Chapter 163: Between Duty and Desire.
I slid my hands up the smooth skin of her thighs with excruciating slowness, my palms gliding over the warm, trembling flesh that quivered beneath every millimeter of contact.
The heat radiating from her skin seeped into my callused fingertips, a living pulse that betrayed her desperate need, while the thin nightdress whispered higher and higher with a soft, silken rustle against her body. Inch by torturous inch, the fabric surrendered, bunching uselessly around her waist in a pale, crumpled ring that caught the flickering blue-silver light from the muted television, casting fractured shadows across the curve of her hips like fractured moonlight on restless water.
Carrise made a quiet, needy sound in the back of her throat, almost a whimper, raw and unfiltered, a helpless vibration that resonated through her chest and into mine. Her fingers tightened in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp with a sting that bordered on pain, as she rolled her hips again in that instinctive, seeking motion, chasing friction she couldn’t yet fully claim.
She ground down harder against the rigid length straining painfully in my pants—a deliberate, heavy press that soaked through the thin fabric, leaving a slick, hot trail along my shaft with every slow, filthy grind.
The heat of her pussy was feverish, almost scalding, her arousal coating me in wet heat even through the barrier, the dampness seeping into the weave of my clothes like a brand. Each roll of her hips dragged her swollen folds along me with obscene precision, the friction building a slick, audible slide that filled the charged silence between us.
"Do you like it?" she asked, voice husky and breathless as she pulled back just enough to look at me.
Her dark eyes were wide, pupils blown wide with desire, gleaming with raw vulnerability in the flickering blue-silver glow of the muted television. The light danced across her flushed cheeks, hollowing the soft planes of her face in momentary shadow before illuminating the genuine, open hunger there—warm and feverish, like molten honey poured over bare skin.
For a split second, the open devotion in her gaze made the guilt I was trying to bury surge forward like ice water in my veins, a freezing shock that seized my lungs and prickled across my shoulders in a visceral chill.
I had left a door open upstairs. I had walked away from Sherry.
"It’s okay to die," my father’s voice echoed in my head as Carrise moved on top of me, the memory slicing through the warmth of her body like a blade dragged across heated flesh.
Sometimes a person had to make a decision that would hurt him for a greater goal. The awakening will kill everyone.
To drown it, I gripped Carrise’s hips harder, my fingers sinking deep into the soft, yielding flesh with bruising force, anchoring her as she sank fully onto me again. The sudden heavy pressure made her breath hitch sharply in her throat, a small, broken gasp that fluttered against my collarbone, her eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat as her body yielded to the claim.
She rolled her hips in a deliberate, aching wave, her bare ass flexing against my thighs with taut muscle beneath plush warmth, the slick lips of her pussy dragging along the thick ridge of my cock through my pants in a torturously slow glide that left fresh trails of her arousal cooling against my skin.
"I like it when you apply force," she muttered against my jaw, her breathing shallow and ragged, warm puffs of breath dampening my skin, her knees sinking deeper into the sofa cushions on either side of my hips with a soft creak of fabric and springs.
My fingers traced the curve of her waist, mapping the gentle dip and swell with deliberate pressure, but the muscle memory lied. My hands remembered a different skin.
Sherry’s waist had felt smaller, firmer under my palms just minutes ago in that dimly lit hallway, the memory flashing like lightning behind my eyes. Closing my eyes only sharpened it: the shadow of her short hair brushing my fingers with a cool, tickling whisper, the sharp, electrifying tug when she dragged me in for that second kiss, her lips flushed and swollen against mine with an insistent pressure. The faint, artificial sweetness of her lip balm still ghosted across my tongue, cloying and synthetic, like sugar laced with static electricity.
The contrast was suffocating—Carrise’s heavy, fluid warmth enveloping me like fevered silk versus the sharper, firmer edges of Sherry’s touch that still clung to my nerves like live wires.
I kissed Carrise deeper, chasing the ghost away with ruthless intent, my tongue thrusting hard like I could fuck the memory out of my own head. She gasped into my mouth, a soft, surrendering sound that melted against my lips, her nails digging into my shoulders as she rocked faster, misinterpreting the raw desperation clawing through my chest for pure, unbridled hunger.
The blue-silver flicker from the television painted shifting patterns of light and shadow across her skin, highlighting the sheen of sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat, the way her lips parted in helpless pleasure.
"This feels... so good," she whispered, voice raw and entirely open, like she was handing me something fragile and trusting me not to break it, her warmth genuine and feverish, her body a soft, yielding sanctuary even as guilt hardened like frost in my veins.
[Target in optimal condition.]
[This may be your simplest mark yet.]
The system notifications flashed coldly through my mind, a mechanical intrusion that tightened my chest with another wave of icy guilt, making my grip on her momentarily falter before clenching tighter, the physical toll manifesting as a hitch in my breath and a subtle tremor in my forearms.
Carrise lifted her weight slightly, the shift in pressure sending a fresh rush of cool air across my damp lap, her hands reaching down between us with quick, eager movements that brushed against my straining cock. Her fingers worked my pants open with trembling urgency, tugging them down just enough to free me. My cock sprang free, hard and heavy, the thick head already glistening with precum that caught the flickering television light like liquid silver.
She wrapped her hand around the base, stroking once, twice, her palm warm and slightly callused from life, feeling the weight and heat of it with reverent pressure that made my thighs tense.
Then she slid down.
Her tongue came out first—hot, wet, dragging slowly from the base of my cock all the way up to the swollen head in one long, torturous lick that left a glistening trail of saliva cooling in the air. She circled the tip with deliberate care, tasting the bead of precum that had welled there, her lips soft and plush as they closed around the head.
Before taking me into her mouth, her lips stretched around me, warm and tight, sinking down inch by inch until I hit the back of her throat with a subtle, reflexive gag that vibrated through her. She moaned around my cock, the low, needy sound shooting straight up my spine like liquid fire as she started to move—slow, deep bobs of her head, her tongue pressing flat against the underside with firm, wet pressure, saliva dripping down my shaft in warm rivulets that traced over my balls and soaked into the fabric below.
Her dark hair fell forward, brushing my thighs in silken strands that tickled with every motion as she worked me, one hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t take with rhythmic twists, the other gripping my hip for leverage, nails biting into skin. The wet, obscene sounds of her sucking filled the room—soft, rhythmic slurps and gasps—mixing with her soft, needy whimpers every time she took me deeper.
I gripped her hair, not guiding, just holding on with fingers tangled in the dark strands, watching the way her cheeks hollowed and her throat worked visibly around me, the flickering light from the television painting shifting patterns across her face and the glistening length of my cock sliding between her lips—shadows chasing highlights over the wet sheen.
She was giving herself completely, warm and feverish and achingly vulnerable, and I was taking it, even as part of me remained on the floor above with the colder, sharper ghost of Sherry and the weight of doors left deliberately open.
[Pour into her.]
