The fire had burned down to a nest of dull red coals, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Empty beer bottles stood in a loose circle around the chairs. His wife had disappeared inside hours ago, laughing too loud, weaving toward the guest room with a slurred promise to “sleep it off.”
Now it was just him and Lauren.
Lauren, twenty-eight and five years younger than her sister, was built like she’d been drawn by someone who really, really liked curves. She lounged in the opposite Adirondack. Her dark hair was piled messily on top of her head, a few loose strands stuck to the faint sheen of sweat along her neck. The old white tank top she wore had once been oversized on her back in high school; now it clung for dear life. The thin cotton stretched tight across her chest, the weight of her full, heavy breasts pulling the fabric downward so the neckline sagged low, revealing the soft upper swell and the shadowed line between them. Every time she moved, the material shifted, outlining the round shape of her nipples, already stiff from the cool night air.
She wasn’t model-thin like her sister. Lauren carried softness in all the places that made a man’s hands itch: plush hips that filled out her cut-off denim shorts, thick thighs pressed together as she sat sideways in the chair, one bare foot propped on the rim of the fire pit. There was something awkward about her sex appeal. She sometimes forgot how much space she took up, and she’d laugh too loud and then bite her lip like she was embarrassed by it. But that only made it worse. More real. More dangerous.
She rolled an empty beer bottle between her palms, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes the color of whiskey held to the light.
“You always hide the good stuff when she’s around,” she said, voice husky from the smoke and the beer. “Scared she’ll out-drink you?”
He snorted, stood, and disappeared into the garage. When he came back with the vodka and two shot glasses, Lauren’s slow smile spread wide.
“Attaboy.”
He poured. Clear liquor trembled to the brim.
She lifted hers. “To secrets,” she said, the word curling like smoke.
They drank.
The first shot scorched. The second warmed. The third loosened every knot in his chest. Lauren poured the fourth herself, leaning forward. The motion made her tank top dip even lower, the soft weight of her breasts swaying heavily, almost spilling free. Firelight painted gold along the deep curve of her cleavage and the faint sheen of perspiration on her skin.
They threw the fourth back together.
She exhaled through parted lips, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop at the corner of her mouth. Then she settled back into the chair, one knee drawn up, body angled toward him. The empty shot glass dangled from her fingers, forgotten.
The night settled thick and quiet around them, broken only by the occasional pop of a coal in the pit and the low thud of his pulse in his ears.
Lauren suddenly pressed her thighs together and let out a short, embarrassed laugh.
“Shit… I have to pee,” she blurted, louder than she meant to, then slapped a hand over her mouth and glanced toward the dark house. “Like, right now. But if I go inside I’ll wake everybody up clomping around.”
Before he could answer, she was already on her feet, swaying just a little from the vodka. She took three quick steps toward the deeper shadows of the backyard, then four more, the orange flicker of the coals painting shifting light across the backs of her thighs.
She stopped maybe fifteen feet away, half-lit, half-hidden. Turned her head, looked straight back at him over one bare shoulder. Their eyes locked. He felt his face burn and jerked his gaze to the fire, but the after-image of her staring at him was already branded on the inside of his eyelids.
A soft rustle of denim. The quiet snap of elastic.
He couldn’t help it; he turned just enough.
Lauren had hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her cut-off shorts and panties together and pushed them down in one clumsy motion. The fabric caught for a second on the swell of her hips, then dropped to her knees. Moonlight and firelight met across the pale curve of her ass as she squatted, thighs spread wide for balance, knees bent awkwardly.
The hiss started almost immediately, a hard, urgent stream hitting dry grass. The sound was unmistakable in the stillness, intimate and raw. He couldn’t breathe. Heat flooded every inch of him; his pulse hammered so loud he was sure she could hear it.
Lauren let her head fall forward, hair spilling loose from its messy bun, a low relieved sigh escaping her lips.
Then the ground betrayed her.
One foot slipped in the soft earth and she toppled backward with a sharp, startled yelp that was half laugh and half scream. It snapped his mind out of its haze.
