Room For More? Ch. 02

Chapter 2

The apartment held the kind of hush that wasn't just quiet, but charged -- the low, dense silence of a late morning that knew too much had happened the night before. Sunlight slipped through half-drawn curtains, softening the edges of sleek furniture and polished surfaces, but even that light seemed subdued, like it was tiptoeing across the hardwood. Shannon stood barefoot at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Craig's old T-shirts -- the fabric thin and worn to transparency in places, brushing the tops of her thighs, slipping wide across one shoulder like it had forgotten what it meant to fit. Her hair was half-wound, half-wild, a soft mess of curls that had loosened through the night, undone by sleep and sweat and something else entirely. Her hand curled around a coffee mug, but she wasn't drinking -- just holding it, letting the heat seep into her palm, her eyes fixed somewhere past the window, somewhere beyond what she was willing to name. There was a hum in her still, low and constant, in places her breath hadn't reached since before sunrise. It wasn't arousal, not exactly. It was afterglow, yes -- but not her own.

Across from her, Craig leaned against the counter with his own mug, the air between them as quiet as it was crowded. Neither had said much since waking. No lazy banter. No soft kisses or murmured plans. Just the mechanical ritual of espresso grinding and toast popping, the choreography of avoidance performed with silent precision. But they both felt it -- the hangover of sound, of something primal that had passed through their walls like heat through plaster. Not sex, not as they knew it. What they'd heard last night had been beyond category. It had been devastation in rhythm -- the kind of fucking that didn't ask for consent, only surrender. Skin slapping with brutal consistency, as if the tempo had been chosen by instinct, not intention. And the woman -- God, the woman -- her voice hadn't cried out so much as collapsed. Sobbed, pleaded, shattered, until her moans stopped sounding like pleasure and started sounding like release.

Craig had tried to keep his focus on Shannon. Tried to lose himself in the familiar stretch of her thighs, the warmth of her cunt wrapped around him like home. But even as he pushed into her, even as she arched and clung and cried out, something in him knew -- the tremble in her breath, the sudden tightness of her grip, the way she took him -- none of it was about him. Not entirely. There was something else in her body last night. Something she couldn't name. Something she didn't fight.

The sound of the door broke the stillness. Soft footsteps padded across the wood, the echo of high heels dangling from fingers rather than clacking on the floor. Shannon turned, slow and composed, just in time to see her -- the woman from the night before. She moved with that unmistakable looseness that only came after complete submission -- not just well-fucked, but awakened in the most flattering way. Her cheeks were flushed, mouth soft, limbs languid like every muscle had been rewritten. Her eyes didn't scan the room. She didn't need to. Her smile said everything. She'd been changed. Opened.

And then Ron appeared behind her -- barefoot, shirtless, his presence as effortless as ever, but heavy now in its implication. His body looked untouched by effort, muscles fluid beneath skin still warm from exertion. He murmured something -- low, private -- and she leaned in, kissed his cheek like it was second nature, like gratitude and reverence could be distilled into that one silent gesture. Then she slipped out the door.

Craig let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Jesus."

Shannon didn't respond. She just stared into her coffee like it might offer a map out of the moment, steam curling into the stillness between them. Her body was still, but something in her seemed in motion -- like her thoughts were pacing inside her skin.

"She looked like she barely survived," he said eventually, his voice quieter now, coloured by something that wasn't quite awe... but wasn't far from it either.

"She looked satisfied," Shannon said, her voice even, not defensive, just observant. She didn't look up.

Craig huffed a breath. "She looked like she'd been worshipped and wrecked in equal measure."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was electric. A pause thick with everything they weren't saying. Then, almost as if testing the shape of the thought aloud: "Do you ever wonder how a body even takes that?"

Shannon turned her head slightly, her hair shifting where it had fallen loose. "What?"

He didn't meet her eyes. Just studied his mug, like it might offer some safer answer than the one forming in his chest. "I mean, last night... that wasn't normal. That wasn't just good sex. That was something else." He looked up, voice dipping lower, threading into something raw. "That was... violent."

And even as the word left his mouth, her body reacted. Her legs shifted slightly, a subtle clench she hadn't meant to make -- thighs drawn in, pressed together in instinctive memory of a sound that had crawled through the drywall and embedded itself somewhere under her skin. It hadn't been noise. It had been calling.

"You saw it," Craig said, his voice finding her now, more certainty in it. "In the hot tub. Right?"

She hesitated -- not long, just enough. Then: "Only for a second."

"But long enough, though."

Her nod was small. Barely there. "It's not the kind of thing you forget."

Craig moved closer, his body subtly aligned with hers across the counter, though he still held his distance. His voice was quieter now, something almost reverent laced into the question. "Do you think you could take it?"

She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes unreadable, then shrugged -- a gesture too casual for the current beneath it. "I think it would hurt."

"But would you want to try?"

This time her eyes met his. Unflinching. Present. Not flirtatious, not cruel -- just honest, unguarded, the kind of look that came from deep within a woman no longer afraid of asking herself dangerous questions. "You tell me."

Craig's throat moved with a swallow. His mouth parted like he had something to offer, but no sound came. The question hung between them, suspended by its own weight.

She brushed past him then -- not abrupt, not dismissive, just fluid. Like she had somewhere to be and had already decided to take herself there. Her arm grazed his lightly, skin on skin, but the contact wasn't the statement. She was. At the sink, she placed her mug down gently, precisely, and turned toward the hallway. Her feet were bare. Her shoulders loose. She didn't glance back. Just dropped the line over her shoulder with the cool precision of someone who already knew how it would land.

