The refrigerator kicked on with a shudder that ran through the floorboards, and Jake felt it in his heels before he heard it — that low electric hum that had been the background of every summer of his life. The kitchen smelled like cold fried chicken and the ghost of last night's grease, and the window over the sink showed nothing but the long empty drive and the fields going gold in the late light.
Chloe was at the counter with her back to him, one arm up in the cabinet, reaching. Her tank top rode up over her ribs when she stretched, and the thin white cotton pulled tight across her back, and when she came down with the glass her whole body moved in a way he wasn't used to yet.
She turned the tap on. The pipes knocked once. Water ran.
He was staring. He knew he was staring. He'd known it for maybe four full seconds before he could make himself look at anything else, and by then it was too late, because she'd already caught it — he could tell by the way her shoulders went still, the way she didn't fill the glass all the way, the way the corner of her mouth did that thing.
She set the glass on the counter. Didn't drink from it. Turned around slow, like she had all the time in the world, and leaned back against the counter with both hands flat on the edge of it, and let him look.
The tank top was old and washed thin and it didn't hide anything. The shape of her nipples pressed through the cotton like they'd been drawn there. The cotton strained across her chest in a way that made the seams look like they were losing a fight.
"You gonna say something," she said, "or just stand there with your mouth open?"
"I wasn't—" His voice came out wrong. He tried again. "I was looking at the—"
"The what."
"The fridge."
She laughed — that low throaty one, the one that came up from somewhere under her ribs and made the hair on his arms stand up. She pushed off the counter and came toward him, and the linoleum creaked under her bare feet, and she didn't stop until she was close enough that he could smell the soap on her skin and the faint sweet sweat underneath it from the heat.
She took his wrist. Just took it, like it was hers, and lifted his hand, and pressed his palm flat against the front of her shirt.
His hand filled with her. Warm through the cotton, heavy, soft in a way that had nothing to do with soft. He felt the hard point of her nipple against the meat of his palm and his fingers curled on their own and she let out a breath through her nose that he felt more than heard.
"I outgrew my bras," she said. Plain. Like she was telling him about the weather. "Went from a late B to an early D in about six weeks. Mom hasn't taken me shopping yet." She watched his face the whole time she said it. "So this is what I've got."
He couldn't get a word out. He could feel his own pulse in his hand, against her, and lower than that — a pull, a tightening, a heat that had nowhere to go. His jeans had gone tight in the front and there was no hiding it, not at this distance, not with her standing this close and looking down.
She looked down.
He watched her watch it. Her eyes went to the front of his jeans and stayed there, and something crossed her face that he couldn't name — not surprise, exactly. More like confirmation. Like she'd been waiting to see if it was true.
"Huh," she said.
He tried to step back. His heel caught the leg of the chair and he stumbled and she caught his hip with one hand and held him there, and then she was going down — not falling, going, deliberate, like she'd already decided and was just doing it now — her knees hitting the worn linoleum with a sound that made him flinch.
She looked up at him from the floor. Blue eyes, freckles across her cheeks, the ponytail falling forward over one shoulder. She didn't say anything. She just reached for his belt.
"Chloe—"
"Shh."
Her fingers worked the buckle like she'd done it a hundred times. Maybe she had. He didn't want to think about that. The leather slid, the button popped, the zipper went down, and her knuckles brushed the front of his boxers on the way and his whole body jerked like she'd touched him with a live wire.
She hooked her fingers in the waistband and pulled everything down at once, and his cock came out into the open air of the kitchen, hard and red and already shining at the tip, and he heard her make a small sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a gasp, something in between.
"Oh," she said. "Okay."
She wrapped her hand around him. Her palm was cool from the water glass and the shock of it made his hips twitch forward, and she tightened her grip and held him still.
"You're bigger than I thought you'd be," she said, and the plainness of it — the way she said it like she was reading a label — was somehow worse than anything filthy she could have said. His face went hot. His ears went hot. Somewhere out in the yard a cicada started up and he hated it.
"I don't—" he started.
