Chapter 17: The Confession + Threesome Fantasy Talk

The apartment still carried the faint trace of last night’s red wine and the deeper, unmistakable musk of us when Ethan let himself in with the spare key. I was waiting on the couch in nothing but one of his old T-shirts, the hem skimming the tops of my thighs, my hair loose and wild from the shower I’d taken an hour earlier. He didn’t speak at first. Just closed the door, dropped his bag, and crossed the room like a man who’d been starving for days. His hands found my waist, yanking me up into a kiss that tasted like need and the coffee he’d probably gulped on the drive over. Our mouths crashed open, tongues sliding hot and urgent, and I felt the hard line of his cock already pressing against my stomach through his jeans.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom. Not yet.

I shoved him backward until his knees hit the couch and straddled him, grinding down on the thick ridge straining his zipper. The friction dragged right over my bare pussy, already slick and aching from the way I’d been thinking about him all day. His fingers dug into my ass, spreading me wider as I rocked, the wet sound of my folds sliding along denim filling the quiet room. “Riley,” he groaned against my throat, teeth scraping the sensitive spot just below my ear. I answered by yanking his shirt up and over his head, nails raking down the lean muscle of his chest, feeling the way his abs jumped under my touch.

We shed clothes in a frantic blur. His jeans hit the floor. My shirt—his shirt—flew somewhere toward the kitchen. Skin met skin, warm and urgent, and then I was on my knees between his spread thighs again, but this time there was nothing clinical about it. I took him deep in one smooth glide, lips stretching around his girth, tongue flattening along the underside so I could feel every throb, every vein. He tasted like salt and clean skin and the faint edge of the day he’d had, and I moaned around him, the vibration pulling a curse from his throat. I bobbed fast, hollowing my cheeks, one hand cupping his balls while the other stroked what my mouth couldn’t reach. His hips jerked, but he let me set the pace, fingers tangled in my hair like an anchor.

“Fuck, baby—your mouth,” he rasped, voice wrecked. I pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting us, and climbed back onto his lap. This time I sank down onto him bare, no teasing, no slow sink. I took every inch in one greedy drop, my walls fluttering around the sudden fullness until I was seated flush against his pelvis. We both groaned. The stretch was perfect, almost too much, the head of him kissing that deep spot that made my toes curl. I rode him hard right there on the couch, hands braced on his shoulders, breasts bouncing with every slam of my hips. The slap of skin on skin mixed with our broken breathing, the couch creaking beneath us. Sweat already slicked the small of my back.

He flipped us suddenly, laying me out on the cushions and hooking one of my legs over his shoulder. The new angle drove him even deeper, the head dragging along my front wall with every thrust. I arched, nails digging into his back, and he leaned down to capture a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. Pleasure coiled tight and hot in my belly, building fast. I was close already, the kind of close that made my thighs shake and my vision spark at the edges.