The announcement came over the PA at 9:47, and I remember the time exactly because I had just looked at my watch for the third time in ten minutes. *Due to weather at the destination, United Flight 1184 to Chicago has been delayed until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience.* A groan rolled through the gate like a wave. Somewhere to my left, a toddler started crying. To my right, a man in a suit rattled off a string of quiet, venomous profanities into his phone.
I closed my laptop. A week of meetings in Denver, four hotel breakfasts that all tasted the same, two presentations that went well and one that went sideways before I pulled it back. My tie was in my bag. My collar was undone. My patience had been packed away somewhere over the Rockies, and I was not in the mood to find it again.
I stood, stretched, and that was when I saw her.
She was sitting two rows of seats over, reading an actual paper book, legs crossed under a sundress the color of wet sage. Red hair, not auburn and not orange but the real thing, the kind that catches light and throws it back at you. She had one sandal dangling off a bare foot and she was smiling very slightly at whatever she was reading, as if delays were a thing that happened to other people.
I have always been fairly direct. It is, for better or worse, the thing people notice about me first, and it is what makes me good at my job and occasionally unpopular at dinner parties. I considered her for maybe five seconds, and then I walked over and sat one seat away from her. Not next to her, not across from her. One seat, just enough of a gap to not be alarming, and just close enough that she had to decide whether to ignore me or not.
“What are you reading?”
She looked up. Her eyes were green, of course they were, and there was a half second where she took me in, suit pants, open collar, dark hair that probably needed a cut, before she angled the book so I could see the cover. Some literary novel I vaguely recognized from airport displays.
“Any good?”
“Getting there.” She had a voice like warm tea with honey in it. “You look like a man who has opinions about books.”
“I have opinions about most things.”
“Lucky me.”
She said it so dry that I laughed out loud, and she smiled then, really smiled, and I understood that the next several hours were going to be interesting.
Her name was Juniper. People called her June. She was twenty-eight, lived in Chicago, had been in Denver visiting her sister for a long weekend that had gotten longer by one day and was now, apparently, getting longer still. I told her my name and she repeated it back to me once, tasting it, and then didn’t use it again for a long time, which I noticed.
The delay became another delay. Forty-five minutes became ninety. Ninety became *we regret to inform you*, and then we were sitting at a bar table in one of the concourse restaurants with two beers between us, because it had become clear, in the tentative way these things become clear, that neither of us particularly wanted to sit alone at the gate.
“So what do you do,” she said, “that sends you to Denver in a suit?”
“I consult on restructuring projects for mid-size companies. Exactly as boring as it sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound boring. It sounds like you fire people for a living.”
“Sometimes.” I tilted my beer at her. “Not today, though. Today I’m on vacation. For the next several hours, at least.”
She smiled into her glass. “Lucky me, again.”
She was a landscape architect. She described her job as “making rich people’s backyards look like they grew that way on purpose,” and she did it with the same dry smile she did everything with, as though she were permanently half-amused by her own life. She had long fingers. She turned the beer glass in slow quarter rotations as she talked, and I watched her do it, and she noticed me watching.
“You’re very still,” she said. “Most people fidget. Did you know that?”
“I fidget. You’re just not paying close enough attention.”
“I’ve been paying very close attention.”
I held her eyes for a beat too long and watched a flush start at her collarbones and climb. She didn’t look away. She held it, and I understood something about her then, which was that she was not going to be pursued. She was going to be met.
“June.”
“Mmm.”
“If I asked you a direct question right now, would you answer it directly?”
“Depends on the question.”
“That’s not direct.”
She laughed, and her whole face changed when she laughed, and I wanted, more than was reasonable, to know what other things would change her face.
*Attention passengers on United 1184 to Chicago, your flight has been cancelled. Please see a gate agent for rebooking options. We apologize for the inconvenience.*
We both looked up at the ceiling, as if the voice had a body up there somewhere. Then we looked at each other.
“Well,” she said.
“Well.”
“I have no idea what my options are.”
“The rebooking line is going to be an hour. Minimum.”
“I’m aware.”