"You don't what."
"I don't know what to—"
"You don't have to do anything." She stroked him once, root to tip, slow, watching her own hand do it. "Just stand there."
She leaned in and licked the head of him. One flat stroke of her tongue, from the underside up over the slit, and his knees nearly went. He grabbed the edge of the counter behind him and held on.
She did it again. Slower. Her tongue found the ridge underneath and traced it, and her breath was hot and wet against him, and then she opened her mouth and took him in.
Wet heat. Tight. Her lips sealed around the head and her tongue pressed up against the underside and she sucked — a real suck, pulling, her cheeks hollowing — and a sound came out of him that he'd never made before in his life.
She pulled off with a wet pop. "There you go," she said, and went back down.
She took him deeper this time. Half, then more, and he felt the head of his cock bump something at the back of her mouth and she made a choked sound and kept going anyway, her eyes watering, her jaw working. Her hand stayed wrapped around the base of him, pumping in time with her mouth, and her other hand came up and gripped the back of his thigh, fingers digging in.
The refrigerator hummed. The tap dripped. Somewhere down the hall a clock ticked, and he counted four of them before he lost the thread.
She pulled back, gasping, a string of spit stretching between her lips and the head of his cock and breaking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and looked up at him.
"You're shaking," she said.
"I'm not."
"You are." She smiled — that wicked one, the one that meant she knew something he didn't. "It's okay. I want you to."
She took him again, and this time she didn't stop at half. She pushed down until he felt himself hit the back of her throat and her throat closed around him and she gagged — a hard, convulsive squeeze that he felt all the way up his spine — and her eyes flooded and she didn't pull back.
She stayed there.
Her nose pressed flat into his belly. Her throat worked around him, fluttering, fighting him, and she held it, both hands locked on his hips now, holding herself in place, tears running down her cheeks and spit running down her chin and her eyes rolled up to his face to watch him fall apart.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The whole world had gone down to the wet clench of her throat and the wet sound of her breathing through her nose and the way his own hips had started to move without asking him — small, helpless thrusts, fucking into her throat an inch at a time, and she let him, she let him, her fingers tightening on his hips like she was telling him go.
"Chloe," he said. It came out wrecked.
She hummed around him. The vibration went through his whole body and his balls drew up tight and he knew, he knew he was close, and he didn't know what to do about it, didn't know if he should pull back or warn her or —
Her throat closed around him again and held, and the question went out of his head entirely.
His hands had nowhere to go. They hovered at his sides, curled and uncurled, and then one of them found the counter behind him and the other found nothing at all — just hung there in the air over her head like it was waiting for permission it didn't know how to ask for.
She saw it. Even with her mouth full and her eyes streaming, she saw it, and she took her right hand off his hip and reached up and caught his wrist and pulled it down to the back of her head. Fitted his palm to the curve of her skull. Pressed his fingers into her hair, into the damp roots where the ponytail pulled tight, and then let go and put her hand back on his hip and left his hand there with the whole weight of the question in it.
He didn't move it. For a second he didn't move anything, didn't breathe, and the refrigerator hummed and the tap dripped and her throat worked around him in slow waves, swallowing him down and letting him back up and swallowing him down again.
Then his fingers closed in her hair. Just a little. Just enough to feel it, the silk of it and the heat underneath, and she made a sound low in her chest that traveled up the length of him and he felt it in his teeth.
The window over the sink was a square of flat white light. The drive was empty. The fields went on past the fence line, gold and still, and nothing moved out there but the heat coming up off the dirt. Nobody was due back before Sunday. The thought came and went and he didn't hold onto it, because holding onto it meant thinking about what it meant, and he couldn't afford to think about anything right now.
His hips moved again. Small. Careful. He pulled back an inch and pushed back in and her throat took him the same way it had before — that convulsive grip, that flutter — and this time he didn't stop. He did it again. And again. The wet sound of it filled the kitchen, filled his ears, and under it the drone of the cicadas out in the yard and the tick of the clock down the hall and the drip of the tap that he'd stopped hearing an hour ago and was hearing again now.