"You're the one who can't stop thinking about his huge cock."

And then she was gone.

Craig stood in the silence that followed, mug in hand, coffee cooling. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe for a second too long. He didn't know what rattled him more -- that she'd said it so easily. Or the idea that she might be right.

Craig didn't expect much when Ron stepped into the kitchen. Maybe a nod. Maybe some smooth, offhand acknowledgment of the moans and mattress-thudding symphony that had all but shaken the drywall the night before -- though Ron didn't seem like the type to apologise for his appetite. Or for being witnessed. Still, as the man approached -- fresh from the shower, black fitted T-shirt clinging to his chest and arms with casual precision, not vanity -- Craig braced for some kind of comment. A wry look. A quip. Something to confirm that yes, it had happened -- and that Ron knew exactly how unforgettable it had been.

Instead, Ron's voice came low, even, like the beginning of something already decided. "Craig -- got a minute?"

And for a split second, Craig thought this is it. The nod. The unspoken dare. A maybe-masked smirk and a "hope we didn't keep you up." Something to puncture the tension between what they'd heard and what they hadn't said. He followed him down the hallway, muscles tight, pulse bumping a little harder behind his ribs. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was structured -- like everything Ron did. Contained, weighty, humming with the sense that whatever came next wasn't small talk.

Inside the office, Ron moved ahead with unhurried confidence, crossing to the sleek bar cart near the windows. He turned -- just that slight pivot to face him -- and Craig's eyes dropped without permission. A reflex. Not desire. Not curiosity. Just response. And there it was. Even clothed, even soft, it registered like a presence. Not shown. Not flaunted. Just there -- a shape and mass that seemed too grounded to be ignored. His throat went dry. He looked away fast. Shame blooming before he could even form the thought: Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Ron poured without asking, his movements precise. A short pour of something dark and expensive -- no label offered, no explanation. Just handed to Craig like a ritual, like an invitation into something old and private.

"I took a call this morning," Ron said, as if continuing a conversation already halfway through. "Westlake and Barber."

Craig stiffened, trying not to show it. Glass in hand, trying to stand still in a body that suddenly felt too warm.

"They couldn't stop talking about you," Ron continued, tone still flat, measured. "Said you carried yourself like a senior partner. Waited. Spoke with intent. Didn't oversell. They liked you. A lot."

Craig took a sip, slow and cautious, as if the drink might steady the thrum in his chest. He'd spent the whole night second-guessing every word he'd said in that meeting -- the way his tie felt too tight, the sweat he'd tried to hide with a sleeve swipe, the moment he'd stumbled through a technical point he should've nailed. But now... hearing this...

Ron leaned against the desk, glass in hand, posture loose in that way powerful men never had to explain. "I've been thinking about expanding," he said. "Quietly. No teams. No red tape. I like lean. Smart. One or two people I trust. People who can handle pressure without noise."

He looked at Craig then -- not admiring, not sizing him up. Just seeing him. "And then you and Shannon landed in my world. I don't believe in fate. But I do believe in recognising value when it knocks on your door."

The silence that followed wasn't a pause. It was a test. Craig held his breath without knowing it.

"I want to bring you in," Ron said. "Properly. As my number two."

It hit harder than expected. Not just because of what it meant -- but how little Ron needed to sell it. The words landed like a done deal, already formed.

"Wait -- you're serious?" Craig blinked.

"I don't waste breath," Ron said, cool and steady. "You'd take over west coast accounts. Manage the existing accounts. Build new ones. I won't micromanage. You bring me the big swings. The rest? Yours."

Craig nodded, heartbeat climbing, heat pooling in his chest and down his spine. "That's... incredible. More than I ever--"

"You'll be paid accordingly," Ron added, interrupting gently. "More than your current package. Equity down the line. Growth is the real money. But you'll be taken care of."

Craig's voice caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. "I want to talk it over with Shannon. We're heading out to dinner tonight. But... yes. I'm interested. More than interested."

Ron's smile was small. Nothing showy. Just a quiet flicker of approval. "Think on it," he said. "We'll talk terms tomorrow."

Craig turned to leave, drink half-finished, but the heat of it still burning in his throat. He reached the door before Ron's voice came again -- softer now, but sharp enough to cut through everything else.

"And Craig--"

He turned.

Ron didn't move. Just held his gaze with calm authority. "You deserve this. Believe in yourself. I already do."

The words didn't flatter. They anchored.

Craig stepped into the hallway like he'd been shifted on some fundamental level. Like the ground beneath him had changed orientation. It wasn't just a job offer. Not really. It was something larger. A current. A gravity. A pull toward a world where men like Ron didn't just lead -- they absorbed. They made space for others to rise, but only after they'd been reshaped.

And somewhere deep in his gut, beneath the career excitement, beneath the fire of ambition and pride... Craig knew the truth.

He was already saying yes.

The restaurant wasn't extravagant -- not the kind with white linens and hushed conversations over piano keys -- but it had that curated warmth Craig associated with just enough affluence to feel seductive. Everything glowed in amber: the low-hung lights, the gold-threaded upholstery, the honeyed tone of wood polished to a soft sheen. It was the kind of place where cocktails arrived in weighty glassware and the waitstaff knew how to walk without interrupting a moment. The kind of place where people closed deals, started affairs, whispered secrets under candlelight. Craig liked it immediately.

