CHAPTER 3 - GET ON YOUR KNEES

The belt slides free from the loops with a sound that cuts through the dark like a blade, and I should be reaching for my phone or screaming for my mom or doing literally any of the things a normal person would do when a man they met yesterday is standing at the foot of their bed at – I glance at the clock – 1:47 AM with his jeans unbuttoned and his eyes locked on mine like I'm something he's been planning to unwrap all day.

I don't do any of those things.

"Get on your knees."

His voice is low enough that it doesn't carry past the walls of my room, and steady enough that I know this isn't impulsive, this isn't something that just occurred to him in the hallway. He came here with a plan. He unbuckled his belt before I opened my eyes because he wanted me to hear it first, wanted that sound to be the thing that dragged me out of sleep, and the fact that I can recognize the strategy behind it doesn't make my body any less responsive to his command.

I slide off the bed and my knees hit the carpet.

I have never in my life done anything like this. Ryan Parker kissed me exactly four times over the course of our relationship and each one felt like pressing my mouth against a wall that was trying to be polite about not kissing me back, and that is the full extent of my sexual history.

I have been invisible and careful and barely touched for nineteen years

He steps forward until he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body and smell that leather-and-something-else scent that I caught at dinner, the one that made me press my thighs together under the restaurant table while my mom talked about seating arrangements. He looks down at me and there's something in his face that's halfway between hunger and satisfaction, like I just confirmed a theory he'd been working on.

His hand slides into my hair and his fingers curl into a fist at the base of my ponytail and he tilts my head back until I'm staring straight up at him. His thumb traces across my bottom lip and I feel my mouth part on its own like my body already knows what he wants before my brain has finished catching up.

"Open."

I open.

He feeds himself into my mouth and my hands fly to his thighs because I don't know what else to do with them, and he's big – bigger than I expected, bigger than anything I imagined during the handful of times I let myself think about this kind of thing late at night with the lights off – and my jaw stretches to accommodate him as he pushes in slow and steady like he's being generous by not going deeper. Yet.

"Breathe through your nose," he says, and his voice has dropped into this register that I can feel in my chest, and his hand in my hair tightens as I figure out a rhythm that lets me take him without gagging. My eyes are watering already and he hasn't even started moving and I should be horrified by how wet I am considering nobody has touched me below the waist, but my underwear is ruined and my nipples are hard against my t-shirt and every nerve ending I have is firing in directions I didn't know they could fire.

He starts moving my head with his hand. Not rough – controlled, measured, like he's teaching me the pace he wants, and the sound of it in the quiet room is obscene and wet and I can hear myself making noises I didn't give permission for, and he hears them too because his hips jerk forward and he hisses through his teeth.

"Fuck, you're a natural," he says, and the praise hits me like a drug even though I have absolutely no frame of reference for whether that's true. "I knew it at dinner. The way you looked at me across the table with those big innocent eyes while your foot stayed exactly where I put it." He pulls my head back until just the tip is on my tongue and looks down at me with spit on my chin and my mascara smudging. "You're filthy, you know that? This pretty mouth was made for my cock, and you've been wasting it on polite conversation."

I should bite down. I should gag on purpose and shove him away and remind both of us that this is insane. Instead, I lean forward and take him deeper than before, deep enough that my throat closes around him, and the sound he makes is the most satisfying thing I've ever heard in my life.

He wraps both hands around the back of my head and holds me there while his hips rock forward in short, controlled thrusts that bump the back of my throat, and I'm gripping his thighs hard enough to leave marks and breathing through my nose the way he told me to and my pussy is clenching around nothing and he hasn't touched me once below the neck. Not once. The power imbalance should feel degrading and instead it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and choosing to look down.

His breathing changes. His thighs go rigid under my palms and he pushes my head down until my nose is pressed against his skin and I can't breathe at all, and he holds me there while he cums in my throat in thick, hot pulses that I swallow because there's nowhere else for it to go and because some unhinged part of me doesn't want to waste a single drop.

He keeps me there long enough that my vision starts to sparkle at the edges before he lets go, and I pull back gasping with tears running down my face and my chin wet with spit. He crouches down until we're eye level and his thumb wipes the mess from the corner of my mouth with this almost gentle precision that makes my chest ache for reasons I refuse to examine.

"Same time tomorrow," he says.

Then he stands, threads his belt back through his loops, and walks out of my room closing the door behind him so softly it barely clicks.

I sit on the carpet for twenty minutes. My knees have rug burn and my jaw is sore and my underwear is soaked through and nobody has touched me and I have never been more turned on in my entire life. I crawl back into bed and press my face into the pillow and my hands are shaking and I don't sleep. Not even close.

At 6 AM I hear his motorcycle start in the driveway and I touch my lips and they're still swollen and I can still taste him and the only two thoughts in my head are fighting each other for space.

What did I just do?

And then, quieter, the one that scares me:

When is he coming back?