Page 76 of Folds
This was clearly the home of someone who had committed to making her space beautiful, regardless of assignment length. Sadie moved through it with casual pride, slipping off her boots and arranging them neatly by the door before gesturing to a collection of framed photos—some vintage, some digital, clannish, some with a sleeved arm around a little human girl who had Sadie’s wild hair and defiant tilt of chin.
She flicked the lock and gestured me inside, then shut the door with her heel. There was none of the choreography of a first date, no nervous trailing of fingers on the furniture or elaborate drink-offering gambits. Instead, she took one brisk circuit of the room, straightening a mug, flicking on a playlist, then planted herself on the edge of her bed and looked up—waiting for me to make the next move.
I hovered, uncertain. There were at least three Bozad cultural scripts for sexual escalation, but all of them involved elaborate negotiation and at least one preliminary match of competitive sports. Sadie, by contrast, radiated a heat signature that said,if you want it, take it.
I resolved to take it, or at least to try.
I advanced, slow, cautious, bracing for a swerve. She let me approach, her unblinking gaze locked on my face—studying, perhaps, or daring me to misread her intent. When I stood before her, she placed a hand on my thigh, not tentative but not quite possessive, either. I felt the heat of her palm through the fabric, and my skin came alive, a migrainous pulse of recognition. She did not move, not even when I crouched to bring us eye to eye.
For a moment we hung there, in the negative space between want and action, her face upturned, her breath a slow dare. I could see the microflares in her pupils, the dilation that evened out as she steadied herself to a single purpose.
“Are you going to stand there looking pretty,” she murmured, “or are you going to find out if I’m as competitive in bed as I am at the controls?”
I laughed, a rumble that surprised even myself. “You have always been a statistical outlier,” I said. “But your performance benchmarks are”—I glanced down, assessing the leverage she held with just that one hand—“exceeded by your capacity for escalation.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You really know how to ramp up the dirty talk, Lieutenant.” Her hand slid higher, testing, then with a swift movement, pulled me off-balance. The bedspring creaked as I landed, and she was on me, straddling my lap before my reflexes could repoint. She braced a knee at my hip and planted a palm at my shoulder, pinning me down with a strength grossly out of proportion to her size. I was winded. I was, for the first time in years, unsteady. She leaned in, mouth not even a centimeter from mine, her hair a wild halo of black that framed us together. I could feel each puff of her breath, matched to mine, the rhythm synchronizing until silence was a living thing between us.
Then she shoved me back with one hand, kissed me with the other, a collision all lips and tongue and the reckless need to outdo the last time. She nipped at my lower lip, hard, then deepened the kiss, her tongue slick and demanding, exploring me like a new terrain to be mapped and conquered. I gave back, matching tempo, wrestling her for control. Our bodies crashed together, her hands in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp where the short black strands bristled against her fingertips, my own hands framing her ribs, squeezing hard enough to leave prints. She seemed to want that, to be marked. I delighted in the struggle—the small grunts where she overreached, the gasp when I rolled her under with a twist of my hips and pinned her to the mattress, hands braced at either side of her head. Her legs scissored at my waist, grinding up for leverage as she twisted one arm over my head and locked my wrist under her palm. For a fraction of a second, I was stunned. Every instinct from a lifetime of combat told me to buck, to throwher off, to reclaim dominance, but there was a new impulse now, a hunger not just for her body but for the contest itself. She wanted a fight, a real one. I could feel her thigh tense where it braced against my hip, the gluteal muscle flexing as she shifted her entire center of gravity forward. Her other hand searched for my other wrist, and when she caught it, she pinned both overhead, straddling me like the victor at the end of a tournament.
I could have overpowered her with a half-motion. Instead, I let her force both my wrists into the mattress, her narrow hands barely spanning my cuffs. Her face hovered over mine, wild with anticipation and the sweat shine of exertion.
“You like this?” she whispered, lips so close I could feel the vibration of her words on my mouth.
“Yes,” I said. My voice was rawer than I expected. I wanted her to drown in it—her desire, her heat, her small body commanding the gravity of the whole damn room. Her eyes flickered, searching mine for weakness, and I saw no fear in her at all, only wild, undiluted appetite.
Sadie bared her teeth, a feral little grin that set my blood to riot, and then bit the base of my jaw, right at the vulnerable angle where the muscle met bone. It didn’t hurt, not really, but a pulse of panic-hot pleasure shot down my spine, and before I could mask it, the shiver traveled my whole body. She must have felt it; she released my wrists and drove both hands to my chest, kneading the ridges of muscle like she was hunting for an entry point. I didn’t fight—didn’t even pretend to resist. I wanted to see how far she’d take it, wanted to know if she’d actually try to break me or just carve her signature into my body.
Sadie ripped at the fastener on my jacket, popped three snaps in a single twist, and shoved it down my arms. My skin burned where her hands followed, nails raking, her fingers quick and greedy. She planted a palm high on my chest and leaned in, breath nose to mouth, and said, “Hold still.”