Across the table, Shannon was a vision wrapped in understatement -- a simple black dress, sleeveless and fluid, cut close to her body in a way that whispered rather than shouted. The fabric clung with intelligence, sculpting the gentle slope of her waist, tracing the arc of her hips, drawing the eye toward the deep, smooth line of her collarbone where skin met shadow. Her hair fell in soft, dark waves around her shoulders, loose and glossy, the kind of effortless that took effort. Her makeup was subtle -- just a hint of shimmer at the eyes, a soft flush at the lips -- but the overall effect was devastating. Not because she was trying to be looked at. But because she knew she would be. And Craig wasn't the only one noticing.

"You're staring," she said, lifting her wine glass with a small smile, eyes still cast downward.

"Can you blame me?" Craig replied, gaze still anchored to her like gravity.

She laughed softly, that private laugh she gave only him, the one that came from deep in her chest. "You're the one who made us late. I barely had time to get ready."

He tilted his head, lips tugging into a smirk. "If this is rushed... I'm afraid of what you'd do with a full hour and a lighting crew."

Their server arrived with small plates, all fragrant steam and careful arrangement, but neither of them reached for their forks. The energy at the table felt like it lived above the food -- some shared elevation neither had named. Not quite nerves. Not just the wine. A lift beneath the skin, like something had cracked open and was still unfolding.

Craig took a sip from his glass -- something smoky, herbal -- and set it down with measured care. "So," he began, trying not to sound like he'd practiced it in his head half a dozen times, "Ron pulled me aside this morning."

Shannon's face didn't tense -- but it changed. That soft attentiveness sharpened, her posture lifting a little as her brows drew together in interest.

"And?"

"He offered me a job."

She blinked, visibly thrown. "Wait -- what?"

"Like, a real offer. Partner-track. Not just in name -- in scope. He wants me handling the west coast clients. Full control. My own portfolio. No babysitting, no junior bullshit. Just... ownership."

Shannon sat back, processing. Her lips parted, and for a second she didn't speak -- just let it roll through her before her face broke into something deeper than surprise. Pride. Genuine, warm, bone-deep pride.

"Craig..." she breathed.

He shrugged, trying to downplay the way his pulse was still catching from the whole thing. "Told him I needed to talk it over with you, obviously. But yeah. It's real. It's a hell of a step up."

Without thinking, her hand reached across the table, closing over his like it belonged there. Her fingers slid between his, warm and sure.

"I'm so proud of you," she said, her voice low and filled with something that went beyond support. It was belief. And love. And something else she hadn't put into words yet -- that low, growing hum she hadn't shaken since the moment Ron first looked at her like he saw her.

Craig exhaled. Not just from tension -- but from something deeper. A pressure he hadn't noticed until her words released it. It wasn't just about the job. Or the money. It was about being chosen. About being seen by a man who didn't waste words, didn't flatter, didn't offer things unless they were already his to give.

"He said the guys from the meeting were blown away. That I handled myself like someone with a decade of experience."

"Because you did," Shannon said, voice soft but sure, no hesitation.

Craig looked down at their joined hands, then back at her -- eyes lingering. "I keep waiting to feel like a fraud. Like at any moment, someone's going to notice I'm just good at faking it. But hearing it from you... I don't know. It helps."

Her fingers squeezed his. "Craig," she said, leaning in just enough that her voice dropped into something lower, something close, "you're not a fraud. You're a man who finally landed in the right place. That's not luck. That's alignment."

He smiled at that. A real smile, the kind that felt like something unlocking in his chest. The wine buzzed gently in his veins now -- not heavy, just enough to make everything feel a little warmer.

"He said something like that," Craig added. "That he doesn't believe in fate, but he knows how to recognise opportunity when it shows up. Said you and I landing in his lap -- he couldn't ignore it."

Shannon's eyes glinted, lips curling. "Me? Maybe he's going to offer me a job too."

Craig chuckled, shaking his head. "Doing what, exactly?"

She lifted her glass -- not wine anymore, but champagne, pale and sparkling -- and let the rim rest just at her mouth as she spoke. "I don't know," she said slowly, her tongue tracing the edge before she sipped. "Taking care of something... much bigger."

Craig laughed -- reflexively, almost defensively -- but the sound stuck just a little in his throat. It was a joke. Of course it was a joke.

And yet... something twisted behind his ribs. A flicker of heat. Or was it ice?

He smiled anyway. "If he's smart, he'll double my offer just to keep you around."

Shannon leaned forward, her expression unreadable but amused. "So now I'm part of the negotiating package?"

"Always," he said -- but the words landed heavier than he meant them to. He felt them echo after.

He caught the waiter's eye a moment later and raised two fingers, quiet but clear. "Let's do champagne. Something good."

The waiter nodded, already moving. And when the bottle arrived -- perfectly chilled, label discreet -- Craig took the cork himself, easing it free with that small, satisfying pop. Shannon watched him as he poured, head tilted, eyes unreadable but soft.

"To new beginnings," she said, lifting her glass.

He clinked hers gently. "To us," he added.

They drank. And for a moment, it felt like the whole world shrank to the space between them -- golden light, low music, bubbles rising in silence.

"So what does this mean?" Shannon asked, after a beat. "Long hours? Late nights? Fancy suits?"