Spit ran down her chin and onto her shirt. A dark wet line down the white cotton, down between her breasts, and he watched it go and something in his chest turned over hard.
He looked down at her. Freckles. Blue eyes blown wide and wet. Her lips stretched around him and her jaw working and her throat moving under the skin of her neck, and she was watching him the whole time, watching his face, watching him come apart, and she didn't look away once.
"Chloe," he said again. It was the only word he had left. He didn't know if it was a warning or a question or a prayer and it didn't matter because she wasn't going to answer it anyway.
Her fingers dug into his hips. Not holding him still this time. Pulling. Pulling him in, deeper, and he went, and she took it, and her throat closed around the base of him and held and held and held.
His hand tightened in her hair. His other hand found the edge of the counter and gripped it white-knuckled and the linoleum was cold under her knees and the whole kitchen smelled like chicken and grease and her and he couldn't have told anyone his own name if they'd asked him for it.
The pressure built in him like something physical, like a fist closing somewhere below his stomach, and he felt the first pulse of it — that deep, rolling surge that started in his balls and climbed his spine like fire up a fuse. His hips stuttered. His grip on her hair went tight enough that he felt her skull shift under his fingers, and she made a sound — not a protest, not a plea, something hungrier than either — and her throat worked around him in a long, slow swallow that pulled him deeper than he'd been all night.
"Chloe," he gasped. "Chloe, I'm gonna—"
She didn't pull off. She didn't even blink. Her blue eyes stayed locked on his face, wet and wide, and her hands came up and gripped his hips and pulled him in harder, faster, and the sound she made was a hum that vibrated through his whole body and he couldn't hold it anymore.
He came with a sound he'd never heard himself make — a broken, desperate grunt that turned into her name halfway out of his mouth — and his hips locked and his hand fisted in her hair and he emptied himself down her throat in long, pulsing waves. Hot. Thick. More than he'd ever had in him, more than he'd known a body could hold, and she took every drop of it. Her throat worked around him, swallowing, swallowing, swallowing, and he felt each one — the convulsive clench of her swallowing him down, the flutter of her throat around the base of him, the way her fingers dug into his hips and held him there while he came and came and came.
It went on longer than it should have. Longer than he'd have thought possible, the first time, and he felt the shame of it and the glory of it tangled up in the same breath. She didn't pull away. She stayed there, nose pressed into his belly, throat working, taking everything he had until the last pulse faded and he went soft in her mouth.
She pulled off with a wet sound and sat back on her heels, and he saw it — cum on her lips, a strand of it connecting her bottom lip to the head of his cock, her chin slick with spit and the overflow of it, her cheeks flushed and her eyes streaming and her hair coming loose from the ponytail in damp strands.
She swallowed. He watched her throat move. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and looked up at him, and she smiled — that wicked, knowing smile — and she said, "There you go."
He couldn't answer. He was still gripping the counter, still shaking, his jeans around his thighs and his cock softening and wet and his whole body humming like a struck wire. The kitchen smelled like chicken and grease and her and the new smell of it, the salt and musk of himself on her breath, and he couldn't have moved if the house had caught fire.
She stood up. Her knees cracked. She didn't seem to notice. She reached past him and picked up the glass of water she'd poured and never drunk, and she took a long sip, and then she set it down and looked at him with those blue eyes, and she said, "You've never done that before."
It wasn't a question.
"No," he said. His voice came out wrecked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "No. I haven't done— any of it."
"I know." She said it soft, like she was telling him something kind. "I could tell." She reached out and touched his face — just her fingertips on his jaw, light as a breath — and she said, "You did good. Real good."
His face went hot. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, and nothing came out, and she laughed — that low throaty laugh — and took her hand back and said, "You're gonna need to sit down."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She pointed at the chair behind him, the one he'd stumbled over earlier. "Sit."
