Chapter 386 - Realization of a Mother
Raven was not in the kitchen.
His body was in the kitchen — his hands, his cock, the warm tension in his thighs as he stood over her — but the rest of him had gone somewhere else.
Gone backward.
The image arrived the way the bad ones always arrive: without invitation, without sequence, without the courtesy of a frame. Just the garden.
The moonlight. The specific, cold weight of Gareth’s fist hitting his gut with the casual, comprehensive force of a man who did not know yet what he was.
The way the air had displaced.
The grass flattening.
The blood in his mouth tasting like copper and like information.
’’Y-you... motherfucker.’’
He had said those words with his face in the grass and his ears ringing and the humiliating, precise awareness that the young man standing over him had hit him like he weighed nothing — like Raven was an ’obstacle’, a mild inconvenience to be removed from the garden so that the real evening could continue.
’’Weak.’’
’’Still.’’
The copper taste.
The grass.
He pulled out of her mouth.
The withdrawal was abrupt — the cock clearing her lips with the wet, audible drag of full exit — and Jennifer made the sound of sudden deprivation, the involuntary, embarrassing sound of a mouth that had been occupied and was now empty.
She blinked up at him.
Her lips were swollen. Shining. Her chin was wet.
"’What are you doing.’" Her voice. Hoarse. The question of a woman who had learned today that she was not in charge of the schedule but still required information. "’I was—’"
She looked at his face.
Whatever she saw there made her stop.
His jaw was set.
His eyes had the quality they got when something internal was happening that he had not chosen to share — the flat, contained look of a man running a private calculation — and his cock was still hard, still flushed, still the nine-inch fact of it present in the kitchen air.
He grabbed her hair.
Clean grip. The practiced certainty.
She made a sound of surprise — "’Wait—’" — and then she was up, her knees leaving the floor, her body pulled to standing by the single point of contact at her scalp.
"’What are you — not AGAIN — Raven, I just—’"
He turned her.
One motion. Her body redirected by the hair grip toward the kitchen table — the small one, the corner table where she set her morning coffee and her bakery notes, not the large dining table where Gareth slept — and he walked her toward it and she stumbled and caught herself on the edge.
"’Raven—’"
"’Sit up.’" Flat. Not angry. The voice of a man who has decided on something and is executing it. "’Let me fuck you.’"
"’I can’t — I’m tired — I told you—’"
His hand found the back of her neck and pressed her forward over the table surface.
Her chest met the wood.
Her apron rode up.
Her ass was exposed — the thick, generous spread of it, still marked from his hands, the ring of her stretched, trained ass catching the kitchen light — and he positioned himself and she said:
"’Wait — wait — please — not—’"
PHAAACKK!!
"’IAAAANGHH~!!’"
The small table nearly left the floor.
Both front legs lifted two inches with the impact, the edge of it driving into her hip bones, the surface shaking under the weight of her pressing into it — and the sound of flesh on flesh in the kitchen was the specific, carrying, dense ’crack’ of a man putting everything he was currently feeling into a single, bilateral commitment.
He did not slow down.
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! STOP — TOO FAST — YOU’RE — RAVEN — AAAHH~!!’"
His hips were blurring.
The pace he had set was not the working pace — not the measured, attentive rhythm he brought to things he was savoring — this was something past that, something that lived in the register of ’dealing with a problem’, the specific fury of a man trying to drown a memory in a sensation loud enough to replace it.
The kitchen filled with the sound of him.
The wet, relentless smack of his hips arriving against the full, soft weight of her ass — the flesh shaking outward on each impact, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs between strokes — and the sound of Jennifer, whose voice had long since stopped being managed, crying into the table surface with the genuine, overwhelmed tears of a woman who had thought she was approaching the end of something and had been shown the end was not close.
"’AAANGHH~!! HIEEK~!! FASTER — NO — TOO FAST — AAANGHH~!!’"
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
Her body moved forward with each thrust — the inertia of him arriving pushing her chest across the table, the wood leaving red drag marks on her skin — and she grabbed the far edge with both hands and held because there was nothing else.
Her pussy was running again.
The helpless, traitorous flood of her own arousal — her cunt producing evidence of its own position despite everything she currently felt about the pace, the time, the state of her body — dripping freely down her inner thighs and collecting on the tile below in a small, honest pool.
"’I’M GOING TO — STOP — AAANGHH~!! I WOULD — HNGH~!!’"
She squirted.
Not the rolling kind. The sudden, forceful kind — the pressurized release of a woman whose body had been worked past its capacity and had voted to discharge everything at once, the warm flood of it jetting forward and hitting the underside of the table and running everywhere simultaneously.
She was crying.
Gasping.
Her fingers had gone white on the table edge.
"’HNNGH~!! AAAHH~!! AAANGHH~!!’"
’’Why is he—’’
She could feel something different about this.
Not the methodical claiming of earlier — not the patient, attentive deconstruction of a man who was building something — this was ’different’, the quality of it like something being worked through, something being metabolized through her body by force.
’’He’s angry.’’
’’Not at me.’’
’’He’s—’’
His hand snaked forward over her back.
Found the space between her body and the table.
’!—N-no m-my b-body—"IAANGHH~~!!"
Wedged between her breast and the wood, his palm cupping the full weight of it — kneading, his fingers pressing into the soft, milk-warm flesh — and his body leaned down, the solid weight of his torso settling across her back, his lips arriving near her ear.
His hips did not stop.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! HNNGH~—’"
He turned his head.
She felt it — the shift of his attention, the quality of his focus moving off her and toward something else — and she turned her own head enough to see what he was looking at.
Gareth.
Still asleep in his chair.
The slack, peaceful face of her son, three feet away, completely unknowing, while his mother was folded over the corner table taking the full velocity of a man’s frustration with every pound of force available to him.
Raven looked at Gareth’s sleeping face.
And his hips increased.
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! STOP — YOU’RE TOO — I CAN’T — AAAHH~!!’"
"’IAAAANGHH~!!’"
’’This is what you get,’’ Raven thought, looking at the boy, ’’for that punch.’’
’’You absolute bastard.’’
’’I’m in your kitchen.’’
’’I’m inside your mother.’’
’’And you’re asleep.’’
His jaw tightened.
’Ah... should I impregnate your mother first before your fiancée... Huh?’