Craig shrugged, leaning back. "Some of that, yeah. But more freedom too. And better money. We could start thinking about a real place. Something permanent."

"Oh?" Her voice lifted, eyes glinting with that familiar mischief. "And leave all this behind?"

He grinned. "Come on. You'd trade this place for a dishwasher and in-unit laundry in a second."

She tilted her head, her tone sliding into something silkier. "And take you away from that big cock you're so obsessed with?"

He nearly choked on the champagne, then burst out laughing. Loud, open, unguarded.

"I'm serious," she said, half-laughing herself, but not backing off -- her voice lower now, more intimate. "You bring him up more than I do."

Craig leaned in, playful but tense beneath it. "Only because you won't stop teasing me about it."

Shannon took another slow sip, her smile lazy and confident, the kind that curled rather than spread. "It's not teasing if you're the one getting hard over it."

The flush hit fast, crawling up Craig's neck. "You're evil."

"I'm observant," she murmured.

And then, beneath the table, her foot found his calf. Just a touch. A brush. Bare skin on bare skin. Subtle, but unmissable. The reminder that she could touch him with nothing but her presence and still leave a mark.

They lingered there a while longer -- hands close, wine low, bubbles fading in their glasses -- letting the buzz of the night soak into their skin. It was romantic. Real. Beautiful, even.

And yet, under the laughter... under the sweetness...

Something deeper simmered.

The apartment was dark when they stepped inside -- not just dim, but settled into its darkness, like the space had exhaled while they were gone and chosen not to stir. The kind of darkness that wasn't empty, but inhabited. The main room stretched open before them in hushed silhouette: the low-slung couches lounging in soft shadow, the kitchen's matte surfaces catching faint traces of streetlight, the dining table gleaming faintly with the reflected pulse of the city beyond. It all felt paused -- a scene left mid-breath.

Except for the balcony.

That far corner of the apartment held light. Not from lamps, but from something lower, more elemental -- a dull, pulsing glow flickering across the hardwood, gold and molten. It lapped against the floor like heat, casting soft waves of illumination across chair legs and cabinetry. The sliding doors stood cracked open, just enough to let the scent of steam drift in -- chlorinated and warm, cut with something else. Something rich. Human. Wet.

Shannon stepped forward first, drawn as if by scent or sound or some silent gravity. Craig followed, breath held without realising. The closer they moved, the quieter everything became -- the room pressing inward around them, the only sound their own footsteps disappearing into velvet. When they reached the glass, the full scene unfolded. And stopped them both.

Ron was perched at the edge of the hot tub -- relaxed, powerful, bare in a way that wasn't performance but presence. His body glistened in the flickering half-light, carved and coiled, muscle relaxed but unmistakably capable. The water shimmered around his calves, the steam curling against his skin like worship. But it wasn't his torso that drew Craig's eyes -- it was lower. What rose from between Ron's thighs didn't look real, not at first. It stood, thick and rigid, like something summoned rather than grown -- towering from a trimmed nest of dark hair, veins raised, glistening with heat and wet. It wasn't just large. It was overwhelming. A piece of anatomy that bent the rules of what bodies were meant to carry.

And her -- the same girl from that morning -- was in the tub, water lapping just below her shoulders, her hands gripping Ron's thighs like lifelines. Her mouth was wrapped around the head of him, lips stretched to their limit, face flushed from effort. She moved in slow, desperate motions -- trying, failing, trying again. Every thrust ended in a choke, a gag, a soft retreat. But she didn't stop. Couldn't. Her mouth returned again and again, tears lining her lashes, devotion etched into every gasp.

Shannon exhaled before she even realised it. "She's choking on it..."

Her voice was a whisper, but it carried -- hushed and reverent, not in fear but awe. Craig's hand instinctively found her waist, fingers pressing into the curve of her side like he needed the feel of her to stay tethered. But she didn't pull away. She leaned back into him, hips rolling once -- slow, deliberate -- against the hard line already growing in his pants. The silk of her dress clung to her every curve, every motion of breath and want. Her head tilted. Her eyes never left the scene.

"That is so fucking hot," she breathed, voice lower now, richer, thick with something she didn't bother naming. "Look at her... devouring that massive cock."

Craig felt his cock jerk hard in his pants -- painful, sudden, real. His mouth was dry. His heart pounded. But he couldn't look away.

"She's trying to take it," Shannon murmured, lips barely parting. "Stretching her throat for it... God, she wants it."

"She can't," Craig said, the words forced from him like a confession. "She can't even get halfway... it's just... fuck."

And still, the girl didn't stop. Ron's hand moved gently to the back of her head -- not guiding, not forcing -- just resting there. A quiet claim. His face remained calm, eyes half-closed, lips parted only slightly, as if this act wasn't a performance or indulgence.

It was simply what he was used to.

And behind the glass, in the safety of shadow, Shannon pressed herself tighter into Craig, her breath hot on his neck, her body answering to something neither of them could name yet -- but both of them felt. Heavy. Low. Inevitable.

Shannon groaned softly, her hips grinding back harder into Craig, the curve of her ass pressing perfectly into the throb of his cock. Her voice was low, syrup-thick with desire. "I always love taking all of you down my throat," she murmured. "It's so hot. So fucking slutty."

Craig gave a hoarse laugh -- tight, uneasy. "You've got those special throat skills."

