ghosts along my skin with a precision my own hands wouldn’t dare.
The zipper goes, then the button, and her palm drags across my hip as she eases the denim down just far enough. I can’t stop shivering.
“This OK?” she asks, her voice drowsy with want and concern braided together.
“Yes,” I say, and the word comes out almost a plea. “God, yes.”
She grins and shifts, straddling me, hips pinning mine to the mattress.
She’s so confident like this, so deliberate, like she engineered this exact scenario down to the last variable.
Maybe she did. She leans forward, her palms on either side of my head, and kisses me slow and filthy.
Then she sits up again, scanning my face for any hint of doubt. There isn’t any.
I don’t know how long we kiss. Time dissolves.
There is no clock, no sense of urgency. Only Audrey straddling me, her hands and mouth making bold, calculated advances.
I want her so much it hurts—all the hunger and fascination and reverence I’ve starved myself of for years now rising up and threatening to undo me.
She’s in her bra and jeans, our torsos pressed so close that the roughness of the fabric bites into my bare skin.
I push her hair from her eyes, and the movement’s so gentle I barely recognize my own hands.
She looks down at me, daring, and slides both palms up my chest before tracing them to her own waist. She arches above me, steady and slow, never looking away as she brings my hands to cover her breasts.
She’s warm and solid beneath my hands, the shape of her breasts a perfect fit even through the smooth stretch of pale pink, and for a moment I can’t move, can’t even breathe—I’m too conscious of all the places we’re touching.
Then I remember what happens next in these situations—in theory, in observed practice.
I’ve watched the instructional videos. I skim my thumbs upward, reverent.
She’s so soft. The fabric is smooth, but the heat underneath is electric, almost uncontainable.
When I start to fumble for the clasp, she laughs—a wild, delighted sound—and reaches behind herself, flicking it open with the kind of practiced ease I could never match.
She shrugs it off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, not breaking eye contact. Her nipples are flush pink, peaked and tight. I think I stop breathing for a full ten seconds.
“You’re allowed to touch,” she teases, and her hands cup mine, bringing them up again.
She places my palms around her bare breasts, and I almost combust right there.
Her skin is so warm and soft, the contrast between us so intense I need a second to calibrate.
The tip of one nipple brushes my thumb as she shifts, and the jolt it gives her is immediate and visible.
She bites her lip, but doesn’t look away, eyes locked on mine.
I can read all of her, every tiny response, and it’s the greatest privilege of my life.
I lean up and—gently, maybe clumsily—bring my mouth to her.
For a heartbeat she just breathes, watching me, and then her whole body shudders as I take her nipple between my lips.
The taste of her floods into my mouth: salt and skin, and the trace of something floral from her lotion.
I suck softly, a trial, and she gasps like I’ve just proven a difficult theorem and I want to see what every other experiment will yield.
I explore her, careful at first—she’s too important, too real, to be careless with—but when I sweep my tongue across the tight circle of her nipple, she gasps and sways into me.
The sound catches me off guard. I did that. I made her feel that.
It feels like a reward, so I do it again, a little bolder, and she lets her head tip back, her hair falling down her spine and her breath trembling in open, wordless approval. Every response is a revelation—proof that maybe, against all odds, I’m not as broken as I thought.
It’s not a sound I’ve ever wrung from another person, and it makes me ache to be the man who can.
She pushes against me, her hands in my hair and her chest pressed so close there’s nowhere to hide from the heat pumping between us.
I taste her, suck gently, then harder. She makes these tiny, helpless noises, and it becomes obvious why people get addicted to sex.
For a second, you are the entire universe to someone else.
Right now, I am the laws of physics and the relentless tide, and Audrey is the galaxy drifting closer to fall into my gravity well.
We grind against each other, slow at first, her hips rolling in long, languorous waves that leave me dizzy.
Her jeans are still on, but the friction is so immediate I can’t help the way my hips snap up, chasing the heat of her through the layers.
I dig my fingers into her waist, grounding myself, but it’s not enough—she kisses me so hard I taste blood, a tang of iron threaded into the wild sweetness of her mouth.
My cock aches and she must feel it because she pauses, gazing down at me with that dangerous, analytical affection. “You still doing OK?” she murmurs, rock steady.
“Yeah,” I manage, not trusting myself to say more.
“Can I take your jeans off now?”
“Yeah.”
She grins, then sits back on her knees and starts pulling my jeans down with both hands, wrestling them off my legs, and for a moment the sight is almost too much—a brilliant, beautiful woman, half-naked and fiercely focused on undressing me like she’s unwrapping a long-awaited gift.
She’s laughing when my socks catch on my ankle, her face open and unguarded, and it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
She frees my feet with a flourish and tosses my jeans aside, leaving me in nothing but black boxer briefs and uncontainable hunger.
She pauses then, perched above me, palms braced at my hips.
Her gaze flicks up and down my body—curious, hungry, a touch reverent.
