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It’s my turn to smirk. “Too rough?”
“You don’t want to break it.”
He thinks he’s clever, and I have to admit, he’s cute enough to get away with it. Besides, I’m not exactly thinking clearly at this point. I stroke again, moving both our hands along his erection, but softer.
“That better?”
“Your mouth would be better.”
My heart skip. “Yeah?”
He looks down at his cock, and at our hands, then back to my face. “Yeah.”
It’s because he’s looking at my face when he says it that I get on my knees. The tile is cold and hard but I don’t really notice. Maybe tomorrow I will, when I’m sober and my knees are black and blue, but right now I’m focused on taking him in my mouth.
My inhibitions are loose and so’s my throat. I can take him all the way in, a skill I’m proud of. I close my lips around the base of his prick and suck, working my mouth on him a couple seconds before sliding off to add some suction to the head. He pushes forward, into my mouth. I put a hand on his cock to control it. I don’t want to gag. Drunk as I am, I might just puke all over him.
My hand also lets me stroke and suck him at the same time, so he gets twice the pleasure. In another minute, he makes that growly noise and I smile. I suck him a little bit more, getting into the rhythm the same way I did at the club. It’s just a different kind of dance.
He puts a hand in my hair and his fingers tangle, pulling. I wince and suck him a little harder. He’s thrusting hard, now. I let my mouth pop off and look at his cock. It’s wet from my saliva. I pump my fist up and down along it, looking up to watch his face. He’s not looking at me now. His eyes are closed.
A second later, he opens them. “Get up.”
I’m a little clumsy from alcohol and being on the floor for so long, but he helps me with his hands under my elbows. I laugh when he pulls me upright, but the laugh becomes a squeak of surprise when he turns me so fast my head spins. He pushes my hands flat against the table.
I’m bent over at the waist, surprised at how fast he moved. He pushes my skirt up to my hips. Cool air caresses my ass, bared by my thong panties. He runs a finger along the string at the small of my back, then pulls it out of my ass crack and takes my panties off before I can say a word. He pushes my feet apart with one of his and I bend further over the table, my hands skidding along the slick surface. I knock into the shot glass, which rolls off onto the floor but doesn’t break.
I’d protest but he’s already stroking my clit. My pussy’s as surprised as I am, but way faster at acclimating. I’m already wet, I know, because he pushes a finger inside me and then brings it up to my clit again and every motion gets smoother, coated in my slickness.
I make a noise, too. His cock nudges my ass and I spread my legs wider on my own. I lay along the table, pushing my ass into the air so he can reach my cunt. When he puts two fingers inside me, I cry out. He’s doing this thing to me that feels so good I shake, something with two fingers inside me and his other hand fingering my clit. He puts a third finger inside, stretching me as he pinches my clit. The sensation’s so startling, I jump and moan.
“Where’ve you been all my life?”
He doesn’t answer, but I don’t care because he’s finger fucking me so good. My hips rock and I push my cunt against his hand, wanting to take all of him inside me.
“Fuck me!” It’s a command and an invitation. I grope for my purse, slung over the back of the kitchen chair. I pull out the rubber and pass it back to him.
“Just a minute.”
I moan a protest but in a second he’s started up that twin fingering thing again and I’m jittering and jumping under his touch as if he’s hooked me up to a socket in the wall.
I’m so wet he fits a fourth finger inside me. He jerks my clit, up and down, rolling it every so often in a way that makes me fucking mindless.
I think I’m begging him at this point, even though I don’t really want him to stop doing what he’s doing with his hands. All at once I go from “ooh” to “hell yeah!” And there’s no way I could stop myself from coming even if I wanted to. My fingers clutch the table and I shout.
My pussy closes around his fingers. My clit spasms. He stops moving for a moment while my body shakes around him. I lay my cheek on the table and close my eyes. It’s good, so good. I’m spent, breathless.
He takes his hands away. I don’t move. I’m boneless.
He puts one hand on my hip. His cock nudges my cunt.