I did the math quickly. It was almost eleven. The next flight out was probably 6 a.m. at the earliest, and it would be packed. There were two hotels connected to the airport by skybridge, and I’d stayed at one of them before on a different bad night. It was fine. It was clean. It had a bar that stayed open late and good water pressure in the showers, and I remembered both of those things in that order and then I looked at June.
“There’s a hotel attached to the terminal,” I said. “Skybridge on the other side of security. I’m going to get a room. You should get one too.”
“Should I.”
“Yes.”
“Is that a suggestion or an instruction?”
“Whichever one gets you there.”
She tilted her head. Her hair slid across one shoulder. “You’re very confident for a man who met me an hour ago.”
“I’m confident because I met you an hour ago.”
She studied me for a long moment. I let her. I have learned that when a woman is making a decision about you, the worst thing you can do is try to help her make it.
“Okay,” she said, finally. “Okay.”
We walked. She pulled a small rolling bag behind her, and her sandals made a soft slapping sound on the tile floor, and the airport at eleven at night had that weird churchlike feeling where everything echoed and nothing was quite real. She walked close to me. Her arm brushed mine twice. The second time it brushed, she didn’t move it away.
We got to the hotel. I checked in first, got a room, turned to her. She was standing very still near the elevator, holding the strap of her bag in both hands like someone who had not entirely made up her mind.
“Are you getting one?”
She looked at me.
“I don’t think I’m getting one,” she said.
There is a moment in these things, and there is no use pretending otherwise, when you either step forward or you don’t. I stepped forward. I took the strap of her bag out of her hands, slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop me, and slung it onto my shoulder next to mine.
“Come on,” I said.
In the elevator she stood against the far wall and I stood against the opposite one, and we did not touch, and the space between us did most of the talking. She watched me watch her. I could see the pulse at the side of her throat. When the doors opened on the seventh floor, she walked out first, and the sundress moved around her thighs in a way I was going to think about for the rest of my life.
—
⬇️ **Skip to here if you came for the good stuff** ⬇️
—
The room was what you’d expect. A king bed with a white duvet pulled tight. A desk with a small lamp already on. A window facing a runway where planes were taxiing under blue lights. I dropped both our bags inside the door and she stood in the middle of the room, not sitting, not moving, waiting.
“June.”
“Yeah.”
“Come here.”
She came. She came slowly, with her eyes on mine, and when she was a step away I reached out and took her by the hip and pulled her the rest of the way in. She exhaled against my mouth before I kissed her, a tiny laugh, surprised at herself, and then I kissed her and the laugh turned into something else. She tasted like the beer we had been drinking at the airport bar and something underneath it that was just her, clean and slightly warm, and I found the small of her back through the thin cotton of the sundress and pressed my palm flat there, holding her against me.
It was unhurried, that first kiss, because I had an entire night and I knew it. I took her jaw in one hand, gently but with clear intent, and tilted her head exactly where I wanted it. She made a soft sound in the back of her throat and her whole body went a little softer against me, and I felt the specific shape of that response. I filed it away.
I pulled back. Not far. Just enough to look at her.
“Step back.”
“What?”
“Step back. One.”
She did, her eyes amused, curious, interested. I sat down on the end of the bed and looked at her. Sundress. Red hair slightly mussed from travel. Flush climbing up her throat. Mouth still slightly parted and wet from mine.
“I want to watch you,” I said. “Take it off.”
The curiosity sharpened into something else. Something warmer. She didn’t smile, exactly. Her lips parted and her chin lifted a fraction. “Slow or fast?”
“Slow.”
“Of course slow.”
“Do it anyway.”
She held my eyes. She reached for the hem of the sundress with both hands and started to gather it up. Inch by inch. She lifted it past her knees, past the tops of her thighs, and I could see now that she was wearing a pale beige pair of underwear, plain, the kind a woman wears on a travel day when she does not expect to be seen. She paused with the dress bunched at her waist, eyebrow lifting, and said, very dry, “This pace okay for you?”
“Keep going.”
She pulled the sundress up over her head and let it drop to the floor. Her hair fell back around her shoulders in a heavy red wave. The bra matched the underwear. She stood there in the lamplight and let me look, one hip cocked, and her skin above the bra was freckled across the chest and shoulders in a way I had not seen in the gate light.
