The house went black in an instant.
One second the foyer light was flickering like a dying heartbeat; the next, total darkness swallowed everything except the faint blue glow of their phones and the savage howl of the blizzard outside. Natalia's breath caught in her throat. The sudden quiet was deafening—nothing but the wind screaming against the windows and the thunder of her own pulse.
"Shit," Ethan muttered. His deep voice cut through the dark like velvet dragged over gravel. "Power's out. Whole block, probably. Generator's empty from last summer."
Natalia stayed pressed against the front door, coat still on, fingers digging into the wood behind her like it could anchor her. The cold was already seeping in, crawling up her legs. But the real chill was inside her chest—and the scorching heat pooling between her thighs.
"We should… we should find candles," she said, voice too high, too shaky. "Or the fireplace. There's whiskey in the cabinet. Your dad keeps it for guests."
Ethan's silhouette moved closer. Even in the pitch black she could feel his size, the way the air shifted around his broad frame. "Yeah. Whiskey sounds good. We're not going anywhere tonight."
He disappeared down the hall. A minute later a soft orange glow bloomed from the living room—Ethan had found the emergency lantern and a half-full bottle of expensive scotch. The couch was already pulled out into a makeshift bed with the thickest blanket they owned. One couch. One blanket. One very small space.
Natalia peeled off her coat with trembling hands and followed the light. She told herself it was just survival. Just two adults stuck in a storm. Nothing more.
But when she stepped into the living room, Ethan was already pouring two heavy glasses. The lantern light carved shadows across his sharp jaw, the corded muscles of his forearms, the unmistakable bulge still straining against those grey sweatpants. He looked up at her and the hunger in his eyes was raw, unfiltered, three years in the making.
"Sit," he said, not a suggestion.
She sat. The couch dipped under his weight when he joined her. Too close. Their thighs touched. Heat bled through denim and fabric straight into her core.
They drank in silence for the first minute. The whiskey burned down her throat like liquid fire, loosening the knot of panic and shame that had lived in her chest since the world reopened. Memories crashed over her uninvited.
2020. Lockdown. Her husband trapped in Tokyo for months. Ethan home from college, restless and horny and so fucking big. The first time had been in the laundry room. She'd been folding towels, trying to keep busy, when Ethan had walked in wearing nothing but basketball shorts. One look at the thick outline of his cock and her knees had simply given out.
She'd crawled to him like a woman possessed. Pulled those shorts down and nearly cried at the sight of it—nine thick, veiny inches, heavy balls, already leaking for her. She'd taken him down her throat in one desperate slide, choking instantly, eyes watering, spit bubbling from the corners of her mouth while he groaned and fisted her hair. His dad had been on a Zoom call in the next room, voice droning about quarterly reports, and Natalia had gagged and slurped and come untouched just from the filthy thrill of it. Ethan had flooded her stomach that day, then again down her throat two hours later while she rode his fingers on the washing machine.
She'd loved it. Craved it. Needed it like air.
And then the world turned back on and they'd stopped. Cold turkey. Pretended it was a fever dream.
Natalia took another long swallow of whiskey, trying to drown the ache between her legs. Her nipples were stiff peaks against her sweater. She could feel her panties clinging wetly to her swollen pussy lips.
Ethan's voice broke the silence, low and dangerous. "You're thinking about it too."
It wasn't a question.
"I'm thinking we should get some sleep," she lied, pulling the blanket over her lap like a shield. "Separate ends of the couch. Plenty of room."
He laughed once—dark, humorless. "Bullshit, Natalia." He set his glass on the floor and turned toward her. The lantern painted gold across his face, highlighting the way his eyes had gone almost black with lust. "Three years. Three fucking years I've jerked off every single night remembering how your throat felt squeezing my cock. How you moaned like a whore when I came down it. How you used to beg me to fuck your face while Dad was right upstairs."
Her breath hitched. The blanket slipped from her fingers. Heat flooded her cheeks and her pussy at the same time.
"Ethan—"
"Tell me you don't still touch yourself thinking about choking on me," he growled, leaning in until his breath ghosted her lips. "Tell me right now and I'll sleep on the floor like a good boy."
She couldn't.
Because she did. Every single time she used her vibrator, she pictured his massive cock stretching her throat until she couldn't breathe, until tears and spit ran down her tits, until she came so hard she saw stars.
The silence stretched, thick and electric.
Ethan's hand moved under the blanket. Not touching her yet—just resting heavy on her thigh, thumb stroking slow circles through her jeans.
The storm outside roared louder. Inside, the temperature was rising fast.
Natalia's pulse hammered in her ears. Her mouth went dry. Every rational thought screamed at her to push him away.
But her body remembered. Her body wanted.
And when Ethan's thumb slipped higher, brushing the seam of her jeans right over her aching clit, she didn't stop him.
End of Chapter 2