2
"Of course he hasn't." She makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-groan. "I could go sit in his room and take care of myself while I wait, I guess. But that's so depressing."
"Sounds like a plan B."
"It's a plan Z. It's the worst plan." She chews her lower lip, and I watch her eyes track across me — not quick, not subtle, the kind of slow, deliberate scan that starts at my shoulders and ends somewhere around my belt.
"We don't really know how long he's going to be. He could be another hour. He hasn't even left wherever he is. If he had, he would've texted one of us."
She's quiet for a beat. One beat. Two.
"Do you have any interest in doing that to me?"
The question lands in the room like she dropped a glass.
Not because it's shocking — everything about the last ten minutes has been steering toward this moment — but because she asks it the way you'd ask someone if they want to split an appetizer.
Direct. Unbothered. Already past the part where this is supposed to be awkward.
"I came over here to get filled up," she says. "And honestly, it doesn't really matter who does it."
"You and Ben aren't together."
"We're not together. We're not exclusive. We're not anything." She tilts her head, and her hair slides across her shoulder in a dark curtain. "I don't particularly care who puts a baby in me, Jude. I just care that someone does."
I think about four hundred and thirty-seven dollars.
I think about Vanessa, who sent a heart emoji in that group chat.
I think about the fact that Ben is somewhere right now being vague and unreliable while his friends-with-benefits sits on our couch, wet in a sundress, offering me something he doesn't deserve.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm interested."
She smiles, and the smile doesn't reach her eyes in the normal way.
It reaches them in a different way, something brighter and more focused, something that looks less like happiness and more like acquisition.
She unfolds herself from the couch and drops to the floor between my knees in one fluid motion, her hands already on my thighs before her knees hit carpet.
Nikki kneels between my legs and looks up at me with the composure of someone who has done this before and expects to enjoy doing it again.
Her dark hair falls forward, framing her face, and her hands move to my belt with a confidence that doesn't ask permission because permission has already been given.
This close, I can smell her — that warm, sweet perfume she always wears, but underneath it something sharper now, something heated and animal that the perfume was never meant to cover.
"I'm actually excited to see what you're working with," she says, unthreading the belt and popping the button of my jeans. "I've been curious. You walk around this apartment in gym shorts and I've definitely looked."
"You've been scoping me out through my gym shorts."
"Don't act surprised. I have eyes and you have a dick, and I've been in this apartment enough times to connect those two facts." She pulls the zipper down and tugs at the waistband of my boxers, and I lift my hips to let her work them down. "There he is."
She wraps her hand around me, and her grip is warm and firm and immediately correct, the right pressure in the right place, her thumb dragging along the underside as she strokes me to full hardness.
It doesn't take long. She's been making sure of that for the past twenty minutes.
Her palm is soft against the shaft and her fingers tighten at the top of each stroke, a twist at the head that sends heat radiating up through my stomach and into the base of my spine.
"God, I love it already." She says this to my cock, not to me, like she's having a private conversation with it that I happen to be attached to.
"I can tell this is going to feel incredible inside me. Thick. I was hoping you'd be thick."
She leans closer, her breath warm against the head, and her lips brush the tip in a touch so light it almost isn't contact. "I bet it tastes as good as it looks."
She doesn't wait for a response. Her mouth opens and she takes me in, and the heat of it pulls a sound out of my chest that I didn't plan on making.
She goes slow at first, just the first few inches, her tongue flat against the underside as she works me deeper.
Her lips stretch around the shaft and she hums — an actual hum, vibration and intention, the sound of someone tasting something they like and wanting me to know it.
The vibration travels through the head and down the shaft and settles somewhere at the base of my spine, a low, buzzing pleasure that makes my fingers curl against the couch cushion.
Her hand stays wrapped around the base, stroking in rhythm with her mouth, and she builds a pace that's steady without being mechanical.
She pulls back until just the head sits between her lips, tongues the slit with the pointed tip of her tongue, then sinks down again, deeper each time, her jaw loosening to take more of me.