Then she runs her fingertips along the waistband, slow and experimental, and the pressure threatens to detonate me.
I can’t look away, can’t even think about looking away.
Her hands splay against my ribs and she leans forward, hair falling to curtain her face above my stomach.
She slides her palms up, getting reacquainted with every inch.
I squirm a little, and she smiles—hungry, delighted.
But when she hooks her fingers into the waistband and starts to work them down, I catch her wrists.
I don’t know why. Reflex, maybe. Or the sudden, sharp fear that once she sees all of me—once there’s nothing left to hide behind—she’ll realize the truth.
That I’m not just inexperienced. That I’m fundamentally, irreparably bad at this.
At being human. At being someone who deserves to be touched like this.
The fear is irrational. I know it’s irrational. But knowing doesn’t make it stop.
“You need me to stop?”
“What? No. I just, uh—” My voice croaks and I clear it, embarrassed by the sound. “You’re going to have to, like… talk me through this. So I don’t suck. Or, you know, do something completely wrong.”
Audrey’s mouth curves at the edges, and the wickedness in her smile makes me dizzy. “Logan,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “The only person who’ll be doing any sucking in the next ten minutes is me. Your job is to just do exactly what you’re doing.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.
My heart is pounding, my brain is spinning, and every nerve ending is tuned to her like a sensor in feedback overload.
She holds my gaze, eyes sparking with mischief and intent, and I let go of her wrists, unsure if I can trust my hands not to shake.
She doesn’t rush. She peels my underwear down slowly, watching every inch of skin revealed like she’s making mental notes for later analysis.
My cock springs out, already painfully hard, and for a split second I want to apologize for how eager I am—like I’ve broken some unwritten protocol of restraint and academic decorum.
But the look on her face isn’t surprise or judgment or anything but pure, delighted hunger.
She slides her hands up my thighs, nails scraping lightly, and then bends forward and gently kisses the tip.
My whole body jolts. Another kiss, this time another linger, then finally her lips part, and the heat and slide of her tongue is a force I have never encountered, never even modeled for.
I am nothing but sensation, nothing but the wild, impossible pleasure of her mouth and her hands and the impossible, perfect devotion in her eyes.
Her lips are soft, her tongue clever, and every time I think I can’t possibly feel more, she changes something—pressure, angle, speed—like she’s iterating for the local maximum, optimizing for my undoing.
I am unraveling, string by string, and the only thing keeping me from coming apart completely is the urgent need to watch her, to memorize this. To never, ever forget.
She takes me all the way in, pauses, and then hums. Low, satisfied.
I let out a sound that would mortify me if I had a single neuron left for shame.
I don’t. There’s only the tectonic pressure building in my spine, pulsing through every limb, gathering, unstoppable.
I grip the sheets, fighting it, desperate to make this last, but she’s relentless—perfect scientist, perfect predator, determined to document every data point of my undoing.
“Audrey—I can’t—”
Her only response is to hum and suck me in harder.
I lose it. It’s not graceful or contained.
I arch off the mattress, stifling a shout by digging my knuckles into my mouth, every muscle in my body locking tight as fireworks rip through me.
She holds steady, swallowing every spasm, her hands gentle where they cradle my hips, grounding me.
I’ve never come so hard in my life. I might never come again. She gives me a last, slow lick, then rests her cheek just above my hip bone, looking up at me with an expression halfway between smug pride and tenderness.
“You alive?” she asks, voice rough.
I nod, but it’s a minute before I can find words.
Somewhere in the wreckage of my nervous system, a thought surfaces, I didn’t ruin it. The voice that’s been telling me I’d fail at this, that I’m too defective for intimacy, that she’d find me inadequate and run—it’s quiet now. Not gone. But quiet.
My chest heaves. I’m floating. My legs don’t work right, my hands are trembling, and there’s an aftershock in every nerve that makes it almost impossible to sit up.
But some instinct—desire, maybe fusion-powered curiosity—makes me reach for her.
I want to kiss her, but more than that I want to repay, to worship, to make her feel even a fraction of what she just gave me.
She flops down next to me half laughing, half panting.
“Good?”
I can only nod, still reeling, grinning like someone who just mainlined pure dopamine.
I roll onto my side, trying to string my thoughts back into something resembling language.
Her face is so close, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded—the smugness in her smile cut with something nervous and naked, like she can’t quite believe it either.
“Holy shit,” I manage. “That was—” I break off and laugh, because none of the words I know are big enough for it. “You’re ridiculously good at that.”
She throws an arm over her eyes, half hiding, and laughs too. “Thank you, Dr. Whitman. I aim to delight and destroy.”
I turn to face her, propped up on one elbow, resisting the urge to grab her and never let go. “I want to—” I stop, embarrassingly uncertain. “I want to make you feel that good. But I don’t… I mean, I need you to show me how. Teach me?”
She turns her head, studying me for a long, tender moment, then slides her palm up my chest.
“Yeah,” she says. “I can do that.”