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The Peach Stand

Conrad was fighting for his life during the peach scene. Here’s a NSFW fantasy of what was going through his head during this scene, and how he took care of himself after 😉

Pairings: Conrad / Belly

Warnings: Slow Burn. !erotic !masturbation !intimate !nsfw

The air in the car was thick with everything unsaid. The drive back to Cousins was supposed to be a truce, a fragile bubble of neutrality after the minefield of shopping for her wedding to my brother. Belly was in the passenger seat, a quiet, beautiful storm I didn’t know how to navigate. I was gripping the steering wheel like it was the only solid thing left in my world, which felt like it was perpetually tilting off its axis, especially when she was this close.

Then the sign flashed by: Fresh Peaches. Next Right.

The words were out before I could think. “Wanna stop?”

I felt her glance, a physical touch. “No, it’s fine. You already passed it.”

It wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. Passing it felt like another failure, another moment of hesitation in a long line of them. So I checked the mirror, swung the car around in a tight U-turn on the empty country road. Her small smile was a victory.

The stand was rustic, just a wooden shack with a few bushels. The silence between us as we got out was a living thing. She put a dollar in the honor system box, her fingers delicate against the weathered wood. She chose a peach, her brow furrowed in that way it did when she was concentrating, turning the fuzzy fruit over in her palm. The sun caught the downy surface, gilding it. My mouth went dry.

Then she bit into it.

Time didn’t just slow; it fractured, reformed around that single, devastating act. A soft, wet crunch, barely audible over the summer hum, but it echoed in my bones. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, involuntary moan escaping her lips as the flavor hit. It was a sound that went straight through me, a lightning strike to my nervous system.

I was paralyzed. This wasn’t just Belly eating a peach. This was a revelation. This was obscene.

The juice, gold and slick, welled at the point where her lips met the skin and began a slow, deliberate trail down the curve of her chin. She caught some with her tongue, a quick, pink flash, but more followed. She was utterly absorbed, lost in the sensation, sucking gently on the flesh of the fruit, her lips —her beautiful, impossible lips— shining and full. Every bite was a study in pleasure. A slight pull of her cheek, the press of her teeth, the way her throat worked as she swallowed. I was cataloging it all with a desperate, hungry precision. The sun warmed the side of her neck, highlighting the delicate tendon there. A drop of juice clung to her lower lip, trembling, before falling.

I had held her naked. But this… this was the most erotic thing I had ever witnessed. It was her unselfconscious pleasure, the pure, sensual joy of it. It was intimate in a way that felt more profound than any bed we’d ever shared. My skin felt too tight, my blood a low, insistent drumbeat in my ears. I was aware of every inch of space between us, a charged field I ached to cross.

“I almost don’t want to have another one,” she said, her voice huskier than usual, sticky with sugar. “Because there’s no way it can be as good.”

Her words broke my trance, but only to redirect the madness. The idea of it ending, of this private, agonizingly beautiful show being over, was unacceptable. I needed to see it again. I needed to prove, to myself more than her, that this magic was real.

“Let’s test that,” I heard myself say. My voice was rough, foreign.

I fumbled for my wallet, my fingers clumsy. Buying the second peach felt like a transaction for another hit of a drug I hadn’t known I was addicted to.

She took a second peach, a shy, knowing smile playing on those devastating lips. Did she have any idea what she was doing to me? Any concept of the riot inside my chest?

The second bite was a new kind of torture. Now I was anticipating it. I watched the anticipation in her own face, the way she leaned in slightly, and then, he same soft crunch, the same flutter of her lashes. But it was different, because now I was a willing participant in my own devastation. A louder, more grateful sigh this time. More juice. It spilled over, a generous rivulet tracing the line of her jaw, heading for the vulnerable hollow of her throat. She was devouring it, utterly unselfconscious, lost in a world of taste and summer. The peach was just an excuse. The performance was everything.

My heart was a frantic animal against my ribs. The yearning wasn’t just in my gut; it was in my teeth, in the palms of my hands, even in my pants. It was a physical ache, a hollowed out need to close the distance, to taste the sweetness on her skin, to discover if her mouth was as intoxicating as the fruit that filled it.

“Is it as good?” I asked. The question was stupid, mundane, but it was all I could manage. I needed to hear her say it, to give voice to this thing that was unraveling me.

She looked right at me, her eyes dark and wide. “Yeah. Actually.”

Actually. The word hung in the air, a confession. She held my gaze as she took another deliberate, messy bite.

That was the moment I broke. The sight of that juice, a bold, glistening path down her skin, was more than I could bear. Thinking was beyond me. There was only instinct, a magnetic pull stronger than regret, stronger than fear, stronger than any stupid, self-preserving rule I’d ever made.

My hands moved on their own. I grabbed the hem of my white t-shirt, the cotton soft from a hundred washes. I stepped into her space, the heat of her body immediately enveloping me. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch. She held perfectly still, her breath catching.

Slowly, carefully, as if she were made of the most delicate glass, I lifted the fabric and pressed it to her chin. The world shrank to the point of contact: the warm, damp cotton, the smooth, sticky skin of her jaw. I wiped upwards, following the trail, my knuckles grazing the incredible softness under her chin. My gaze was locked on hers, and in her eyes, I saw my own yearning reflected back. A shared shock at the intimacy of the act.