She smirked -- he could feel it in the curve of her body. "And you are big, baby. Don't think I don't love it. I do." Her voice dipped darker. "But Ron... Ron would be a whole different kind of challenge."

Her hand slid down, no hesitation. She unzipped him with one smooth motion, her fingers closing around his cock -- already hard, already slick at the tip -- and began to stroke him slow, measured, while her eyes stayed fixed on the scene beyond the glass. "Do you think I could take him?"

The question struck Craig like a fist to the sternum. Not a taunt. Not a betrayal. Just raw, sincere hunger. It didn't ask for permission. It simply was.

His lips parted, but the words wouldn't come. His mind reeled. His cock throbbed. Finally, through a tight breath: "If anyone could... maybe."

She smiled, pleased. Her strokes didn't stop. "Look at her," she whispered. "Look how much she wants it."

As if summoned, Ron's voice rolled out into the night -- low, smooth, total. "You've got more to give, baby. Don't stop now. I want your throat open when I cum. That's it. Work for it."

Shannon shivered. Her grip on Craig tightened. "He's so in control," she whispered. "So calm. Like he knows she'll take it eventually. Like her body doesn't have a choice."

Craig groaned, his hips jerking forward. The breath from their mouths fogged the glass in front of them. And then -- Ron looked up.

His eyes found them.

Through the dark. Through the steam. Through the space between.

He didn't flinch. Didn't stop. Didn't blink. He just looked -- at Craig, at Shannon -- and smiled. A small, quiet smile. Not cruel. Not smug.

Just certain.

"He sees us," Shannon breathed, her voice trembling with awe. "He wants us to watch."

Ron's hand slid around the girl's head, fingers threading through damp strands. He began to guide her, not with force but with firm, unwavering control. His hips rolled forward, feeding his cock into her mouth in slow, powerful thrusts. She choked, gagged, strained -- but she didn't stop. Her head moved with him now, her effort rhythmic, her surrender complete. And he never looked away.

"Look at that," Shannon whispered. "Look at her gag on that massive cock, Craig..."

Her hand was moving faster now -- precise, wet, unrelenting. He throbbed in her palm, his body trembling against hers.

"Imagine it's me instead of her. Imagine it's my throat he's using. That big black cock stretching me open, fucking my face like he owns it."

Craig stiffened. His whole body locked down. The pressure crested, and he tried to resist it -- but it was already gone.

With a guttural, broken gasp, his release hit -- harder than anything he'd felt before. His cock jerked violently in Shannon's hand, ropes of cum streaking across the balcony glass, thick and hot, sliding in heavy trails down the cold surface. His knees buckled. One hand grabbed the frame to stay upright, the other clutching at her dress like she was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

And still she stroked -- softer now, milking the last pulses from him with the kind of care that bordered on cruel. Her breath ghosted across his ear.

"God... look how much you came." A soft, dark laugh. "That really did it for you, huh?"

He couldn't answer. Could barely think. Still panting. Still hard. Still vibrating.

And outside, on the other side of the glass, Ron didn't stop.

His cock gleamed in the flickering light -- soaked, glorious, buried deep in the mouth of a woman who hadn't once stopped trying.

They didn't speak when they left the balcony. There was no need to. Craig's legs were weak beneath him, every step made heavier by the pulse still thrumming through his cock, the twitch of aftershocks rolling through him like echoes. The glass behind them wore the streaks of his orgasm like a signature, and the air still smelled faintly of chlorine and sex. Shannon led the way in silence, her hand wrapped around his wrist -- not dragging, not pulling, but claiming. Like a leash made of heat. In the darkened hallway, she seemed taller somehow. Sharper. The woman who'd giggled over cocktails, teased him between bites of food, had been replaced by something far more dangerous. Her body moved with a purpose that didn't ask for permission. Already, her dress was slipping from her shoulders, falling in one fluid motion to the hardwood floor without ceremony. No underwear. No pause. Just bare skin -- flushed, wet, glowing with sweat and want.

Craig dropped onto the edge of the bed, his breath still coming too fast, his heart pounding in that dazed rhythm that comes after surrender. He was still hard. Inexplicably, relentlessly hard, despite the release that had just torn through him only minutes ago. His thoughts were scrambled -- a mess of jealousy, lust, wonder -- but his body didn't need clarity. It knew what it wanted. Shannon didn't speak. She didn't ask.

She hadn't planned to take control. Not exactly. But something inside her had clicked the moment they left the balcony -- the moment she saw what Craig looked like after watching Ron. He was unmoored. Wrung out. Still hard. Still trembling from release like it hadn't been enough. And she knew, in that instant, that whatever line they had crossed, there was no going back. Not really. Not for her. Because it wasn't just lust in her blood -- it was ownership. Power. The kind that didn't ask. The kind that knew. And maybe that power had started with Ron -- but it ended here, in her hands, in her body. She wasn't just going to fuck Craig. She was going to remind him who had permission to make him fall apart.

She climbed into his lap with the same certainty that had carried her across the apartment, her thighs spreading around him as she straddled him, heat radiating off her skin in waves. Her breath was on his neck, warm and fast, and when her hand slid into his hair and pulled him back to look at her, her eyes gleamed like she was holding a secret she had no intention of keeping.

"I'm not done," she whispered. "You're not done."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth had gone dry, his cock throbbed against her. She shifted higher, slow and controlled, and moved up his body until her knees bracketed his shoulders. One hand slipped between her thighs, fingers parting her lips, and the light caught the shine of her wetness in a way that made his breath hitch. She was soaked. Not a little. Drenched -- with arousal, with heat, with memory.