He sat. His legs gave out halfway down and he landed harder than he meant to, and she laughed again, softer this time, and she came and stood in front of him. She was close enough that his knees brushed the backs of her thighs, and he could smell her — soap and sweat and the faint salt of her skin — and he could see the dark wet line down the front of her tank top where her spit and his cum had soaked through the thin white cotton.
She followed his eyes. She looked down at the wet stain and then back at him, and she hooked her fingers in the hem of the tank top and pulled it up and over her head in one motion, and dropped it on the floor.
His breath left him.
She wasn't wearing a bra. Of course she wasn't — she'd told him she'd outgrown them, that her mom hadn't taken her shopping yet — but knowing it and seeing it were different things, and seeing it was everything. Her breasts were heavy and full, pale and freckled across the tops, the nipples a soft rose pink and already hard, and they moved when she breathed, and he couldn't look away.
"You like them?" she asked. She said it plain, not teasing, like she genuinely wanted to know.
He couldn't get words out. He nodded.
She smiled, and she took his hands — just took them, like she'd done all night, like they were hers — and she lifted them and pressed his palms against her chest.
His hands filled with her. Warm and heavy and soft in a way that made his head swim, and he felt her nipple against the meat of his palm, and his thumbs moved on their own, tracing the underside of her, and she let out a breath through her nose that was almost a sigh.
"They're sensitive," she said. "Been that way since they started coming in." She watched his hands move over her, watched him learn the shape of her, and she said, "Go on. Touch 'em like you mean it."
He didn't need to be told twice. His hands closed around her, kneading, learning the weight of her, and she was soft in a way nothing else in his life was soft — softer than the hay in the loft, softer than the old quilt on his bed — and she made a small sound when he thumbed her nipple and her head fell back and her hair brushed her shoulders.
"That's good," she breathed. "Yeah. Just like that."
He leaned in without thinking and took her nipple in his mouth, and she gasped — a real gasp, sharp and surprised — and her hand came up and cradled the back of his head, not pushing, just holding, and he sucked her the way she'd sucked him, and she made a sound low in her chest that he felt against his lips.
"Jesus," she whispered. "Where'd you learn that?"
He pulled off, just enough to answer. "Nowhere. Just—"
"Just what."
"Just figured you'd like it the same way I did."
She laughed — that throaty one — and she pushed him back in the chair and she stepped out of her shorts. They were cutoff jeans, old and frayed, and they came off easy, and underneath she was wearing nothing, and he saw the dark blond triangle of hair between her legs and the slick shine of her thighs and he couldn't breathe.
"Stand up," she said.
He stood. His jeans were still around his thighs, and she hooked her fingers in them and pushed them down, boxers and all, and his cock was already hard again — he hadn't thought that was possible, not after what just happened, but it was, it was straining up against his belly like it had never spent a drop in its life.
She looked at it. "Well," she said. "Ain't that something."
She turned around and sat on the edge of the kitchen table — the big oak one with the scars where his stepdad had cut bread for a decade — and she spread her legs and she looked at him and she said, "Come here."
He went. He couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried. He stood between her legs and she reached down and wrapped her hand around him and stroked him once, slow, and she said, "I want you inside me."
His whole body locked. "I don't— I don't know how—"
"I'll show you." She guided him forward, and he felt the head of his cock press against her — wet, so wet, slick and hot — and she looked up at him and said, "Slow. Go slow."
He pushed. Just a little. Just the head, and she was tight, so tight, and she made a sound through her teeth and her hand came down and gripped his hip and she said, "Keep going."
He pushed deeper. The heat of her closed around him, gripped him, pulled him in, and he felt every inch of it — the slick clench of her around him, the way she opened for him, the wet sound of it — and he heard himself make a sound he didn't recognize.
"That's it," she breathed. "That's it. All the way."
He bottomed out. He was all the way inside her, her hips against his, and he couldn't move, couldn't think, could only feel her — the impossible heat of her, the way she gripped him, the way she was looking at him with those blue eyes gone dark and wide.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Now move."
He moved. It wasn't a thought — it was his hips answering her command before his brain caught up, and the first stroke was clumsy and too shallow, and she made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a moan, somewhere in between.
