shudders of pleasure through her.
She might be coming again, or she might not have ever stopped. It doesn’t matter. They move together just right. Like magic. He’s magic for her, and maybe she’s a little bit magic for him too.
He’s said her name before of course, both the real and the false, but now there’s an edge in his tone when he murmurs it. Once, then again. These are not words of love. That’s not what this is or what it’s meant to be. He says her name as he fucks her because he knows how it makes her feel to hear him say it. Or maybe, she hopes, just a little, he can’t keep himself from saying it.
Her name becomes a groan when he comes. His face, pressed to her neck, is hot. Their bodies have become slick with sweat, and her dress has crumpled beneath her. The fabric has bunched and shifted and will leave marks on her skin.
Afterwards they don’t sleep, but they do lie side by side in companionable silence while the sweat dries and cools their skin. The sound of the air-conditioning unit kicking on is loud and startling. It turns her head towards him, and she pushes up on one elbow to brush a kiss over his mouth.
She doesn’t say she’s leaving. She simply gets dressed and goes. In the hall outside the room, she pauses when the door clicks behind her. She turns and puts her hands on it, presses for a moment her cheek against the cool metal, but though she has the key and could open the door, go back inside, get on her knees for him the way she’s thought about … she doesn’t.
Tess leaves her Angel and goes home to her family, where she wears a different name and is a different woman. Where she cooks and cleans and folds laundry, where she carpools, where she sends spouse and spawn off to work and school every day with a smile so shiny and bright nobody would ever guess what it hides.
***
This is the last time.
They meet at his house, a flattering honour she’s not sure how to accept gracefully except by agreeing to go. They make small talk in his spotless kitchen. It feels somehow safer and more intimate than meeting in a hotel as they’ve done every other time. That’s why it scares her.
That’s why as they face each other from a distance made up of uncertainty and desire, she takes one step, then another, until a third puts her right up close to him. Her hand on his shoulder pushes him back against the marble-topped counter. He’s wearing khaki shorts, a white polo shirt. A belt. Nothing wrinkled or rumpled about him. There never is – unless she’s had her hands on him the way she does now, tugging his shirt out of his shorts. She slips her hands beneath, palms flat on his belly for a moment before she pulls his shirt off over his head.
Then she goes to her knees.
It’s not her natural place, on her knees. Not her usual kink. But for him … she wants to be here. Slowly, her hands travel down his sides, his thighs. Her skirt rides up. Beneath it she wears no stockings. Bare legs. Summer heat makes it too uncomfortable for stockings. The tile floor is hard on her knees. She hopes for bruises to remind her later of what she’s done.
Not that she could ever forget. This moment and all the others have left their imprint on every inch of her. They won’t know each other for ever, she knows that much is true. But she’ll never forget.
Her hands skate up the backs of his bare calves. She unbuckles and unbuttons him. Unzips. She bares him to her and nuzzles the inside of his thigh while her hand guides his feet out of his shorts and briefs. Details, details. She wants him naked.
Her mouth pressed to the inside of his knee, she looks up. His fingers have curled over the edge of the marble countertop. His mouth is open just a little as he watches her. His cock’s already hard. He smiles. She smiles. Her mouth drifts higher, his hair tickling her nose and cheeks and her now-closed eyes. She finds his cock with her mouth and engulfs him.
Her hand on the base, her mouth on the head of his prick, she takes him in as far as she can. Hand meets lips, moving. She sucks a little harder on the head, tongue swirling. She wets him so when her hand strokes the only tug on his flesh is smooth and slick. Good friction. Her other hand cups his balls, thumb stroking backwards to find that lovely pressure point that makes him groan.
Then she slides it between her legs, inside her panties, finds her cunt already wet and slick and hot. Her clit’s tight and throbbing under skilled fingers that know just how to move. She could come in half a minute with his cock nudging the back of her throat, but she holds off. Slows down.
She wants all of this to last, even though she knows it’s almost over.
She puts his hand into her hair and makes him curl his fingers tight. Makes him pull her hair, just a little, makes him guide her though the truth is she doesn’t need him to. She knows where and how to touch him, but making him show her turns her on.
She thinks of herself as a woman, not a lady. Not a girl. But that’s what he calls her sometimes, and though she loves it when he says her name in that low voice, edging sharp and hard onto a moan, she also loves it when he calls her his girl. She’s not, of course, and never will be. Maybe that’s why it hits her so hard in her heart.
This last time, she’d gladly suck him until he comes down her throat, swallow the taste of him, feel him pulse and shudder on her tongue, but he has other ideas. His fingers pull her hair until her face tips up. He’s still smiling. He pulls her to her feet – their kisses still haven’t become burdened by familiarity. They never will. His hands roam her back, her front, him naked, she clothed. He moves into the family room and the couch.
She’s straddling him in a minute, their mouths locked tight, his hands now under her dress. Laughter interrupts their kisses when she shifts and moves to help him get her panties off. When he opens the buttons at the front of her dress and puts his mouth on her breasts, she can no longer laugh. She can barely even sigh, because again she’s forgotten how to breathe.
She wants this to last and can’t make it. Her body’s got an agenda that has nothing to do with what’s in her head or heart. She lifts up so he can push inside her all the way, so deep. He fills her. She settles onto him, her forehead to his, her hands cupping his face. Her knees grip his sides and press the back of the couch.
For a long, long moment neither of them moves. Then he murmurs something. Her name, a plea, encouragement. Something low and hoarse and full of need. His voice turns her volcanic. Liquid lava, molten. Her mouth finds his. He whispers into her, breathes for her since she’s still unable.
He puts a hand on her hip while the other slides between them to centre on her clit. Just right. Perfect.
They move together at the same time. Time goes thick and slow, a dripping of syrup, of honey. She grips the back of the couch with one hand, his shoulder with the other. They are cheek to cheek, the pleasure too intense for kisses. Fucking’s all they can manage. Slow, slow, she moves on his cock, his hand pressing her clit. Her fingers dig deep into his bare skin. Mouth open, her teeth press the side of his neck. When she bites, just a little, he fucks into her hard enough to make her gasp.
I love fucking you.
Yes. Please. Harder. Fuck me.
This feels so good. You feel so good.
Yes. Just like that.
The words come, and she comes with a quiver and a cry, her face pushed against the side of his neck. He knows just how to ease off the pressure on her clit. She pushes herself onto her