"Eat me," she said. Soft voice. Hard command. "Now."

He obeyed. He leaned in, his mouth finding her without hesitation, tongue sliding deep between her folds as he groaned into the taste of her -- sweet and salt and wild. She gasped at the contact, and instead of pulling back, she pressed down, grinding against his tongue like she'd been waiting all night to sit on his mouth. There was no gentleness. No testing the waters. She rode him, hips rolling in slow, precise motion as she fucked his face with purpose, with hunger, with ownership.

"Can you see how wet I am?" she panted, her voice shaking with breath. "You feel that?"

Her fingers tangled tighter in his hair, dragging his face up harder into her, smothering him in slick heat. He groaned back, tongue working faster now, harder, desperate for more.

"You know why I'm so wet, don't you?"

He hesitated -- not because he didn't know, but because saying it out loud might break him. Might make it too real. That hesitation made her hips slam down with more force, her thighs tightening like a vice around his ears.

"You know," she whispered, voice like silk on a blade. "Same reason you came harder than I've ever seen you cum. Same reason you made a mess of the glass. Same reason your cock hasn't gone soft since."

Her rhythm picked up, breath catching. Her grip in his hair turned savage, almost shaking as she rode the edge. Craig's hands clutched her thighs now, fingers digging into the soft skin as he tried to keep up, to give her what she was demanding. He could barely breathe, his face soaked in her scent, his jaw aching -- but none of that mattered. Only she did.

"Yes, baby," she gasped, head tipping back, voice rising. "Just like that... fuck, yes. Eat my pussy."

Her hips rolled harder, faster, grinding into his mouth with frantic precision. "I'm so close," she groaned, her breath ragged. "Don't you fucking stop--ohhh fuck--I'm cumming--"

It broke over her like a tidal wave, violent and full. Her whole body seized with it -- shuddering, shaking, grinding her soaked cunt against his mouth as the orgasm tore through her. She panted, gasped, her cries sharp and high as she ground down onto his face, forcing him to take all of her, to feel every pulse, every throb, every drop of her release.

Her thighs clamped tight around his head, her back arching, one hand clawing into his hair, the other braced against the headboard as she rode the aftershocks out in slow, trembling waves. Her moans dissolved into broken breath, her body twitching with each fading jolt until finally -- finally -- she collapsed forward, panting, lips parted, skin glowing.

And Craig, dizzy and drenched and aching, held her there with both hands still wrapped around her thighs, his face buried in the heat of her, like he never wanted to come up for air.

But she didn't stop. She didn't dismount. She stayed exactly where she was -- straddling his chest, thighs still trembling from release, her breath slowly evening out in warm, open gasps. Her fingers stroked his cheek in slow, absent-minded passes, tender in contrast to the rawness of what had just happened. Her pussy still pulsed against his skin, slick and aching.

"You eat pussy so well, babe..." she murmured, her voice husky, laced with satisfaction and something more dangerous. Her fingers slid down, tracing his jaw, his throat, his sternum. "But now I need more," she whispered. "I need to be fucked."

She shifted lower with purpose -- not teasing, not easing -- just taking. Her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, now fully hard again, glistening with her arousal and the faint, sticky remnants of his last release. She guided him to her entrance with no hesitation, no hesitation, and with one slow, greedy roll of her hips, she sank down onto him. Her moan spilled out low and guttural, a sound caught between hunger and relief, like her body had needed this all along.

The moment he was fully seated inside her, she started to move -- not lazily, not seductively, but with intent. Sharp, grinding circles that pulled groans from deep in his chest, that made his hands fly to her hips as if he needed something to hold onto just to stay grounded. Her pussy gripped him tight, soaked and hot, drawing him in deeper with every thrust. She rode him hard, deliberately, chasing something deeper, darker.

"Oh god... you feel so fucking big tonight," she gasped, voice jagged, her rhythm relentless as the bed began to creak and shift beneath them.

Craig moaned, thrusting up to meet her, already drowning in the slick wet heat, the drag of her walls, the rhythm of her body. But then her mouth found his neck, and her words found something even deeper.

"But I know someone..." she panted, breath hot against his ear, "who'd feel even bigger."

His entire body jolted beneath her. Eyes wide. Breath gone.

"Someone who'd stretch this pussy out proper..."

His grip tightened, his hips stuttering. She didn't stop.

"Really open me up," she moaned, grinding harder, her voice honeyed filth. "Is that what you want to see? Is that what's got you so worked up tonight? You want to see what it looks like when someone even bigger takes what you love?"

That was it. That broke him.

Craig lost every shred of control. He surged upward, driving himself deeper into her with desperate force, his hands locking around her hips as if trying to hold back a tide. His climax hit hard, violent, unstoppable.

"Fuck--fuck, I'm cumming--Jesus--"

He gasped, broken and wild, as his orgasm tore through him -- full-body, explosive, his cock pulsing in thick, deep waves as he emptied inside her. His arms wrapped around her tight, clinging to her like letting go would mean falling apart completely. His face pressed into her shoulder, breath stuttering, skin burning.

Shannon held him, let him shake beneath her, her hips still rolling in slow, coaxing circles to draw every last drop from his cock. She threaded her fingers through his damp hair, anchoring him to the moment, her body calm now -- dominant even in her stillness. When she leaned in, her lips brushed the shell of his ear, her voice low and warm, sweet and sharp.