“Turn around.”
She turned. I looked at the line of her spine, the small of her back, the shape of her in the underwear. She looked over her shoulder at me, red hair falling across one eye, and she said, “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m paying attention.”
“Are you going to pay attention the whole time?”
“That’s the plan.”
“God.” She laughed, soft. “Okay.”
“Turn back around. Keep going.”
She turned back. She reached behind herself, unhooked the bra, let it fall down her arms. Her breasts were small and pretty and she did not try to cover them. She stood there and let me look, slowly, without hurry, and I watched her color deepen as I did.
“Good.”
“Don’t start with that.”
“Start with what.”
“You know what.”
“The rest.”
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the underwear and pushed them down. She bent slightly at the hip to step out of them, and she did it on purpose, slowly, giving me the angle, and when she stood back up she was entirely naked in the middle of an airport hotel room at eleven thirty at night, lit by a single desk lamp, with one hand resting lightly on her own hip.
“Look at you.”
“Are you gonna say anything else useful, or just sit there?”
“I’m looking.”
“You’ve been looking for ten minutes.”
“Another minute. Don’t move.”
She made a small frustrated noise in her throat, but she didn’t move. I could see her breath getting shorter. I could see the slight tremor in her thighs. I made her stand there and take it for another full, long, counted breath.
“Good girl. Come here.”
She made a small sound at the praise, she’d clearly not meant to, because she scowled faintly at herself right after, but she came. I caught her at the hips and pulled her down onto my lap, straddling my thighs, her knees bracketing mine on the edge of the bed. I could feel the heat of her pussy against the fabric of my pants, already wet, already ready, and she rocked once against me without meaning to.
I kissed her again, and this time she was already breathing harder and she made a little sound into my mouth right away. I gathered a handful of her hair at the base of her skull and tugged, firmly, not rough but with clear intent, and her head tipped back and a long low sound came out of her before she could stop it. I used the leverage to kiss down the line of her throat, the hollow at the base of it, the soft skin between her collarbones.
“You’re still dressed,” she said against my jaw.
“I know.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No.”
She went for the buttons on my shirt. I let her. I did not help her. She worked them one at a time, clumsier than she’d been opening wine at the bar, and when she got halfway down she gave up on patience and just pulled the shirt open and shoved her hands against my chest, flat, palms hot.
“There.”
“Better?”
“Marginally.”
I kissed her throat. I found the place just behind her ear where the skin was softest and bit, gently. She made a long surprised sound and her hips rolled down against mine without her meaning to. I held her still by the hips.
“Not yet.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep being right.”
She laughed, small and half breathless, and pressed her forehead against my shoulder. “Tell me what you want.”
“Shower first.”
“First.”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“You have no idea.”
The bathroom was one of those absurdly well lit hotel bathrooms where every surface was marble and every sound echoed. I turned the water on hot and she leaned against the counter and watched me undress, arms folded loosely under her breasts, eyes traveling.
“I changed my mind.”
“About what.”
“About the shower being insane. I think I want to watch you wet.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Also, just so you know,” she said, conversationally, “my patience has a ceiling.”
“Noted.”
“I don’t think you’ve actually noted it.”
“I’ve noted it. I’m choosing to ignore it.”
She laughed. Head back, throat long. I stepped out of the last of my clothes and she looked at me for a long moment without speaking. Her eyes went soft. Her arms dropped away from under her breasts. She made a small hum in her throat that was the closest thing to approval she had offered me all night.
“Come on.”
I held the glass door open. Steam was already rolling out. She walked past me into it, and I followed.
Under the water she was a different thing. Her hair went dark and heavy and plastered itself against her shoulders. The freckles across her collarbones stood out more against the wet pink of her skin. I backed her against the marble tile, she gasped at the cold of it against her back, and I kissed her while the water ran down between us. It was slower now, easier, both of us wetter and warmer and more honest.
Her hand came up and spread flat on my chest. Then her mouth found my pec and she bit, small, deliberate, sharp, right over the muscle. I grunted, surprised. She pulled back just enough to look up at me through wet lashes, innocent, pleased with herself.