“Help!” she gasped, giggling helplessly. “I’ve fallen back and I can’t get up without sitting in my own pee!”
He barked out a stunned laugh. “What??”
“Just come pull me up, you idiot,” she called, voice shaking with laughter, “and keep your eyes to yourself!”
He rose, the world tilting pleasantly from the vodka, and walked toward her guided only by the low glow of the coals. The grass was cool under his bare feet.
Lauren was half-sitting, half-reclining, shorts and panties still tangled at her knees, one hand braced behind her, the other waving in the dark. Her laughter bubbled up again when she saw him coming, bright and breathless.
He reached down. She grabbed his forearm with both hands, warm fingers gripping tight. He planted his feet and hauled.
The pull was harder than he expected. She came up fast, stumbling forward the last foot, and crashed softly into his chest.
The laughter died in the same instant.
Her body pressed flush against his. Her full, heavy breasts crushed to his ribs, her damp skin carrying the faint scent of vodka and warm female and fresh earth. Shorts still caught at her thighs, she was half-naked against him, breathing hard.
Their eyes locked.
Neither of them moved.
His palm settled low on the curve of her back, fingers splayed wide, and he pulled her in hard. The soft weight of her body slammed against his, her bare skin fever-hot through his shirt. Lauren’s breath hitched; she rose on her toes, hands shooting up to cup his jaw, and crushed her mouth to his.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was years of stolen glances and drunk almost exploding all at once. Teeth clashed, tongues slid slick and desperate, and both of them groaned like the contact alone might finish them.
His hands dropped without thinking. The realization hit him mid-kiss: she still had nothing on below the waist. His fingers found the lush undercurve where her ass met thigh—that perfect, heavy handful he’d pictured a thousand times in the dark—and he gripped hard, lifting her slightly so she was pressed even tighter against the ridge straining in his jeans.
Lauren made a needy sound into his mouth and fumbled with his belt, fingers clumsy from vodka and want. She yanked the zipper down, shoved her hand inside, and wrapped around his cock like she’d been waiting her whole life to feel him throb in her fist.
They both moaned, raw and helpless sounds swallowed by the kiss.
He broke away just long enough to drag her hand free, pinning it gently to his chest so he could taste her neck. Open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, teeth grazing the spot that made her shudder. His other hand finally shoved up under that tortured tank top and closed over one full, soft breast. The weight of it spilled over his palm, nipple stiff against his thumb. He groaned against her skin and squeezed, rolling the heavy globe like he was making up for every second he’d only been allowed to look.
He was on his knees in the cool grass before he even registered the drop, hands sliding from her hips to grip the backs of her thick thighs and spread her wider. Lauren’s shorts and panties were still tangled around one ankle; she kicked them off with a shaky laugh that turned into a gasp the second his mouth found her.
He didn’t start gentle.
He dragged his tongue up the seam of her in one long, wet lick, gathering the slick that had been dripping down her inner thighs since the moment she’d squatted to pee. The taste hit him like a drug—sharp, sweet, a little salty from the night air—and he groaned right against her, the vibration making her hips jerk forward.
“Fuck,” she whimpered, fingers knotting hard in his hair.
He spread her open with his thumbs, exposing every slick fold to the faint firelight. Her clit was swollen, flushed dark, begging. He wrapped his lips around it and sucked—hard, obscene, the wet sound loud in the quiet yard. Lauren’s knees buckled; he tightened his grip on her thighs to keep her upright.
He pulled off just long enough to spit on her, watching it mix with her own wetness before diving back in. Tongue flat and broad, he lapped at her like he was dying for it, tracing every ridge, dipping into her entrance to fuck her with quick, shallow thrusts of his tongue, then dragging back up to flick mercilessly at her clit.
She was soaked. Dripping down his chin, coating his lips, running in warm rivulets over his fingers where he held her open. He could feel her pulse throbbing against his tongue every time he sucked her clit into his mouth and rolled it gently between his lips.