"That did it, didn't it?" she whispered. "Just the thought of me... and him."

Craig shuddered beneath her, helpless.

She kissed his jaw, soft and slow, her smile brushing over his skin like silk. "You came so hard for me, baby. Just from imagining it."

He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. He felt her words land in his chest like a brand -- hot, indelible, true. She wasn't wrong. God, she wasn't wrong. But as the heat faded and his breath began to return, something inside him didn't settle. It twisted. Quietly. Like a rope pulling taut beneath still water. He should've felt relief, pride, satisfaction -- but what rose instead was something closer to disorientation. Not because he'd come hard. But because he'd wanted to. Needed to. Because her voice -- Shannon's voice -- had pulled that orgasm from him not with her body, but with her words. With the image she painted: Ron inside her. And the worst part was, it hadn't repelled him. It hadn't repulsed him. It had broken him -- in the most shamefully satisfying way.

He had never come like that. Not in his life. It had been too much. Too much. Not just because of the way she moved or the way she moaned, but because of what had been in his head while it all happened.

The image of her. The fantasy of him. Together.

The truth of it left him dizzy.

And uncertain.

The apartment was quiet in the way morning sometimes is after something irreversible has happened -- not heavy, not uncomfortable, but stretched thin at the edges. A kind of silence that didn't press, but waited. Pale sunlight spilled across the bed in soft ribbons, painting faint gold across crumpled white sheets, the curved edge of Shannon's thigh, the slow, steady rise of Craig's chest. It was the kind of stillness that felt earned -- like the world was pausing just long enough to let them figure out how to speak again.

Shannon was already awake. Lying on her side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other drifting slowly across her own stomach, her fingers tracing shapes without pattern. Her body was still, but not asleep -- her eyes open, her mind clearly elsewhere. Craig turned toward her, his body heavy with the weight of sleep, but his thoughts anything but. He watched her for a while, longer than he meant to. Reading the lines of her face, the subtle curve of her lips, the way her chest lifted and fell without urgency. He couldn't tell if she was just resting... or waiting.

His voice came low, hoarse from sleep. "That was... some night, huh?"

She let out a soft hum, a note in the back of her throat that could've meant anything. "Mmm. Yeah. The dinner was lovely, honey."

Craig raised a brow. "You know I'm not talking about the dinner."

Her smile curled slowly, still facing the ceiling, her expression just shy of wicked. She didn't correct herself. Her fingers shifted lower on her skin, slow and absent, as if her body remembered more than her words admitted.

There was a pause -- not heavy, but full. Then, finally, Craig asked, voice softer now, like he wasn't sure how deep the question would land. "What do you think about it all?"

That made her turn her head. Her eyes found his, and they were clear -- not guilty, not guarded, just there. Present. "I think..." she said slowly, "we had some of the best sex we've ever had. And you, especially..." her voice lowered with something that danced between tenderness and tease, "had the biggest orgasms of your life."

He didn't respond right away. She let it sit. Her tone turned quieter, more pointed. "And I think we both know why."

Craig's gaze shifted to the window, to the pale morning sky bleeding through the blinds. His jaw tensed, then relaxed. He breathed in, then said it -- not like a revelation, but like a confession. "Yeah. That's what's scaring me."

Shannon didn't flinch. Didn't follow up with a lecture or reassurance. She just stayed close, quiet. When he spoke again, it was even softer, barely a thread of voice. "Is this... I don't know. Is this just role play? Fantasy?" His eyes came back to hers. "Or do you want more?"

There was no pause in her answer.

"Only if you do."

The words were simple. Gentle. Not bait. Not a push. Just... truth.

And somehow that made it harder. Or maybe easier. Craig couldn't tell which. He didn't respond with words. Just nodded, slow and vague, like maybe movement could make the storm inside him settle into something he could understand. But it didn't. Because the truth was -- he didn't know what scared him more.

The fact he was even thinking about this. Or the fact that he had already opened the door.

Shannon reached beneath the sheets and found his hand -- warm, loose, fingers threading into his without pressure. No agenda. Just presence.

He held on tighter than he meant to.

And she let him.

The kitchen was wrapped in the soft hush of early light -- that rare kind of quiet that settles over a space not in discomfort, but in recovery. Sunlight stretched across the marble counters like water, golden and cool, catching gently on chrome handles and the edge of a glass tumbler left from the night before. Craig stepped into the room barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, his skin tingling with the memory of heat -- not from the water, but from everything the apartment had witnessed just hours ago. Nothing in the space had changed. And yet... everything had. The air carried it. Something unspoken, but heavy.

Ron was already there, leaning casually against the island with a coffee mug in hand, his posture loose, unguarded. Fitted joggers and a clean black tee hugged his frame, but there was nothing performative about the way he wore them -- just ease. He looked rested. Present. A man entirely at home in his skin. When he saw Craig, he gave a small smile -- not just polite, but warm. Familiar. The kind of smile that reached the eyes.

"Morning," Ron said, his voice still soft with sleep, but friendly. Inviting.

Craig nodded as he crossed the room. "Morning."

The coffee pot was still warm. Craig poured a cup slowly, grateful for something to hold, something solid. The quiet around them wasn't awkward -- it just felt like the apartment had taken a long, deep breath and was still exhaling. He didn't look at Ron, not at first. Because looking at him -- really seeing him -- still brought back the memory: that impossible body, that impossible cock, the sight of it disappearing into a woman's throat as Shannon whispered how much she wanted it for herself. And her hand. Her voice. The way Craig had come harder than he ever had in his life. Right there, watching.