“What was that.”
“Retaliation.”
“Mm.”
I turned her around, braced her palms flat against the wet tile, and brought both hands around her from behind, one flat across her stomach holding her against me, the other cupping her breast, my thumb dragging slowly across her nipple. She gasped, and the gasp broke into a long soft sound as I rolled her nipple between my fingers, slow, rhythmic. Her head tipped back against my shoulder.
“Oh… okay, yeah, okay…”
I moved my hand from her stomach up into her hair, gathered it in my fist, and tugged, firmly, pulling her head back further against my shoulder. She gasped again, higher this time.
“Oh my god.”
“Too much?”
“Not enough. More.”
I tugged harder. Her back arched. She made a long ragged sound and her hands flattened against the tile, and I kept working her nipple with my other hand, steady, slow, and dragged my teeth, lightly, along the line of her shoulder.
“Good. That’s it.”
“Don’t…”
“Good girl.”
“Fuck.”
Her reaction was immediate, a full body shudder, a soft involuntary sound, and I filed that away too, a new thing to come back to.
I let my hand leave her breast and move down, slow. Slow enough to be cruel, and she knew I was doing it on purpose, and she pressed back against me and made a frustrated sound and said, “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I am.”
“What do I get if I pass.”
“What you want.”
“And if I fail.”
“You won’t.”
She laughed, breathless. My hand slid lower. I let my fingers rest between her thighs, not moving, just there, and she made a small broken sound and her hips pushed forward against nothing.
“Tell me what you want. Words.”
“You’re such a…”
“Words.”
“I want your fingers inside me.” It came out fast and low, pressed out between her teeth. “I want you to fuck me against this wall. I want to come twice before you even get your hands properly on me. I want you to stop being smug for five seconds.”
“Since you asked.”
I slid one hand down between her thighs and parted her, slowly, finding her slick and swollen under the water. I pushed two fingers into her, all the way, and she made a high broken sound against the tile and her whole body pushed back onto my hand. I curled my fingers forward and found the soft place inside her, and her knees almost gave. I kept tugging her hair, steady, rhythmic, and worked my fingers in and out of her at a pace that was deliberately, cruelly slow. My thumb found her clit and circled it, barely touching. She made a hungry desperate sound.
“Oh… oh, yes…”
“That’s it.”
I kept it slow. Slower than she was asking for. I let her climb, a steady even climb, and when her thighs started to shake I said, “Stopping.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Stopping.”
“I will kill you.”
“I believe you.”
I stopped. I pulled my hand away. She made a sound like she had been slapped, furious and disbelieving, and I turned the water off before she could round on me.
“Are you kidding me.”
“Come on.”
“You’re the worst.”
I wrapped her in a towel before she could hit me. I was not especially gentle about it. I pulled her against my chest and dried her off in efficient passes down her shoulders, her back, her arms, and she was laughing in a furious shaky way and swearing at me in low soft strings, promising elaborate and specific retributions.
“I’m going to make you suffer for this.”
“Counting on it.”
“You keep counting on things.”
“I’m a planner.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
I walked her back into the bedroom, one hand at the small of her back. She was still wrapped in the towel, hair damp and curling, face flushed. I sat her on the edge of the bed and let the towel slip open on its own.
Then I pulled the desk chair around and set it about four feet from the foot of the bed, facing her, and sat down.
“What are you doing.”
“Sitting.”
“Why.”
“I want to watch you for a minute.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Watch me do what.”
“Lie back against the pillows. Open your legs. Touch yourself. I’m going to watch. I’m going to tell you how.”
There was a long, real beat. I watched her take it in. And I watched her decide. She dropped the towel off her shoulders without breaking eye contact and scooted back up against the pillows.
“Like this?” she said, dry.
“Pillows higher. I want to see your face.”
She rearranged. She lay back. She waited.
“Legs open.”
“You’re actually directing this.”
“Yes.”
A pause. Then, slowly, she let her knees fall open.
“Hand.”
“What do you want me to do with my hand.”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
“Two fingers. Slow to start. Eyes on me. Other hand on your breast, pinch your nipple. Not gently.”