He pushes inside me slowly, and I make a sleepy noise. He fills me all the way. I push up on my hands a little to take the pressure off my boobs.
He sets a slow steady pace, and I’m happy to take it because I already came and I really don’t care what he does to finish himself off. My clit’s buzzing a little, but I’m not really ready for another orgasm.
“Yeah, baby, fuck me harder.” This seems like a good thing to say.
He keeps the same steady pace. I push up higher, and he unhooks the clip holding my shirt closed behind my neck. The scarves fall open. He reaches around to grab my tit, tweaking the nipple upright. That feels good, too. My clitty’s buzzing harder, oh, fuck, and I’m so wet he slides in and out of me as easy as anything. I moan and push my ass against him.
Maybe this is what he was waiting for, because he moves faster. Our bodies make a slapping sound. His thrusts move me and the table, which skids on the tile floor. I moan louder when he twists my nipple, but what I really need is a finger on my clit to get me off again.
Sudden wetness on my back startles me. He’s stroked the lemon wedge across my shoulder blade. He takes the sugar. Grains tickle my back. The next moment his tongue follows it and he licks me clean.
Wow. I’m really getting closer now. He’s fucking me so hard and fast I have to clutch the table edge to keep from moving. He’s making small, sexy grunts that are driving me crazy with lust.
I’m getting closer but I need a little more. Just a little more something. Then, he gives it to me. His fingers trace the cleft of my ass, probing. His thumb presses against me back there, right on my pucker. My moan catches in my throat and I jump. My hips buck forward. Fuck, fuck, oh fuck, that’s not what I was expecting, but damn, it’s so good…
In another second I’m coming for the second time. My breath stutters out. I try to gasp in another but my orgasm has stolen my breath and the best I can do is sip at the air.
He thrusts into me once more and cries out, voice hoarse. We pant together after that, coming down. My legs tremble and my belly hurts from where it’s rubbed on the table edge, but don’t really care too much because I’m so utterly, totally sated.
He pulls out. By the time I turn around and tug my skirt back down over my thighs, he’s already tossed the rubber in the trash and pulled up his pants. He washes his hands at the sink while I watch.
I’m bleary and tired and still mostly drunk, but I give him a big, smug smile. “Wow.”
He looks at me over his shoulder. Like an afterthought. He smiles. “Yeah, thanks.”
I move closer to him, lazy and cuddly the way really good sex makes me feel. I reach for him, and he lets me hug him but even though I tilt my face up to his, he doesn’t kiss me.
“Hey,” I say, soft and purring. “Be nice to me.”
He bends and kisses my cheek, then gently but firmly pushes me from him and leaves the kitchen. I stare after him, pissed off. I follow him.
“Hey!”
He’s put on his coat. He turns, hand on the doorknob.
“You’re leaving?” I put my hands on my hips, indignant. “Just like that?”
Joe nods once, so solemn I feel like I can’t really rage at him. I mean…it was a hookup, yeah, I get it. But it was really, really great sex, the kind that’s worth breakfast, at least.
“But…”
He shakes his head, stopping me. Then he opens the door and leaves. Only when it’s closed behind him do I realize he never bothered to ask my name.
Joe twirled a straw paper in his fingers, knotting it. He didn’t look at me. He hadn’t looked at me since he sat down.
“Why didn’t you ask her name?” I hadn’t eaten anything. I hadn’t even opened my lunch bag. Though I was only a few inches away from Joe on the bench, it might as well have been miles.
He turned, slowly. Our eyes met. I drew in a breath and held it. The look he gave me was a challenge of some sort.
“Because it didn’t matter.”
Maybe her name didn’t matter, but his reason for not asking did. His story comforted me. This was the Joe I knew, the teller of tales and splitter of peaches. Not the man who last month had threatened to upset the balance of our relationship by wanting to change.
“About last month,” I said finally. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “You were right.”
I nodded, as if he’d made a longer explanation. Not even when we first met had our silence been so uncomfortable. I had to look away, at last, afraid my face showed too much of what I couldn’t say.