Ron didn't mention it. Not even in the way he stood. There was no hint of smugness, no edge. He sipped his coffee, then tilted his head slightly, a quiet gesture of curiosity.

"You think more about the offer?"

Craig blinked, pulled back to the moment. "Yeah. I did."

Ron gave a small nod and didn't rush him, just waited, clearly open. There was no push. Just... interest. Genuine.

"I talked it through with Shannon," Craig said, turning toward him. "And I'd love to accept. It's... a hell of an opportunity."

Ron's smile deepened -- not big, but sincere. "That's great to hear. I'm really glad." His voice was calm, but Craig could feel the weight behind it -- not just a business move, not a checkbox, but something closer to belief. "You've got sharp instincts," Ron added. "You don't need to posture. You listen. You read the room. That's rare. It means something to me."

Craig met his eyes then, and what he saw wasn't superiority or distance. It was connection. Ron didn't say things he didn't mean -- Craig knew that already. But now, in the warm spill of morning light, the words felt more like a gesture of trust than a test.

"I like working with people I respect," Ron said. "People who carry weight without noise. You've got that."

Craig felt it hit in his chest -- that quiet kind of affirmation that settles in deep. "Thanks," he said, his voice a little lower. "I won't let you down."

Ron chuckled, not mocking but soft, like it amused him that Craig still felt the need to say it. "I'm not worried about that." He clinked his mug lightly against the counter and added, "You're exactly the kind of person I want next to me."

And this time, when the silence stretched between them, it wasn't heavy or expectant. It was comfortable. Solid. The kind of pause between men who didn't need to fill the space with noise to know something important had just shifted.

"We'll sit down later this week," Ron said, finishing his coffee. "Go over numbers. Get everything in place. You'll have freedom, backing -- real room to grow."

Craig nodded, the words ringing true. "Yeah. Sounds good."

And it did. Not just on paper. Not just in potential. It felt like the start of something real.

That might have been the end of it -- a professional agreement between two men, sealed in mutual respect and morning quiet -- but then the soft shuffle of bare feet across tile broke the stillness. Shannon stepped into the room.

She moved like warmth poured into form, like sunlight had taken on skin. One of Craig's oversized T-shirts hung from her frame, the neckline wide, slipping off one shoulder, the hem brushing high across the curve of her thighs. Her hair was loose, wild from sleep and sex, and she carried herself with the lazy confidence of a woman who had been thoroughly touched and hadn't felt the need to mask it. She didn't pause in the doorway. She just moved to Craig's side and stole his coffee with a small grin, lifting it to her lips before he could protest.

"Morning," she said, her voice a little hoarse, a little smug.

Ron turned toward her with the same quiet grace he'd given Craig -- calm, composed, but attentive. His eyes scanned her, quick and clean, not invasive, not claiming -- just... seeing. And when he smiled, it was soft. Genuine. The kind of smile that didn't need layers.

"Morning," he said, and something in his tone shifted -- a shade warmer than before, still respectful, but touched with subtle recognition.

Craig felt her hand slip to his waist, her fingers pressing gently at the curve of his hip. A small, grounding gesture. But it didn't go unnoticed.

Ron's gaze moved between them then. Just once. A flicker of understanding passed behind his eyes -- not judgment, not assumption. Just awareness. Something deeper. Something earned.

"So," he said, lifting his mug slightly. "How was your night?"

Craig opened his mouth to answer, but Shannon beat him to it, her voice light and deceptively easy. "Eventful," she said, that familiar spark of amusement curling at the corner of her lips.

Craig let out a short laugh -- too quiet, too fast. "Yeah. That's... one word for it."

Ron chuckled too, but his didn't carry the same nerves. His was low, smooth. Certain. "Well," he said, tone casual, "next time, you don't have to watch from inside."

Craig stiffened slightly, caught between breath and thought. Shannon's eyes narrowed just slightly -- not from offence, but from intrigue.

"You're welcome to join us," Ron added, sipping his coffee again like the invitation cost him nothing. "No need to be shy."

Ron turned away then, not lingering for a reaction, his stride calm, unhurried -- the movement of a man who didn't wonder if his words would land. But just before disappearing down the hall, he glanced back over his shoulder, not with challenge, but with ease.

"She's coming over again tomorrow," he said. "BBQ. Drinks. Sunset."

He paused.

"You two should come out. Bring suits."

Another pause -- lighter this time, almost amused.

"Or don't."

He smiled faintly, the weight of it casual.

"We don't."

And then he was gone, the sound of his footsteps soft against the hallway tile, leaving his words hanging like steam from cooling water -- something faint, but clinging.

Craig stood frozen for a beat, the full meaning wrapping around him like heat. He didn't know if it was invitation, provocation, or prophecy -- but it felt like all three. The offer. The openness. The challenge built into the ease.

Shannon stepped closer. Her hand slid up his back, warm and steady, anchoring him.

"I will," she murmured, voice low, intimate. "If you will."

Craig met her eyes, his pulse thick in his throat. She was calm. Collected. But behind that small, crooked smile was a truth they both knew -- she'd already made up her mind.

She wanted it.

And she knew he did too.

He just hadn't said it yet.

Not out loud.