"Easy," she said. Her hand found his hip, fingers pressing into the bone. "Like this. Pull out slow, then push back in. Feel it."
He pulled out slow. The drag of it — her heat releasing him inch by inch, the slick grip of her clinging to him, not wanting to let go — made his knees want to buckle, and then she pulled him back in with her hand on his hip, and he felt every inch of the way in, the way she opened for him, the way she took him all the way to the root, and he made a sound that was almost a sob.
"That's it," she breathed. "That's it. You're doing it."
He found a rhythm. It wasn't much of one — too fast on the push, too slow on the pull, stuttering like a boy learning to drive a stick shift — but it was a rhythm, and she let him have it, her hand riding his hip, her legs wrapped loose around the backs of his thighs, her head tipped back so he could see the long pale line of her throat and the way her breasts moved with every thrust.
"Look at me," she said.
He looked. Her eyes were dark and wide, and she was watching him the way she'd watched him the whole night — like he was something she'd found and wasn't sure she was going to keep, like she was deciding.
"You feel good," she said. It wasn't a question. She said it like she was discovering it, like she hadn't expected it to be true. "You feel real good inside me."
His face went hot. He tried to say something, anything, and what came out was, "You too. I mean— you feel— I can't—"
She laughed, and the laugh turned into a gasp when he pushed deeper, and her hand came up and gripped the back of his neck and pulled him down until his forehead touched hers.
"Don't talk," she said. "Just feel it. Feel how wet I am for you."
He felt it. He felt everything — the slick heat of her, the way she gripped him when he pushed in, the way she released him when he pulled back, the wet sound of it that filled the kitchen, the smell of her, the taste of her breath, the way her thumb was drawing slow circles on the back of his neck.
He was close. He could feel it building again, that deep rolling surge, and he tried to hold it back, tried to slow down, and she felt him hesitate and opened her eyes and looked at him.
"Don't you dare," she said. "Don't you dare stop."
"I'm gonna—"
"I know." She pulled him in harder, her legs tightening around him, her heels digging into his ass. "Come inside me. I want it. I want you to fill me up."
He couldn't have stopped if the house had caught fire. He drove into her — hard, deep, all the way to the root — and he came with a sound that was her name torn out of his throat, and he felt it, felt himself emptying into her in long hot pulses, felt her clench around him and pull him deeper, felt her whole body tighten and then go loose under him.
"Oh," she said. Soft. Surprised. "Oh, that's—"
She came on him. He felt it happen — the convulsive clench of her around his cock, the way she gripped him and held him there, the shudder that ran through her whole body and made her cry out, a sound he'd never heard a person make before, high and broken and beautiful.
He stayed inside her until the last pulse faded, until he went soft and slipped out of her with a wet sound, and he saw it — his cum leaking out of her, white and thick, running down the inside of her thigh — and he couldn't look away.
She looked down at it too. She watched it run down her leg and pool on the scarred oak of the table, and she reached down and touched it with two fingers and brought them to her mouth and tasted it, and she looked at him and said, "Well. That's a lot."
He couldn't answer. He was still shaking, still standing between her legs with his softening cock wet and his whole body humming, and she slid off the table and stood up and her legs nearly went out from under her, and she laughed and caught herself on the table edge.
"You broke my legs," she said. "That's a first."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. She laughed again and stepped into him and put her arms around his neck, and he felt the wet heat of her against his belly, felt his own cum slick between them, and she pressed her forehead to his and said, "That was good. That was real good."
"Yeah?" His voice cracked on the word.
"Yeah." She pulled back and looked at him, and there was something in her eyes he hadn't seen before — something soft, something almost shy. "You wanna go again?"
"Again?" he echoed. The word came out small and lost, like he didn't recognize it in his own mouth.
She laughed, soft and low, and stepped back from him. The kitchen light caught the wet shine on her thighs, the streak of him still running down her leg, and she didn't wipe it away. She just stood there in the middle of the floor, naked and glowing, and looked at him like he was the one who'd surprised her.
