The sound that came out of his chest sounded like a chuckle, but really it was all the air leaving his lungs, because that was the exact moment he knew he was falling in love with her. With Jack Powell’s sister, sexily pragmatic, or pragmatically sexy. In charge. Living on another continent.
Her hand in his, he led her through brick-paved streets lined with brightly painted townhouses converted into apartments, up the stairs to his top-floor unit. A kitchen lined the wall by the door, and a bed, unmade, sat near the window. A tiny table with two chairs occupied what little space remained between the kitchen and the bed.
The bed.
Tonight was different. Tonight wasn’t in an anonymous hotel room, but in what passed for his home. Light from the full moon poured through the French door that opened to his balcony, falling in a wide strip across the scarred wood floors and the bed. He crossed the room, opened the door, and made a soft ch-ch-ch sound. With a rough mrowr, Edjer aka Motherfucker, mostly black with a white chest and stripe up his nose, leapt agilely from the wicker baker’s rack on Asra’s balcony to the railing of his, and from there to his floor. He shook some dry cat food into a bowl, and was rewarded with a hiss and a swipe. “You’re welcome, Motherfucker,” he muttered, Rose’s soft laugh masking the words.
He turned around to find her standing right behind him. She reached for his wrist and drew him to the bed, gently urging him to sit down. Then she straddled him. His hands gripped her hips, steadying her on the mattress while she kissed him, slow and hot and deep, her tongue stroking his until he was hard, desperate. His arms wrapped around her slender back.
She tugged his sweater over his head, then pushed him flat on his back so she could unbutton his shirt, kiss her way down his chest and abdomen to his pants. She slid to her knees on the floor and unzipped his pants, gently easing his stiff cock from his underwear. He lifted his hips to let her tug his pants to his thighs, then pulled the elastic from her ponytail, and remained braced on his elbows to watch.
Blow jobs done wrong felt perfunctory, a trade for something she wanted later. Blow jobs done right made him feel like a god receiving his due. They hit every single one of his buttons.
This one, with Rose, was done right, and more.
She turned the tables on him, this time forcing him to slow down, using her hands and mouth in flowing, slick, alternating movements until he was hard enough to drive nails, and trembling with desire.
“Come here,” he said, whiskey-voiced, brusque.
“I’m not d—” she said.
“You’re done,” he said, cutting her off. He gripped her upper arm and pulled her back up on the bed. A quick flurry of hands bared her to the waist. She wriggled out of her panties while he sheathed himself.
Watching her hold her skirt out of the way, center herself over his cock, and slide down, down, down until he was as deep inside her as he could get, sent molten heat pulsing through his veins, electrifying his nerves. Her head dropped back, lifting her breasts, tipped with rosebud nipples. He sat up, wrapped his arms around her waist, and hunched over, lifting his hips to drive deeper inside, licking at the taut peaks.
She gave a fierce laugh and started to ride him, slick, rhythmic movements that worked the head of his cock over that sweet spot inside her. He would have sworn steam was rising from his skin, scented with sex and sweat and her slick juices. He could taste it on her skin, in the air.
Everything was exactly the same, except it was entirely different. Her hair tumbled around their faces, getting into his mouth, sticking to her cheekbone, to his beard. She watched him, eyes closing occasionally when a particular angle made her quiver, inside and out, but for the most part, she watched him. Her eyes held a tender heat he didn’t recognize but that called to him deep inside, a clarion call, that cracked him open as he came apart in her arms.
When he returned to the bed, she was fast asleep. He set his alarm for zero four thirty hours, and lay down beside her to watch the moon cross the sky and dip out of sight. On the balcony across the alley, Edjer/Motherfucker, wide-eyed and cat-curious, peered into the room, clearly wondering what the hell he was doing.
He wondered the same thing himself.
*
“Rose. Rose, sweetheart, wake up.”
It was time to go. She knew before she opened her eyes that Keenan was beside her, his lips against her ear. “I’m awake,” she said groggily. “I’m going.”
He was silent while she rose and dressed, then gathered her shoulder bag from the chair. Torn, she looked at him for a long moment, then rummaged inside and brought out the plastic bag bearing the logo of the gift shop at Troy and laid it on the table. “I never read The Iliad, but I did read The Odyssey for World Lit class. Have you read it?”