Page 44

He pulls back a fraction, his thumb moving along my jaw.

“Come here,” he says.

He pushes back from the table, and I stand, and he brings me down into his lap, facing him, my knees either side of his thighs. I settle there with my hands on his shoulders and his hands on my hips, and we stay like that for a moment in the kitchen, documents everywhere, Brooklyn bright outside the windows with the sun shining strong. I think about the version of tonight, I planned six weeks ago in an empty apartment over an encrypted drive when he would finally confess and regret murdering my father, and I think about how completely wrong I was about what any of this would feel like.

He kisses me again, his hand moving up my back, and my hips shift forward against him before I’ve cleared it with any part of my brain that makes decisions. I can feel him hardening under me, and that information travels directly to my pussy, which has been conducting its own foreign policy since the moment he tucked the hair behind my ear. I push my fingers into his hair and pull him closer because I’ve apparently stopped pretending I have a choice in this.

He gets my blouse open button by button, his mouth moving to my throat while his hands work, and I tip my head back because there’s nobody performing anything in this room. He pushes the fabric off my shoulders, unclasps my bra and drops it somewhere behind me, then pulls back to look. His eyes move over my chest, and my nipples tighten under his gaze, a response I didn’t consent to, and then he runs both thumbs across them at once. My back arches on its own, a sharp involuntary pull through my whole chest.

He does it again, slower, watching my face, and I feel the sensation travel downward somewhere it has no business reaching from there. Then his mouth closes over my left nipple, and I grip his hair harder than I intended to. He sucks slowly, his tongue circling, and switches to the right while his thumb works the first, and my hips roll forward against him on their own. His cock is hard against me through his pants and the pressure of it is information I receive directly between my thighs, where everything is already wet and getting worse.

I get his shirt off and put my hands on his chest because they want to be there and I’ve stopped arguing with my own hands when it comes to him. I work his belt open, then his pants, push everything down far enough, and his cock is right there, thick and hard. I wrap my hand around it, and the size of it still does something to my chest that I’d call alarm if my body weren’t so clearly calling it something else.

I stroke him slowly. I’ve learned enough about what he likes to drag my thumb over the head on the upstroke, and I do it and feel him pulse in my grip. He exhales through his nose, his hands tightening on my hips, and I do it a third time just to watch his jaw go tight.

“Keep that up,” he says, rough, “and we’re done before we start.”

I stop. He hooks both thumbs into my underwear at the hips and pulls, and I lift each knee in turn, and the fabric drops away. Then his hand is between my thighs and two fingers push inside me without preamble, deep. I gasp against his shoulder because I wasn’t braced for it, the stretch of two fingers producing a considerable amount of sensation that I still don’t entirely have language for but have been learning to understand.

I’m soaking. I can feel how soaking I am and so can he, because he makes a low rough sound and works his fingers deeper, curling forward, pressing into a place that makes my thighs shake independently of anything I’m doing. My hips move toward his hand on their own, short rolls, chasing the pressure. I’m making sounds against his shoulder that would horrify the person who walked into this house in a charcoal suit with a legal argument prepared.

“Fuck,” I say, which is the only word currently available.

He works his fingers in slow strokes, his thumb pressing circles against my clit, and I ride his hand because my body has decided that’s what we’re doing and my brain is several steps behind. His mouth finds my nipple again, and the combination of his fingers, his mouth, and the pressure of his thumb builds into a tight, insistent heat centered low in my stomach. I chase it without caring what it looks like.

He pulls his fingers out, and my pussy clenches on nothing, but before I’ve finished objecting he takes hold of his cock, lines it up, and I sink down onto him.

Slowly. One long descent, taking him inch by inch, my walls stretching around him, adjusting. I know the stretch now, I’ve had it before, but knowing and feeling remain two separate experiences, and I take my time at the bottom, fully seated, his cock buried completely inside me, breathing through the fullness while my clit presses against the base of him and the pressure there is immediate and exactly right.

He keeps his hands on my hips and gives me the pace entirely. He doesn’t drive up, doesn’t take over, just sits under me with his jaw tight, watching my face. I start to move.

I find the roll first, hips forward and back, feeling the drag of him inside me. Then deeper drops, my thighs flexing, taking more. I find the angle that empties my lungs on every forward stroke, and I stay with it, grinding myself against him, wet and loud in the quiet kitchen. I’ve stopped caring about the sounds because every time he hears them his hands grip harder and that’s its own answer.

“That’s it,” he says, low, against my temple.

I go faster. The heat coils tighter, and my hips find their own rhythm past anything I’m directing, rolling and grinding and dropping, taking him over and over. I feel everything, the thick drag on the way up, the full stretch on the way down, my pussy soaking wet around every stroke. I chase what’s building without apology because there’s nothing left to apologize to.

He gets his thumb back on my clit, pressing slow circles while I move, and I cry out against his shoulder, my rhythm breaking before it comes back faster than before. His cock and his hand and the grind of my hips layer on top of each other, and I’m close, I’ve been close. I dig my nails into his shoulders and stop thinking.

My hips slam down, taking him deep on every drop, the sounds filling the room, skin and wet and my own breathing completely gone. He’s making sounds too, low and rough against my hair. I come with my face pressed into his neck, clenching hard around him, my whole body locking up while the orgasm moves through me in long shuddering waves, my pussy squeezing rhythmically around his cock. He keeps the pressure of his thumb steady through every second of it until I’m wrung out and shaking.

I come back slowly. He’s still hard inside me. His hands stroke up my back and down, and his mouth presses to my temple and stays there. I sit in his lap and breathe and feel the aftershocks move through me in smaller and smaller pulls.

Then he starts to move.

Long slow strokes from below while I stay in his lap, his hips rolling up to meet me, pulling back until barely the tip of him is inside me and pressing all the way home again. He sets a patient rhythm, and I feel every stroke everywhere, the full drag in and out, my pussy soaking and loud around every movement. He’s thorough in the same way he’s thorough about everything, no wasted motion, just the same deep strokes over and over until I’m gripping his shoulders and rolling my hips down to meet him because my body has learned what it wants and knows how to ask.

He moves harder and deeper. His hands lock on my hips, and his thrusts come with more force, and I take them with my thighs spread wide, his cock driving deep on every stroke, and I’m building again already, faster this time.

“You feel so fucking good,” he says into my neck, rough and raw.

I come the second time fast and sharp, clenching tight around him. He groans against my throat and drives up hard, buries himself completely, and comes, filling me in thick pulses deep inside, his whole body locked under mine. I feel every pulse of it, his cock twitching inside me, my own body drawing him through it, and he stays there, fully seated, hands holding me down onto him until he’s given everything.

Neither of us moves.

He stays inside me longer than he needs to. I stay in his lap longer than I need to, face in his neck, his cum thick inside me, the documents still on the table, my father still dead, the contact number on the drive still uncracked. The version of myself who planned this six weeks ago as a cold transaction would not recognize any of it. I’m not entirely sure I do either.

I stand eventually. The separation is physical, but I ignore it. I find my underwear, my bra, my blouse, and I dress with my back to him because I need thirty seconds with my own face before I turn it back to the room.