He slid two fingers into her without warning—thick, rough, curling instantly to stroke that spot inside that made her cry out. Her walls clamped down, greedy and hot, and he started pumping them in time with the relentless pull of his mouth. Every thrust pushed more wetness out around his knuckles; he could hear it, slick and filthy, mixing with her broken moans and the wet sounds of his tongue fucking into her.
Lauren’s thighs trembled violently. She was trying to stay quiet—biting her lip until it went white—but little punched-out sobs kept escaping. When he sealed his lips around her clit again and sucked hard while crooking his fingers inside her, she shattered.
Her whole body seized; her back arched so hard he had to brace her with an arm around her hips. A rush of wet heat flooded his tongue as she came, thighs clamping around his head, fingers yanking his hair so hard his eyes watered. He didn’t stop—kept licking her through it, gentler now, long slow drags to taste every pulse, every aftershock, until she was shaking too hard to stand.
Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, chin dripping, chest heaving like he’d been the one coming apart. Lauren stared down at him, eyes glassy, mouth open, breasts heaving under the stretched tank top. A thin string of her slick still connected his bottom lip to her pussy; he broke it with a slow swipe of his tongue and grinned, feral and wrecked.
She swayed, legs barely holding her.
Lauren’s hands were shaking with need as she dropped to her knees in the grass. She yanked at his belt, tore his jeans and boxers down in one frantic pull, his cock springing free, rigid and slick at the tip from watching her come apart on his tongue.
She didn’t waste time. She wrapped her lips around him, took him deep in one greedy slide until he hit the back of her throat. Her mouth was hot, wet, sloppy. She sucked hard once, twice, swirling her tongue around the head, coating every inch of him in spit until he was glistening. Then she pulled off with a wet pop, strings of saliva trailing from her lips to his cock.
“Fuck me,” she rasped, already turning.
She bent forward, hands braced on the seat of the Adirondack chair, legs spread wide, ass tilted up toward him. The firelight painted the slick shine between her thighs, her pussy swollen and dripping from his mouth. She reached back between her legs, grabbed his cock in one slick hand, and guided him straight to her entrance.
One brutal thrust and he was inside her.
They both cried out. She was scorching hot, velvet tight, still pulsing from her last orgasm. He grabbed her hips and started fucking her hard, hips slamming against her ass, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet night. Every thrust shoved her forward; her heavy breasts swung beneath the tank top, nipples dragging against the rough wood of the chair.
Lauren’s breath hitched, then broke. “Oh fuck—right there—” Her walls clamped down again, another orgasm ripping through her fast and violent. She shoved back against him, grinding, milking him with every shudder.
He groaned, fighting the edge.
“Don’t you fucking come yet,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “I want to see your face when you lose it.”
She pulled off him with a wet sound, spun around, and yanked her tank top up to her neck. Her tits spilled free, full and heavy and flushed dark at the tips, swaying as she rose on tiptoes. She grabbed his cock again, slick with her, and guided him back inside her in one slick drop.
Face to face now. Her arms looped around his neck, forehead pressed to his, eyes locked. He thrust up into her hard, desperate, one hand clawing at her ass, the other palming a breast, thumb flicking the nipple.
Three strokes, four, and he was gone.
He came with a guttural groan, hips jerking, spilling deep inside her in thick, pulsing waves. His fingers dug into her flesh hard enough to bruise, dragging down the curve of her ass, squeezing her tit like he needed to mark every inch he’d dreamed about.
Lauren held his gaze the whole time, lips parted, watching him fall apart.
When he was spent, trembling, she sank slowly to her knees again. Took his softening cock into her mouth and sucked him clean with slow, deliberate licks, swallowing every drop of them mixed together until he was shaking from overstimulation.
Then she stood, let her shirt fall back down, pressed one last deep, filthy kiss to his mouth so he could taste himself on her tongue, and walked barefoot across the grass toward the house.
She never looked back.
The screen door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the dying fire and the smell of sex still hanging thick in the air.