“I wasn’t even planning on going home with her,” he said after a minute. “Or with anyone.”
“So…why did you?” I couldn’t help the fascination.
“C’mon, Sadie. You know how it is.”
“No, actually. I don’t.”
Joe let a puff of air seep from his lips, not quite a whistle. “You’ve never?”
“No. Never.” I shook my head to further emphasize my point.
“You’ve never been with someone only once.” His tone sounded disbelieving or envious, I wasn’t sure which.
“I’ve only been with one man.” The admission wasn’t shameful, just…the truth. It seemed to shock Joe, who probably couldn’t comprehend my experience any more than I could his.
“Only one.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head a bit. “Good for you.”
I laughed a little. “You’re avoiding the question. If you weren’t planning on going home with someone, why did you?”
“Because I could. Because she asked. Because…I always do.”
I made a small noise, shaking my head as I unwrapped my lunch. Joe looked over at me as he unscrewed the cap on his bottle of soda. He took a long, slow drink. I imagined him tasting like lemon and vodka and kept my eyes carefully on my sandwich.
“Haven’t you ever done something just because it’s easier to do it than not?”
I didn’t have to think long before answering. “Of course.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s not as exciting as your story, Joe.”
He smiled, leaning forward. “No? That’s too bad. Tell me, anyway.”
I was used to giving people what they wanted. Joe was used to getting it. I told him.
“When I was growing up, my sister and I fell into these…stereotypes, I guess you could say. I was the smart one. She was the pretty one. We kept it up through college, and I guess even now. It’s stupid, but you know how families are.”
“Try being the disappointing one.”
I leaned back on the bench to study him. He was impeccably dressed, as always. Today his shirt was blue, his favorite color. It made his eyes seem greener than usual. He was the epitome of a clean-cut businessman. Whatever he did, he did it too well to be a disappointment.
I laughed. “Oh, you aren’t. You can’t be. Look at you, Mr. Successful.”
He shrugged, smiling. “My parents aren’t impressed with fancy suits and expensive ties.”
I knew he had a sister who was married with children and a brother who’d died. This was the first time I’d heard him talk about his parents.
“As far as ties go, it’s a very nice one,” I told him. “Even if they don’t like it, I do.”
He gave me a one-eyed, squinting grin that made me laugh. “Yeah? You’re impressed by this tie?”
“Keep in mind my knowledge of men’s haute couture is pretty limited.”
He stroked the fabric. “I like this one, too.”
The silence between us wasn’t awkward this time.
“Sometimes,” Joe said after a bit, “it’s just easier to keep being what everyone expects you to be. Even if that’s what you’re not, anymore.”
I nodded, agreeing, and he got up to toss his trash into the pail. “I wasn’t sure you’d be back, after what I said.”
“I couldn’t stay away. I thought about it all month. Just not showing up.”
“So…why did you?”
A slow, hot smile spread across his mouth. “Because I always do.”
I was trying to decide between two mugs of the same shade but different shapes, my concentration entirely focused on my choices, when the distinct sensation of a foreign gaze on the back of my neck prickled my skin. I glanced up, but the man across the aisle appeared as engrossed in his shopping as I was. A look to either side showed us as the only two customers in housewares. Convinced I was imagining it, I bent back to my decision.
Again, I sensed someone staring. This time, instead of looking up, I let my eyes shift from side to side. Nothing. A gradual turn of my head revealed my fellow mug aficionado had moved a bit closer. He picked up a flowered coffee mug, turning it to and fro, then set it back on the shelf.
I turned back to the selection in front of me, but couldn’t concentrate. I wanted something new for my bathroom. It wasn’t brain surgery. I needed to pick one, just one, and yet my every sense now strained toward the man standing behind me. I grabbed up one of the mugs, finally, and stuck it in my cart. I looked over my shoulder.
He was looking at me.
“Excuse me,” he began.
Time slowed as I turned, expectant of something benign. A question. “What’s the time?” or “Do you work here?”
“Are you available for dating?”
My face must have shown my shock. “What?”
