tearing, then a low groan as he eased on the condom. He paused, breath still hot against my neck, and a bolt of electric desire arced through me. It centered in my clit and radiated out through the rest of my body. Even my fingertips tingled. I imagined if the lights were off, I’d be glowing with it.
He pulled my panties over my hips and down past my knees, then pressed his cock against me. He nudged it along the cleft of my ass, then pushed between my thighs. His hand guided it toward my entrance, and he dipped down, then up, to push inside me.
“Fuck,” he muttered, then bit down on my shoulder as though to stifle a further outburst.
I gave a strangled cry when he filled me. It had been so long I was almost too tight, but I was so wet with arousal there was no friction. Only a delicious fullness.
He put his hands over my wrists, his front along my back, and slid my hands down on the wall until I bent more at the waist. I hadn’t thought he could move inside me any more, but that small shift in angle let him nudge my tender cervix, and I gave another low cry at the tiny spark of pain that did nothing to diminish the pleasure.
“Christ, you’re hot,” he murmured. “Like a fucking furnace…”
He began to move. Slow, smooth strokes at first, his hands anchoring my hips to keep me from moving. Then, after a few moments, faster. Harder. One hand slipped around front to press my clit in time to his thrusts.
The door to the restroom opened. Dan stopped for a moment, then kept on, pulling out and pushing inside me with excruciating slowness. His finger circled faster.
I heard voices, two chattering women who used the stalls at the far end of the room without a break in their conversation. One of them peed forever, a waterfall of piss, and a bubble of laughter leaked out of me.
My shoulders shook with the effort of keeping it inside. His breath puffed in silent glee on my neck. Stars, the result of lack of oxygen, danced in my vision and I drew in breath after shallow breath, trying not to make a sound.
I laughed, and laughing made me come, writhing against his hand and moving on his cock while he kept his movements almost stationary for silence.
They used the sink, still chattering. If they heard us, they paid no attention. Perhaps we managed to be quiet enough, or maybe the saga and drama of their lives was so enthralling nothing could tear their attention from it. I only know that the second the door closed behind them Dan began fucking me in earnest.
Hard and fast. The hand on my hip gripped tight enough to leave a bruise. The stroking hand stopped and held me. I came again, smaller but no less pleasurable, and throbbed on his palm.
His teeth grazed my neck. His mouth moved to my shoulder, and he muffled his outcry against my shirt. His cock jerked inside me, and he thrust once more, hard enough to smack my forehead on the tile wall.
It hurt, but it made me laugh again. Sex in real life is never like in the movies. The choreography’s always off. Most people, though, don’t like to laugh during sex. Something’s wrong there. It’s supposed to bring joy, isn’t it?
Dan’s hand squeezed my sides gently before he pulled out. My skirt fell back around my thighs, and I reached to pull up my panties from their place around my knees. He flushed the condom, tucked himself away, zipped up his pants, every movement businesslike and efficient like he’d done this dozens of times before. For all I knew, he had.
“I took care of the check,” he said, his voice suddenly too loud for the small space, and then he walked out.
What had I expected? I chided myself. The same face looked at me from the mirror, but this time the fading flush on my throat and cheeks were a sign of a woman not about to be fucked, but one who has already been. I searched my eyes for some sign of change, something inside me to indicate how this should make me feel. Remorse? Guilt? Smug satisfaction? I saw no evidence of them in my gaze, couldn’t feel it. All I could think of was the way I’d laughed and climaxed simultaneously.
Even so, I lingered at the sink to wash my hands and pat a dampened paper towel across my face. I fixed my hair, freshened my makeup, sprayed cologne to mask the scent of sex.
The parking lot had emptied, the lunchtime crowds gone. I came out into late-afternoon sunshine that had me pulling my sunglasses from my bag. A spring breeze plucked at the hem of my raincoat.
“Hey.”
I turned to see him standing just outside the front doors. He flicked a just-finished cigarette onto the pavement and took two strides to catch up to me.
“You took a long time,” he said. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming out.”
I took a second to answer. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”
Something flickered in his eyes I couldn’t decipher. “No?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you were finished. I figured you needed to get back to work.”
I’d taken a cab to the restaurant, but the bus stop was only a block away. I started walking. He let me go four steps before he followed me.
“So…you think I just left you there?”
I nodded again, keeping my eyes straight ahead. It was true. I hadn’t expected him to wait for me, had believed he’d gone. I hadn’t been ashamed of what we’d done until I found him waiting for me. When it became clear he expected not just a quick lunchtime fuck, but conversation after.
“That’s the sort of guy you think I am.” He had a way of phrasing questions in such a way he answered them himself.
I glanced at him. “Well, Dan, I don’t know what sort of guy you are, other than you’re careful, which I appreciate.”
Darkness passed over his features and he reached to grab my arm when I made to move forward again. “Elle—”
I extricated myself from his grip with firmness that could not be misconstrued. “Thanks very much for lunch, Dan.”
He let me get six steps this time before he followed. “Is that all you think I wanted? Is that what you expected?”
How could I explain to him, who seemed so affronted, that it was not only what I had expected, but all I wanted. Twenty minutes of oblivion to make me stop thinking.
He took two more quick steps to end up in front of me, walking backward to keep us face-to-face. “Elle.”
“That’s my bus.” I pointed at the one pulling up to the stop. I could be there in another minute, get on, go back to work.
“You’re not getting on that bus.”
“No? I think I am.”
He stood in front of me so I had to step around him to keep moving. He matched my move with one of his own, graceful, as though we were dancing. He wasn’t smiling, but then, neither was I.
“Elle,” he said warningly. “Don’t walk away from me.”
I