This was more intimate than anything we’d ever done. More intimate than our first kiss on the beach, more intimate than making love under the fire place. This was caretaking. This was claiming.

I cradled her jaw, my thumb just beside her mouth, as I wiped the last of the juice from the corner of her lips. My breath was ragged. Hers was a shallow whisper against my wrist. The shirt was stained now, a perfect, damp blotch of gold. A mark. Proof.

For a long, suspended moment, we just stood there. My shirt against her skin, my hand on her face, our breaths mingling in the honeyed air. The universe was this roadside stand, this bushel of peaches, this girl. All the noise in my head; the guilt about my mom, the anger at my dad, the competition with Jeremiah, the terror of fucking everything up… it all just… stopped. There was only Belly’s quiet, the pounding of my heart, and the searing truth that this, right here, was the most real thing I had ever felt.

Slowly, reluctantly, I lowered the shirt. But I didn’t step back. I let my thumb trace the now clean line of her jaw once, a silent echo of the gesture.

“Conrad,” she whispered, my name a question and an answer on her lips.

I couldn’t speak. If I opened my mouth, I would ruin it. I would say too much or not enough. So I just nodded, a tiny, desperate movement, hoping she could read everything in my eyes; the apology, the desire, the sheer, overwhelming need.

We got back in the car. The silence now was different. It was charged, alive, humming with what had just happened. The ghost of the peach’s scent clung to us, to my stained shirt.

The drive back to Cousins Beach was a special kind of torture. Every bump in the road, every time she shifted or sighed contentedly, was a spark to tinder. I gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me from flying apart. The conversation was a blur of noise under the roaring in my ears. I gave monosyllabic answers, praying she’d attribute my tension to my usual brooding, not the fact that I was painfully, visibly hard just from watching her eat a piece of fruit.

By the time I pulled into the driveway of the summer house, my nerves were stripped raw. The familiar sight of the faded shingles, the hydrangeas, the porch light glowing…it all felt like a bizarre, cruel joke. This was a place of childhood, of innocence. And here I was, feeling like I might combust from the most primal need I’d ever experienced.

“Thanks for the ride, Conrad,” Belly said, her voice soft. She turned to me, and in the dim light from the dashboard, her lips still looked damp, inviting.

“Anytime,” I forced out, the word strangled. I couldn’t look at her. If I looked at her, I was done for.

She slid out, the door shutting with a soft thud that echoed in the sudden silence. I waited, counting to ten, twenty, until I saw the screen door swing shut behind her. Only then did I let my head fall back against the headrest with a ragged exhale. Both my heart and cock were aching, throbbing, a live wire of desperate want.

I couldn’t go in. Not yet. I waited in the dark car until I was sure she’d be upstairs, maybe in her room or in the shower. The thought of the shower, of water on her skin, almost undid me right there. I slammed my fist lightly against the steering wheel. Get a grip, Fisher.

Finally, I moved. I walked into the house, my steps hurried, my body angled awkwardly. The downstairs was quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic counter rhythm to the pulse between my legs.

My bedroom door had never felt more like a sanctuary. I locked it behind me, the click a final, decisive sound. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. I didn’t turn on the light. I couldn’t bear to see my own desperation reflected in the mirror.

Leaning back against the cool wood of the door, I finally, finally let my hand press against the hard bulge in my slacks. A sharp hiss escaped my lips. The relief of the touch, even through the fabric, was immediate and immense, but it was a drop of water in a desert. It wasn’t enough.

I pushed away from the door, fumbling with my belt buckle, the button of my khaki slacks, the zipper. It was frantic, clumsy. I shoved the pants and my boxers down my hips, and the second my hand wrapped around myself, a broken sound was torn from my throat.

It was her. It was all her. In the dark, with my eyes squeezed shut, the memory played in hyper-vivid detail. Not the memory of us at the beach, or having sex in her guest room, or even kissing. Just the peach. The focused concentration on her face. The part of her lips. The wet shine on her chin. The soft, wet sounds of her eating. The way her throat moved when she swallowed. The innocent, devastating pleasure she took in it.

My strokes were fast, urgent, driven by a need that felt years in the making. Every image was a fuel: her tongue catching the juice, the delicate crush of her teeth, the hum of satisfaction. I imagined it was my skin between her teeth. I imagined her mouth on mine, tasting of peaches and cream. I imagined her beneath me in this very bed, her skin warm from the sun, that same look of rapturous concentration on her face as she moved with me.

“Belly,” I gasped into the quiet room, the name a prayer and a curse. It was wrong. It was a violation of her boundaries, of our friendship, of my brother. But I was powerless against the tide. My body, wound so tightly for so long, was claiming its due. The coil in my abdomen wound tighter, tighter, a spring ready to snap.

And then it broke. With a final, vivid flash of her dark eyes meeting mine over that damned piece of fruit, the wave crested and crashed over me. Pleasure, white hot and shattering, ripped through me, so intense it bordered on pain. I bit down hard on my own forearm to stifle the groan, my knees buckling as I sagged against the edge of the bed, spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of my ragged breathing in the dark. The frantic heat receded, leaving behind a sticky mess and a hollow, aching shame that was far colder. I cleaned up mechanically, my movements slow and heavy.

I pulled my pants back on but didn’t bother with the belt. I walked to the window, pushing the curtain aside. The moon was high over the ocean, painting a silver path on the water. The same ocean we’d grown up beside. The same house. But nothing was the same.

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