She blinked. “Jesus.”
“Go.”
She moved her hand. She did it slowly, the way I’d told her to, two fingers sliding down through her and circling her clit in slow deliberate passes, her thighs falling further open as she worked. I could see how wet she was from where I sat, see the slickness on her fingers each time she dragged them back up. Her other hand came up to her breast, obedient, and she pinched her nipple between two fingers, and the small hiss she made tightened something in me.
“Good.”
“Don’t praise me.”
“Why not.”
“Because I’ll come in about thirty seconds.”
“Then we’re going to work on that.”
I talked her through it. I told her to slow down when her hand sped up without her meaning to. I told her to pinch harder on her nipple. She whimpered but did it. I told her to close her eyes for a moment and tell me what she was thinking about, and she kept her eyes open out of pure defiance and said, in a strangled voice, “I’m thinking about you not being in that fucking chair.”
“Soon.”
“Soon isn’t a time.”
“Keep going.”
Her color was up. Her lips were parted. Her hips had started to move in a small involuntary rhythm.
“Slower.”
“I am slow.”
“Slower.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not yet.”
I let her climb. I let her get right up to the edge, I could tell, because her thighs started that small involuntary shaking they’d done in the shower, and right before she got there, I said, “Stop.”
Her hand fell to the sheets like it weighed twenty pounds. She made a sound that was half a sob and half a laugh. “Why.”
“Because I want you to beg.”
“I’m not going to beg.”
“Okay.”
I leaned back in the chair. I waited. After fifteen seconds of silence she opened her eyes.
“Please.”
“Please what.”
“Please come over here. Please get on this bed. Please touch me. I don’t care if you think it’s funny, I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t…”
“Again. Slower.”
“You absolute…”
“Slower.”
“Please. I’m begging you. I have never… please, just come over here, please, please.”
“Good girl.”
I stood. I crossed the four feet between us in about one second. I got onto the bed over her, one knee between hers, one hand in her hair, and her whole body arched up to meet me before I’d even fully lowered myself down.
“Oh thank god.”
“You did so well.”
“I’m going to be so mean to you.”
“Please.”
I kissed her, hard this time. Her hands were everywhere. I took her wrists, brought them together above her head, and pinned them there in one hand against the pillow. She made a small surprised sound and stopped fighting and looked up at me with huge green eyes.
“Tell me.”
“I want this. I want you. I want you inside me. Right now. Right now.”
I let her wrists go. I got us arranged. I dragged the head of my cock through her, slow, once, twice, watching her — she was soaked, had been soaked since the chair, probably since the shower, and the slide was wet and easy and obscene. I took my time for another five unfair seconds at the very edge of her, just to watch her face, and then she said, “I will genuinely end you,” and I laughed and pushed into her and the laugh turned into something else entirely.
She was hot and tight around me, her body taking me in one long slow stretch, and the sound she made is a sound I won’t forget. Her head tipped back against the pillow. Her hands came up and fisted in the sheets on either side of her. Her whole body went rigid for a second and then softened, and her cunt pulsed around me once, involuntary, a welcome, and her eyes opened again, and she said, very quietly, “Oh. Oh.”
“There you are. Good girl.”
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop…”
“Not stopping.”
I moved, slow at first. I watched her face. I watched her throat. I watched the way her breath kept catching at a specific point in the rhythm, and I adjusted for it.
“How did you…”
“Paying attention.”
“God.”
I kept the pace deliberate, each stroke long and slow, letting her feel every inch of me on the way in and on the way out. Then I worked my mouth down her throat, the soft hollow at the base of it, the flat plane between her breasts. I took one of her nipples into my mouth and sucked, pulling it deep, tongue working the tip, teeth grazing. She gasped. Her hand flew up and fisted in my hair, pressing me there, holding me down against her breast.
“Oh god oh god oh god…”
I stayed. I moved inside her at the same slow rhythm and worked her nipple with my mouth, sucking, tongue flicking, the lightest graze of teeth, and brought my other hand up to cup her other breast, thumb dragging across the nipple there. She started making a continuous sound, broken into thrust shaped pieces, hand gripping my hair harder, back arching up.