"Yeah," she said. "Again. Unless you're done."
His cock twitched against his belly. Already stirring again, already answering her before his brain could catch up, and he saw her eyes drop to it and the corner of her mouth curl.
"Ain't done," he said. His voice cracked on the second word and she grinned.
"Good." She turned and walked to the table, and he watched the way her ass moved, the pale curve of it catching the light, the dark blond hair between her legs still slick and mussed. She stopped at the head of the table and looked back at him over her shoulder. "Come here. I wanna ride you this time."
He went. His legs were still shaky but they carried him, and she reached out and took his hand when he got close and pulled him down onto the chair. He sat hard, the worn wood creaking under him, and she climbed into his lap before he could ask what she meant.
She straddled him, knees on either side of his thighs, and the heat of her settled against his belly, wet and slick and still open from before. She wrapped her hand around his cock and he jerked — the touch electric, too much and not enough — and she stroked him once, slow, watching his face.
"You ready?" she asked.
He couldn't speak. He nodded.
She lifted herself up and guided him to her, and he felt the head of his cock press against her — wet, so wet, still slick from the load he'd put in her — and she sank down onto him in one slow, endless motion.
The heat of her swallowed him. The grip of her, the way she opened for him, the way she took him all the way to the root and then sat there, full of him, her hips flush against his — he made a sound he couldn't name and his hands found her hips and held on.
"God," she breathed. "You feel even better from this side."
She started to move. Slow at first, a rock, a roll, her hips finding a rhythm that made his head fall back against the chair. She rode him with her hands on his shoulders, her breasts swaying in front of his face, and he watched them move and wanted his mouth on them and couldn't quite reach.
She saw him try. She laughed — that throaty one — and leaned forward and offered one to him, and he took it, took the nipple in his mouth and sucked, and she gasped and her hips ground down harder.
"Yeah," she said. "Just like that. Suck on me while I ride you."
He did. He sucked her and licked her and she rode him faster, her thighs working, the wet sound of it filling the kitchen, and he felt the pressure building again — that deep, rolling surge that he'd thought would take hours to come back and was already climbing his spine.
She felt it too. She felt him thicken inside her, felt the way his hips started to buck up into her, and she slowed down and looked at him with those blue eyes gone dark.
"Not yet," she said. "Hold it. I wanna feel you come inside me again."
"I can't—"
"You can." She took his face in her hands and made him look at her. "Look at me. Look at my face while you do it."
He looked. She was so close, her breath on his mouth, her eyes holding his, and she started to move again — slow, grinding, taking him deep and holding him there — and he couldn't look away, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel her.
"That's it," she whispered. "That's it. Come inside me."
He came with her name torn out of him, his hips driving up into her, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and he felt himself empty into her in long, pulsing waves — more, still more, more than he'd ever known a body could hold — and she took all of it, her cunt clenching around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.
She came on him again. He felt it — the convulsive grip of her, the shudder that ran through her whole body, the way she cried out and buried her face in his neck and bit down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
They stayed like that, tangled together, both of them shaking, until the last pulse faded and he slipped out of her with a wet sound and his cum ran down his own thighs.
She pulled back and looked at him. Her hair had come all the way loose now, falling in damp strands around her face, and her cheeks were flushed and her lips were swollen and she was looking at him like she'd never seen him before.
"Okay," she said. "Now I really need to sit down."
She slid off his lap and her legs buckled and she caught herself on the table, laughing, and he stood up and caught her before she could fall.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." She leaned into him, her forehead against his chest, and he felt her breath hot on his skin. "Just give me a second."
He held her. His hands were shaking and he didn't know what to do with them, so he just let them rest on her back, feeling her heartbeat against his ribs.
She looked up at him. "You wanna go again?"
"Chloe." His voice came out wrecked. "I don't think I can—"
"You can." She smiled — that wicked one — and she reached down and wrapped her hand around him and he was already hard again, already straining against her palm, and she laughed. "See? Told you."
