My Stepbrother Banned My Fish Fry, So I Made Him Beg novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: One Bathroom

At one in the morning in the hallway above the tavern she takes him in her mouth with his hands flat on the wall, then sits on the running washer and lets him finish her.

He came out of the bathroom at one in the morning with a towel around his hips and found me standing in the hall.

I had been waiting outside that door for forty minutes.

I wore a gray sleep shirt and nothing else.

My chef's whites were in a bundle under my arm.

The flat above the tavern had two bedrooms, one bathroom and a narrow hallway, and he had taken the bathroom on purpose.

Steam rolled out around him.

His chest was wet, and a drop of water ran down the line of dark hair to the knot in the towel.

"Your turn," Karl said, and his voice cracked on it.

"I'm not here for the shower."

He looked at me.

His eyes dropped to my bare legs and came back up slowly.

"What are you here for?"

"Seconds," I said.

I dropped my whites by the washer, which sat in a nook at the end of the hall.

I put my hand on the knot of his towel.

He caught my wrist.

"Wrobel. Our parents are twenty minutes away in a house with a lake view."

"Then be quiet."

I pulled my wrist out of his hand and pulled the towel off his hips with the other.

It hit the floor between our feet.

He was already hard.

I had felt him through his jeans in the dry store, but I had not seen him.

He was bigger than I had thought, thick and flushed and heavy, curving up toward his stomach.

I took him in my hand and heard his breath stop.

I stroked him once, base to tip, and ran my thumb through the wet that had already gathered.

He shuddered all the way down his legs.

"Wrobel. I swear to God."

"Swear to him later."

I leaned in and kissed his chest, and then his stomach, and the dark line of hair below his navel.

His skin was hot and damp from the shower, and he smelled of soap and of himself.

"Against the wall," I said.

"I'm not-"

"Back against the wall, Hartmann. Hands flat on it."

He stood there with his jaw working.

Then he stepped back until his shoulders met the plaster.

He laid both palms flat on the wall on either side of his hips.

I got down on my knees on the hall runner.

It was an old wool runner, rough on my skin, and it smelled of the cedar chest where his mother's winter coats still hung.

I looked up the length of him.

His eyes were half shut, and every muscle in his stomach was drawn tight.

"Don't move your hands," I said.

"I won't."

"Say it."

"I won't move my hands," he said.

I kissed the tip of him, wet and slow.

He hissed through his teeth.

I licked a long line up the underside, from the base to the head.

He tasted of soap and warm skin and salt.

I closed my lips around the head and sucked.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, Wrobel."

I pulled off and looked up at him, my mouth wet.

"Louder and I stop."

"Not louder," he said, hoarse, and I took him in again.

I went slowly, an inch at a time, so he would feel every one.

My left hand was around the base of him, and my right was flat on his thigh.

I felt the muscle there shudder under my palm.

I took him as far as I could, until the head touched the back of my throat.

I breathed through my nose and held him there while he swore.

"Jesus. Wrobel. Your mouth."

I hummed around him, and his hips jerked off the wall.

"Hands," I said, around his cock.

He slapped them flat again.

I started to move, easy and wet.

My mouth slid up and down while my hand worked the part I could not reach.

I let spit run down, and the sound of it was filthy in the quiet hall.

He breathed in short hard pulls, with his head tipped back against the plaster.

"That's good," he said. "That's good, Wrobel. That's so fucking good."

It went straight between my legs.

I had cooked for this man's family for three weeks.

He had never once used that word about anything I made.

Now he was saying it about my mouth, and I was soaked.

I sucked harder and looked up to watch his face.

His eyes were shut and his lips were parted.

His brow was drawn tight, almost pained.

Then he opened them and looked straight at me, and the look went all the way through me.

"You're so good at this," he said, and his voice shook. "Tell me what you want."

I pulled off him with a wet pop.

"I want you to watch."

"I'm watching."

"I want you to watch yourself go in my mouth," I said.

He made a sound I felt in my knees.

I took him in again, and I kept my eyes on his.

I let him slide along my tongue and out past my lips, and I licked the wet from the head.