Her cheeks hollow on the upstroke and her eyes flick up to mine, and the look on her face is obscene in the most literal sense — dark eyes half-lidded, lips slick and stretched, a satisfaction in her expression that goes beyond performance into something genuinely greedy.
"You taste good," she murmurs, pulling off just enough to speak, her lips still brushing the head.
"Clean. Warm." She licks a slow stripe up the underside from base to tip and I feel every millimeter of it, the flat of her tongue dragging over the vein that runs the length of the shaft. "Ben snoozes, Ben loses."
She goes back down, and this time the angle sends me deeper toward the back of her throat.
She gags once, lightly, a reflexive clench that tightens everything around me for one perfect second, and then adjusts, breathing through her nose, and takes me further.
Her eyes water and she doesn't flinch, just holds me there, swallowing around the shaft in a way that massages the head with the muscles of her throat.
The sensation is dense and rhythmic and almost too much, pressure from every direction at once, and I hear myself groan — a sound I don't make on purpose, pulled out of me by the relentless wet compression of her throat working around me.
She pulls off with a wet sound and strokes me while she catches her breath, her hand slick from her own mouth. A thread of saliva connects her lower lip to the head of my cock and she doesn't wipe it away.
"You can push me down on it. I'm serious. You can fuck my mouth however you want. You're the one doing me a favor here — the least I can do is let you use my throat."
I thread my fingers through her hair — it's thick, warm, tangled in the way she designed it to be, and it smells like coconut and something darker underneath, something that's just her skin — and I tighten my grip and push her down.
She moans when I do it, a sound that resonates through my cock and into the base of my spine, and she goes limp in a way that surrenders the depth and speed entirely to me.
I hold her there, my hand fisted in her hair, her throat working around me, and the feeling is wet and tight and relentless, her tongue moving even when the rest of her holds still.
I can feel the vibration of her breathing against the shaft, the flutter of her throat each time she swallows, the soft scrape of her teeth on the backstroke that she immediately corrects with her lips.
"That's it," I tell her, and my voice comes out rougher than I expect. "Take it all."
She hums around me in response, and the vibration travels through the shaft and pools in my pelvis, a dense, buzzing heat that makes my grip tighten in her hair.
I push her deeper and she takes it, her nose brushing the skin below my navel, her throat constricting in a series of rapid swallows that feel like a fist closing and opening around the head.
I pull her up by her hair and she gasps, saliva strung between her lip and the head of my cock, and she's grinning again, that sharp-edged thing that looks more feral than friendly.
Her chin is wet. Her eyes are glassy with tears she forced out of herself by taking me too deep, and her mascara is starting to smudge at the corners.
"Holy shit," she says, stroking me slow, twisting at the head. "I am a huge fan." She shifts her grip and holds my cock against the side of her face, her cheek pressed against the shaft, and reaches for her phone with her free hand. "Can I get a souvenir?"
"A souvenir."
"From the night you put a baby in me. Come on. It'll be cute."
She flips the camera and holds my cock against her face, her cheek bulging slightly from the pressure, and takes the picture.
The shutter sound is obscenely casual. She repositions, pressing her lips against the side of the shaft this time, her tongue out, her eyes locked on the camera with an expression that belongs on a mug shot or a dating profile, and takes another.
"Let me see." She swipes through the photos and turns the screen toward me. I see Nikki from a phone's distance, dark-eyed and grinning, my cock flush against her cheekbone. She looks unhinged. She looks like the best bad decision I've ever made.
"You're out of your mind," I tell her.
"Absolutely." She says it like a compliment she's giving herself. She sets her phone down and picks up mine from the couch cushion.
"What are you doing?"
"Sending Ben a message." Her thumbs move across the screen, and she reads aloud as she types.
"If you don't hurry up, someone else is going to get to my womb first."
She pauses, considers, adds something, and hits send.
Then she turns the phone to show me: she's attached one of the photos. The one with her tongue out.
"He's going to lose his mind," I say.
"He should've been here." She puts my phone down and lowers herself between my legs again, and the look she gives me from the floor is pure intention, no play left in it.
"Don't worry. He's not going to barrel through the door and tackle you off me. I honestly don't think he'll even get here before you make me your little cum dump."