“I’m going to come. I’m going to come if you don’t…”
“Not yet.”
“Please.”
“Hold it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Hold it for me.”
The praise was the thing that tipped her. I felt it happen, her body tried to go and I felt her force it back, and the force of the forcing back was almost worse than coming would have been. She made a sound somewhere between a cry and a growl, and her hand left my hair and came up to the back of my head and pulled my mouth off her nipple, and in one fast instinctive motion she twisted my head down against her collarbone and sank her teeth into the muscle of my chest.
Hard. Not delicate. A real bite, jaw locked, teeth sunk into the pad of my pec just beside my shoulder.
I groaned against her skin and did not stop moving. If anything I moved harder. Her teeth stayed where they were. She was muffling herself into me, her mouth pressed against muscle because she could not afford the cry that would have come out of it, and I could feel the whole clenched shape of her body holding everything back.
“Good girl,” I said against her shoulder. “That’s it. Hold it, hold it, hold it…”
She made a sound into my chest that vibrated against my skin. The bite finally eased. She unclenched her jaw. She licked, once, at the spot she had just bitten, a small apologetic swipe of tongue, and then she dropped her head back to the pillow and looked at me with wrecked eyes.
“I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Yes you did.”
“I didn’t mean to do it that hard.”
“Check me in the morning,” I said, and I sounded different than I had expected to sound. “Keep going.”
“Oh my god, you liked it.”
“Yes.”
“Oh my god.”
I kissed her again, firmer now, and moved in her harder. Her hand came back up and dragged my hand from where it rested on the pillow beside her head up into her hair.
“Pull it.”
“Yeah?”
“Pull it. Harder than you think. Please.”
I gathered a fistful at the base of her skull and pulled, firmly, tipping her chin up, and the sound that came out of her was not a word. Her back arched. Her mouth fell open.
“Yes. Yes, like that, don’t stop, don’t let go, please…”
I did not let go. I moved in her with her hair wrapped around my fist, and she came apart differently for me then, more open, more vocal, louder with every thrust, and somewhere in the middle of it her other hand slid up between us, found my free hand, and dragged it up to her throat.
“Here. Your hand here, please. Not hard, just… just hold me there.”
I let her place my hand. I held her throat the way she wanted it held, firm enough to feel, not hard enough to constrain, and her whole body undulated up against mine, fucking herself onto me from below, taking me deep on every rise of her hips, her cunt hot and tight and pulling me in.
“Oh my god.”
“Good?”
“You have no idea. You have no… fuck, please, please…”
“You’re begging a lot.”
“I know. I know, I can’t help it, you’re… God, you’re… please…”
“Please what.”
“Anything. Anything you want. Just don’t… don’t slow down, please…”
I slowed down. Of course I did. She said every filthy thing she had been holding back all night in one long low stream against my ear, and I laughed into her hair and kept my pace deliberate and maddening.
“You’re evil.”
“You love it.”
“I love it. Please.”
I saw the mirror on the closet door then. She saw me see it. Her eyes went huge, a flash of *oh no* and *oh yes* at the same time, and I pulled out of her (she made a desperate noise of complaint), and got her up on her hands and knees facing the closet, and knelt behind her.
“Look at yourself.”
She looked. Her face in the mirror was a wreck, flushed, mouth open, hair damp and wild, pupils blown out. She made a small breathless sound at what she saw.
I pushed back into her in one long slow stroke. She dropped to her forearms, gasping, her back arched, her ass pushed up against me. I could feel how wet she still was, how easily I slid in, and I could see it in the mirror too, could see the shape of us, her hair fallen forward, her breasts hanging full and moving with every stroke. I gathered her hair in my fist again and pulled, and her head came up, and the mirror caught her face exactly the way I wanted it to.
“Don’t look away.”
“I’m not.”
“Good girl.”
I moved. She watched. Her eyes tried to drift shut at one point and I tugged the smallest tug on her hair and she found the mirror again.
“I want you to smack me.”
“Yeah?”