I did, and she slid down, hot and slow. Her hands—small,precise—guided my cock out of its rigid prison. I had never been so exposed, so unprepared.
She looked up at me, wild smile flashing, and then without warning, she took me in her mouth.
The shock nearly paralyzed me. Human mouths, I knew, were engineered for speech and rudimentary nutrition. But this—her tongue flat and hungry, her lips sealing around my tip, her hands pumping the base as if coaxing a new weapon from its factory wrap—this was beyond simulation, beyond anticipation. I felt every ridge of my cock flex, each pulse echoing into her mouth. She moaned, deep-throated, and the vibration nearly cored out my brainstem. I braced myself on the bed, too stunned to thrust or move.
Sadie laughed, a giddy, wicked sound muffled by my cock in her mouth. She pulled back breathing hard, then went in again, this time swirling her tongue around the head, pressing into the split at the tip.
I tried to apologize. “You do not?—”
She interrupted by sucking harder, finger and thumb wrapping the base, then twisting her wrist, all the while fixing me with a stare that dared me to outlast her or die trying. It was not at all like simulation. The reality was wetter, hotter, uncontrollable. I felt the base of my spine unspool, pleasure spiking so brightly I had to force my hands against the mattress to keep from bucking my hips and choking her.
She let up just enough to catch her breath, lips glossy and parted, looking up at me with that dangerous glint.
“First time?” she said, voice a little thick, a wet ring around her mouth making the words even filthier than the question. I tried to speak; I think I grunted, maybe a single syllable.
“Yes,” I managed, but my voice had no steadiness, no command of the situation. I had never felt this helpless, not even at my first combat drop. She liked that, loved it, I could see—her eyes tracked every twitch of my body, every tremor in my restraint.It was a game for her—how much of me could she unravel before I called for mercy?
She used her hand to stroke me again, slow and deliberate, while her mouth described the wettest, tightest spiral down my shaft. Her mouth was merciless, her hands mapping every contour of my cock as if she wanted to keep it as a trophy. I felt my discipline wavering, the last bracing of my thighs against the mattress failing as she worked her tongue along the ridges, flicking just under the crown in a motion so precise I believed she was analyzing me at the atomic level.
I tried to warn her—an honest, desperate, “Sadie”—but in the next instant, she hollowed her cheeks and the suction clamped around my head, drawing a groan out of me so raw I thought my throat might collapse. She didn’t pause, ramping the pressure and tempo in a relentless series of wet, hungry cycles, pushing me closer to the edge than any simulation, any fantasy.
I grabbed her by the shoulders, intending to warn or protest—but my grip only spurred her on, and she wriggled deeper, taking me to the hilt until I was pressed so hard to the back of her throat, I could feel the heat of her pulse against the tip. The pleasure was armor-piercing, relentless; I had no chance to resist. I was seconds from erupting in her mouth, but that wasn’t how I wanted this to end.
With a growl, I pulled back from that dangerous heat. My hands found her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. In one fluid motion, I spun her away from my throbbing cock, flipping her onto all fours and dragging her hips back against me with one arm locked around her waist. She smiled, feral and pleased, and braced herself on her forearms, opening for me with a slow, taunting roll of her hips.
I gripped her, hands spreading around the flex of her ass, and pressed the head of my cock to the slick, impatient heat of her. The sight was incredible. Even from this vantage, I was again spellbound by the human anatomy, the folds and clefts so unlike the tidy geometry of Bozad mates. Every contour of her sex seemedengineered for sensation—corrugated, multidimensional, a puzzle box of skin and pulse and velvet. Last time, I’d found her anatomy overwhelmingly complex with its intricate layers. This time, I wanted to study, to taste and test her until I’d mapped every small structure by tongue and hand. I drew back, my cock dragging wetly against her, then leaned in and parted the folds with a gentle press of my thumbs. The skin was darker here, glistening; moisture beaded in the valleys, a salinity I could smell from inches away. The inner folds were so delicate, they pulsed with every breath, quivering as the air hit them. Fascination trumped any embarrassment. This position—so exposed, so vulnerable—spoke to something primal in both of us. She arched, offering herself, and I lined up, my fingers bruising into her flesh, the need to claim her evaporating my thoughts. I pushed in slowly, letting her sheath around me, letting every textured ridge of my shaft drag through her tight wetness, so full and hot I nearly lost myself on the second thrust.
She moaned, a long, broken sound, and ground herself back onto me, greedy for every inch. The ridges flexed and pulsed, engineered to milk pleasure out of every stroke, and she took it all. I braced her hips in both hands, setting a deep, relentless rhythm. Each time I bottomed out, her body clenched so hard around me it bordered on pain—rapture and violence, no boundary left between them. When I pressed in tight, the ridges along my cock twisted and flared in perfect sync with her own spasms, and she screamed, pleasure so sharp it bent her spine into a bow. I was half-mad with need, every cell tuned to the rush and flutter of her body’s responses—her cunt slicked and gloved me so tight that I felt her heartbeat, electric and wild, pulsing along the whole length of me.