I took his whole length in my fist and sucked only the tip, hard and slow.

His knees bent.

"Fuck, that's it," he said. "That's it. Your mouth is perfect."

"Tell me what it feels like."

"Hot. Wet. Perfect."

I moaned around him on purpose, and his head hit the wall.

"Do that again."

I did it again.

I pulled back until only the head was between my lips, and I swirled my tongue under the ridge.

His thighs were trembling.

I took him deep again, and again, faster, with a tight wet suction that pulled a curse out of him every time.

I cupped his balls in my palm and felt them draw up.

"Wrobel," he said, a warning. "I'm going to-"

I did not pull back.

I took him to the back of my throat and swallowed around him as he came.

He groaned long and low.

He was hot and thick on my tongue, and his hips pushed forward in short jerks.

I took every drop.

His hands were still flat on the wall.

They shook, but he had not moved them.

When he was finished I eased him out of my mouth.

I licked my lips and sat back on my heels.

He slid down the wall until he sat on the runner with his knees up and his head back.

For a moment the only sound in the flat was the two of us breathing.

"I didn't move my hands," he said.

"I saw."

"Do I get something for that?"

I laughed.

I stood up on legs that were not entirely steady.

I dropped my whites into the washer, turned the dial and shut the lid.

The old machine shuddered and started to fill.

I hopped up and sat on top of it, with my bare thighs open on the vibrating lid.

"Come here," I said.

He crawled over the runner on his hands and knees, naked.

He knelt between my feet and looked at me for a long moment.

Then he pushed my sleep shirt up to my hips.

I had nothing on under it.

"You came out here with no underwear," he said.

"I told you what I was here for."

He put his mouth on the inside of my knee and kissed his way up my thigh.

The washer hummed under me.

The lid shook my hips in a steady tremble, and every tiny shake went straight to my clit.

He opened me with his thumbs and looked.

"Look at that," he said. "Fuck, look at that."

"Hartmann."

He put his tongue on me, flat and slow.

I leaned back against the wall with my hands in his hair.

The machine rocked under me as the drum filled and began to turn.

He licked me in time with it, and then against it.

Then he pressed two fingers into me and sucked my clit until I was rocking on the lid.

"That's it," he said against me. "That's it. Take it."

His voice was low and rough, and it was the best thing I had ever heard.

"Don't stop talking."

"You taste so good," he said. "You're so wet all over my face."

He curled his fingers and found the spot, and I went rigid.

"There. Right there."

"I know. I've got you."

He added a third finger, and the stretch made me gasp.

"Too much?" he asked, rough.

"More."

He gave me more.

The drum thudded into its spin cycle, and the whole machine bucked under my hips.

Every shudder drove his fingers against that place, and I wrapped my legs around his shoulders.

"Look at you," he said. "Look how you're taking it. You're so fucking good, Wrobel."

He fucked me with his fingers, steady and deep.

His mouth stayed on my clit, and the washer shook us both.

I came with the machine rattling under me and my hand over my own mouth, biting down on my palm.

My thighs clamped around his head.

He kept his fingers moving until the last pulse had gone, and then he rested his forehead against my knee.

I stroked the back of his neck, which was damp and hot.

"Again," he said, against my skin.

"I can't."

"You can."

He licked me once, slow and light.

I came again with a shudder and a short, helpless cry.

He sat back on his heels, grinning, with his chin shining.

"Now I get something," he said.

"You got something."

"I got two."

I laughed so hard the washer almost bucked me off.

He caught my hips and held me on the lid.

When I could breathe I pulled him up by his hair and kissed him, long and slow, tasting myself on his mouth.

"Rules," he said into my mouth, finally. "We need some."

"Sunday."

"Sunday?"

"Brunch is Sunday at my mother's house," I said. "Your father will be there."

He raised his head.

His face was flushed and wrecked and wet.

I watched him think about his father's hand on the back of my mother's chair.

"After brunch," he said.

"After brunch."

I slid off the machine and went down the hall.

I turned on the bathroom light, locked the door behind me, and stood there with my forehead against the wood.

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