She turned around and bent over the table, her hands flat on the scarred oak, and she looked back at him over her shoulder and said, "From behind this time."
He stepped up behind her. He couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried. He wrapped one hand around his cock and guided it to her and pushed in, and she was so wet, so slick with the two loads he'd already put in her, that he slid all the way in with one smooth thrust and she moaned — a real moan, low and broken — and her head dropped forward.
"God," she breathed. "Yeah. Just like that."
He fucked her. He found a rhythm fast this time, his hands on her hips, pulling her back to meet him, and the sound of it — the wet slap of skin on skin, the way she gasped every time he bottomed out — filled the kitchen and drowned out the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the clock and everything else in the world.
"Harder," she said. "You can go harder."
He did. He drove into her, harder than he'd dared before, and she cried out and pushed back against him, meeting him stroke for stroke, and he felt it building again — that impossible surge, that endless load that he'd thought was spent and wasn't, wasn't even close.
"Chloe," he gasped. "Chloe, I'm gonna—"
"Do it," she said. "Come in me. Fill me up again."
He came with a sound that was almost a sob, his hips locked against her, and he felt himself empty into her again — another flood, another impossible load — and she clenched around him and came with him, her whole body shuddering, her hands gripping the edge of the table.
He pulled out and his cum ran down her thighs, white and thick, and she straightened up and turned around and looked at him, and her eyes were shining.
"You got more in you?" she asked.
"Chloe—"
"I'm serious." She reached down and took his hand and led him to the middle of the kitchen floor. "I want you to come on me this time. All over me."
He looked at her. Naked, flushed, his cum running down her thighs, her breasts moving with every breath, and she was looking at him like she wanted to be covered in him.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." She knelt down in front of him, slow, deliberate, and took his cock in her hand and stroked him — once, twice, three times, watching his face — and he was already hard again, already straining, already close.
"Come on," she said. "Cover me."
She leaned forward and took him in her mouth, just the head, just enough to wet him, and then she pulled back and wrapped her hand around him and pointed him at her chest and said, "Do it."
He did. He came with a sound that was her name and her name and her name, and he emptied himself over her — hot and thick, painting her breasts, her stomach, her chin, her cheeks — and she held still and let him, her eyes closed, her lips parted, taking it.
It went on longer than it should have. Longer than he'd have thought possible. Wave after wave, until she was slick with him, shining with him, and the last pulse faded and he went soft in her hand.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and his cum was on her face, in her hair, dripping off her chin, and she smiled.
"That's a lot," she said. "You got a lot in you."
He couldn't answer. He was shaking, swaying, his legs barely holding him, and she stood up and took his hand and led him to the stairs.
"Come on," she said. "We need a shower."
The bathroom was small and steamy and the water ran hot, and she stepped in first and pulled him in after her. The spray hit his shoulders and ran down his chest, washing the sweat and the cum and the heat of the kitchen off him, and she stood under the water with her hair plastered to her head and her eyes closed and let it run over her.
He watched it run down her body. Watched the white streaks of him dissolve and run down her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, and he reached out without thinking and took her soap and lathered his hands and touched her.
She opened her eyes and looked at him, and he washed her — her shoulders, her back, the soft curve of her waist — and when he got to her breasts she made a small sound and leaned into his hands.
"They're sensitive," she said. "I told you."
"Sorry."
"Don't be." She took his hands and pressed them against her, held them there, and he felt her heartbeat under his palms. "That's good. That's real good."
He massaged her, slow, learning the weight of her, the way she fit in his hands, and she let her head fall back and the water ran over her throat and she made sounds that weren't quite words.
"Okay," she breathed. "Okay, we gotta get out before you start something we can't finish."
"What if I wanna start it?"
Her eyes went wide for a second, then that wicked smile spread across her face, slow and knowing, the water beading on her shoulders and running down the valley between her breasts. She reached out and put her hand flat on his chest, over his heart, and he felt it hammering against her palm.
"You wanna start something," she repeated, like she was tasting the words. "In here?"