“Please. Hard. Just… careful, I have a wedding next week, no marks. But hard, God, please…”
I took my free hand off her hip and brought it down. Clean, controlled, a firm crack of my palm against the curve of her ass, the sound sharp in the room. She jerked forward an inch, her cunt clenching around me involuntarily, and made a high delighted noise, and then she laughed, actually laughed, once, breathless, and said, “Again. Please, again.”
I gave her another. Same side. Same force. Her ass bounced under my palm and I felt the heat starting to rise under her skin. She made a sound I had not heard her make yet, startled and hungry, and pushed herself back onto me harder.
“Harder.”
I gave her harder. Calibrated. Enough that she felt it clearly, not enough that it would show. Her eyes in the mirror were huge and unfocused.
“That’s it. Take it. Good.”
I brought my hand around from her hip and cupped her breast in the mirror, watched my own hand close around it, watched her watch it. I rolled her nipple between my thumb and finger, slowly.
“Oh fuck.”
“Look at yourself.”
“I’m looking.”
“You’re so fucking hot like this. You have no idea.”
“Tell me.”
“You asking to be fucked. Guiding my hand to your throat. How wet you were in the shower, how you pushed back onto my fingers. The way you said *here* like you were giving a lesson. I haven’t been able to think straight since.”
“God.”
“I want to hear you ask for more.”
“I want… your hand… your hand on my throat. While you…”
“Come here.”
I pulled her up by the hair into a kneeling position flush against my chest, her back against me, and I slid my hand around her throat from behind, firm, the way she’d shown me. I could feel her pulse hammering under my palm. I could see us both in the mirror, her hair in my fist, my hand on her throat, her face flushed and wrecked, and she made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a moan.
“Oh my god.”
“Look at us.”
“I’m looking.”
I moved again. Slow at first, with her held like that against me. My other hand came around and cupped her breast, and I rolled her nipple between my fingers in slow unhurried pinches.
“Please let me come. Please. I’ll… I’ll do anything, please, please, please…”
“One more.”
“No…”
“One more. You’re doing so well.”
I edged her one more time. I brought her right up and held her there and watched her face break apart in the mirror, and she actually sobbed, once, out of pure frustration.
“Please. Please. I’m begging you, please…”
“Good girl. Now.”
I let her have it. I drove into her hard and fast, deep, each thrust pulling a broken sound out of her, and I kept my hand at her throat, firm, never tight, and my other hand moved from her breast down between her thighs, my fingers finding her clit and working it in tight fast circles. I watched her face in the mirror, and I watched the exact moment when the control she’d been holding all night just went. Her eyes lost focus. Her mouth went slack. Her whole body shook. She made a sound that was not a word and not a moan but something closer to a startled laugh, and I felt her cunt clench around me in long hard rhythmic pulses, wet and tight and gripping, and I held on for three more strokes and then I was gone too, pushing deep and staying there, emptying into her, and I said her name against the back of her neck in a voice I did not recognize as my own.
Afterward, a long quiet. She had collapsed forward onto her forearms and I had collapsed forward over her, and we just breathed. My hand was flat on her lower back, rising and falling.
“Jesus,” she said eventually, into the sheet.
“Mmm.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
She rolled onto her side, slowly, like her bones had been replaced with warm water. Her eyes dropped to my chest and a small horrified delighted sound came out of her.
“Oh no.”
“Yeah.”
“I actually bit you.”
“You did.”
“Is it…”
“It’s a bite. It’ll fade.”
“Check my back. About the smacking.”
“Later. Come here.”
She came. I gathered her against my chest and she tucked her head under my chin. Half asleep already, she hooked one of her legs up and pulled mine between hers, slow, unthinking, as if her body were arranging us into the shape it wanted to sleep in without bothering to ask the rest of her, and pressed her pussy down against the top of my thigh. The heat of her. The wet of her. She made a small sound into my collarbone and within two minutes she was out.
That was how we slept.
—
I came up out of sleep slow, my body registering the motion before my brain was. Something warm and steady was moving against my thigh. There was wetness on it. There was heat. There was a rhythm that was not mine.
I opened my eyes in the dark. I understood her slowly, in pieces. Her hip, then her thigh, then the slow drag of her pussy along the top of my leg, unhurried, her clit pressing down on every pass. She had been doing it for a while. Long enough that my thigh was slick with her.
Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was slightly open. A low sound came out of her at uneven intervals, slow and animal, more rumble than sigh, something from somewhere deep.
I leaned down and kissed her shoulder.
Her eyes cracked open, just a slit of green under heavy lashes, and the sound came again, deeper, closer to a growl now, rising up out of her chest. No words. Just that.
I rolled her onto her back. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak. She looked at me through half-lowered lashes and let her knees fall open, and the growl thickened, rolled lower in her throat.
I slid my hand down her body, slow, palm flat along her ribs, across the soft plane of her stomach, down between her thighs.
And then I stopped thinking.
She was soaked. Not wet, soaked, absurdly so, dripping down the insides of her thighs, the kind of wet that does not happen on purpose, the kind that builds for hours in a body doing its own private work in the dark. My fingers slid through her without any effort at all, coated instantly, and something lurched in my chest, a heat that ran straight through me from sternum to spine. It was intoxicating. I was intoxicated. I dragged two fingertips up the length of her slit, slow, parting her, feeling her swollen and open and ready, and the slickness of her coated my whole hand and something in me went very quiet and very stupid. I could not look away from my own hand moving through her. I could not have registered a fire alarm. I started to slide two fingers into her.
Her hand closed hard around my wrist.
I had not seen it coming. I was so far inside the slick heat of her that the grip of her fingers on my wrist landed like it came from nowhere. And it was hard. Harder than I would have expected from her, harder than I would have expected from anyone half-asleep — a real grip, fingers locked, knuckles tight, the kind of grip that made my breath catch.
Her eyes were still only half open. Lashes low. Green in a narrow line.
“No games,” she said, low, more growl than sentence, the words coming out rough and unarguable.
I nodded. I would have nodded to anything in that moment. I could not have formed a word if someone had paid me.
She let go of my wrist.
I slid my fingers into her all the way. Her back arched. A long low growl rolled up out of her, animal, straight from her chest, and her hand went from my wrist up to the back of my neck and pressed there, holding me. I curled my fingers forward, found the soft place inside her on the second pass, and the growl deepened, went darker, her hips rising up to meet my hand in that same unhurried rhythm she’d had against my thigh.
I worked my thumb in slow circles against her clit. The growl lowered, a long rough hum now, vibrating up through her chest and into her throat. Her eyes stayed on mine, barely open, lashes low.
I moved over her and slid into her slowly. The growl became one long unbroken thing, low and animal, and her legs came up around the backs of my thighs and pulled me down fully against her. Her forehead pressed to mine. Her hand on the back of my neck did not move.
No talking. Not one word.
It built the way slow things build, gradually, and then all at once. Her breathing got slower rather than faster. Her pussy was warm and soft around me, each stroke a long unhurried press and pull. The growl kept coming, quieter now, rougher, her throat working against my jaw every time I moved.
She came quietly in the sense that there were no words, only that long low sound going ragged, her pussy clenching around me in slow rhythmic pulses, and I came with her, a single caught breath, her hand tightening at the back of my neck.
She turned her head into the pillow. Her hand slid from my neck up into my hair, and she pet me, slowly, twice, and pressed my head gently down into the crook of her neck.
“Good boy,” she murmured, into my hair, and patted the top of my head, twice, slow and heavy. And then her breathing went deep and even and she was gone.
I stayed a minute longer than I needed to. Then I eased out, gathered her against me, and slept.
—
Her alarm went off at 5:20. We dressed in silence, the comfortable kind. She pulled the sundress on over her head, shook her hair out, and checked herself in the mirror — the same mirror — turning slightly to look at her own back. “Perfect. No marks. Calibration was flawless.” Then her eyes dropped to my chest. She pulled my shirt aside an inch and winced. “Mine, though. That’s going to be purple for a week.” I told her I wasn’t sorry. At the skybridge where our terminals split she pressed her palm flat against my chest, right over the bite, for maybe two seconds. “Be well,” she said, and she walked. The sundress moved around her thighs exactly the way it had seven hours earlier, and at gate C12 she turned and looked back at me, just once, and smiled, and then she was gone.
I stood there for another minute. Then I went to find coffee.
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