He nodded. Couldn't find his voice, but he nodded, and she looked at him for a long moment, the steam curling between them, and then she turned around and bent over the edge of the tub, her hands braced on the white porcelain, and looked back at him over her slick shoulder.
"Then start it."
He stepped up behind her, the water still running over them both, and he could see himself in the mirror on the medicine cabinet — the two of them, her bent over and him standing behind her, his hands shaking as he reached for her hips. He guided his cock to her and it slid in with a wet sound, the water making everything slick, and she let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"God," she said. "You're not even gonna take a second?"
"Been a second," he said, and she laughed, and then he started to move.
The water ran down her back and over the curve of her ass and he watched it, watched himself push into her, watched the way she opened for him, and she pushed back against him and made a sound that wasn't a laugh anymore. He found a rhythm, his hands gripping her hips, the slap of their bodies echoing off the tile, and she braced herself and took it, her head hanging down, her hair dripping.
"That's it," she breathed. "God, that's it."
He fucked her in the shower until the water ran cold and she was gasping, her legs shaking, and when he came it was with a sound that was almost a sob, buried inside her, filling her again, and she clenched around him and came with a cry that bounced off the walls.
He pulled out and the water washed it away before he could see it, and she straightened up and turned around and looked at him, her face flushed, her chest heaving.
"Okay," she said. "Now we actually gotta get out. The water's freezing."
He laughed — he didn't know he had it in him — and she laughed too, and they stumbled out of the tub and wrapped themselves in towels that were too small and too thin and didn't matter at all.
She dried off first, quick and careless, and then she took the towel from him and dried him too, slow, her hands moving over his chest and his stomach and lower, and when she got to his cock she wrapped the towel around it and squeezed and he hissed.
"Sorry," she said, but she wasn't sorry, and she dropped the towel and took his hand and led him out of the bathroom.
The hallway was dark and the floor was cold under his bare feet, and she led him past her door and past his and into the room at the end of the hall — the guest room, the one that had the big bed with the quilt his grandmother had made. She pulled back the covers and climbed in and held the quilt up for him, and he got in beside her.
The sheets were cold for a second and then they weren't. She turned on her side to face him and reached out and touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, and she looked at him in the dark with those blue eyes that seemed to catch even the little light from the hallway.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah." His voice came out rough. "I'm okay. You?"
"I'm better than okay." She leaned in and kissed him, soft, her lips warm and wet, and he kissed her back and felt something in his chest loosen that he hadn't known was tight.
She pulled back and smiled at him and then she turned over, presenting her back to him, and she reached back and took his hand and pulled it around her waist and guided it down, down between her legs.
"Put it back in," she said. "I wanna fall asleep like that."
He moved behind her, his chest against her back, and he guided his cock to her and pushed in — she was still slick, still open, still warm — and she let out a long, satisfied breath and pressed back against him.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Just like that."
He lay there with his cock buried inside her, his arm around her waist, her hair tickling his nose, and he felt her breathing slow and deepen, felt her body go soft and heavy against him, and he didn't know how he was supposed to sleep — his heart was still pounding, his mind still spinning — but then she made a small sound in her sleep and pressed back against him and he felt himself harden again, felt himself pulse inside her, and he came — a slow, deep, endless release that he felt in his whole body, filling her again — and she made a soft sound, not quite awake, and pressed back against him and was still.
He lay there, his cock softening inside her, his cum leaking out around it, and he listened to her breathe. The house was quiet. The clock in the kitchen had stopped ticking, or he couldn't hear it from here, and the only sound was the two of them, the slow rhythm of her sleeping breath and his own heart, finally, finally slowing down.
He closed his eyes. His hand was still on her waist, and he could feel the warmth of her skin under his palm, and he thought about the kitchen and the table and the floor and the shower and all the ways he'd been inside her tonight, and he thought about how she'd looked at him, the whole time, like he was something worth looking at.
He fell asleep like that. Buried inside her. Still leaking into her. And when he dreamed, he dreamed of her.