"Oh. Well that makes it okay."
I arrange myself at the end of couch and beckon for her to come sit between my legs. She crawls over, resting against my chest, her hip digging in beside my stiffening cock. "You comfy?"
"Uhuh."
For a while, we lie in silence, drinking while I stroke her tied-up hair. I close my eyes, breathing in the mulled wine scent of her and the candle wax smell of her apartment. Luxuriate in the warm weight of her on my ribs. Like this, I can almost forget the macabre circus my life has become these past few days, and it's a relief like no other. Her stomach keeps gurgling and rumbling; I rub at it with a flat palm, chuckling to myself.
"You want to order takeout?"
"No." She puts her bottle down on the floor and comes up over me, her fingers pulling at the buttons of my shirt. She seems to tire of this quickly, then takes my bottle and deposits it with hers.
"What can I do for you?"
"Just this." Fingers on the fly of my pants, fetching me out.
My stiff cock falls into the smooth, silky warmth of her hand. I bite down a groan.
"Will you make love to me?" she murmurs. "Really slow. Be gentle with me." There's a far off, dilated look in her eyes; desire, but vacant and desperate. "Please."
I...can try.
The denim skirt is stiff, but I manage to get it up over her hips. There, I peel aside her black cotton panties and probe until I find the firm rise of her clit. She gasps, pants a little; she's not wet, but doesn't seem to care. I go to sit up—I'll lick her until she's ready, until I'm plastered in her scent and taste—but she keeps me down, pins me, and eases forward to sink on to my cock.
I don't remember the last time I fucked a woman like this. Oh, I can fuck without cutting—I'd be in jail now if that weren't the case—but it's never been slow or sensual. I'm not that guy. What I am, however, is deliberate, and I can deliberately keep a gradual, grinding pace for my Leo. Bottoming out in her narrow, unprepared * is...something else. Every time I thrust up, we both suck in half the room.
I splay my fingers across her bare thighs, my thumb caressing the band aid that covers her first cut. We're both rubbed by her shoved-aside panties, and the pressure has bite; I can't keep myself from playing with them, from tugging them so they pull on her clit, or brush my cock in a soft ridge every time I slip out of her. And she's wet now. Moaning and wet. Rolling herself over me so I hit all the right spots. Everything in me is pulled iron-tight, my blood hot and hammering in my ears, my mouth, my dick.
Through blurred vision, I watch her clutch at herself as she comes. She pulls my palm up, licks it with a tongue like slick velvet. Curses into my flesh in warm gusts of fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Will you do it for me?" she pants, squeezing my fingers. "Come for me, Aeron...do it hard, it's okay...oh...ow, God..."
I lose myself somewhere between her thighs, pieces of hell there, burning and bright.
Later, she lies draped over me again, our clothes still dishevelled while she leaks the evidence of my desire into her panties. I can smell it. Her. I don't ever want to be anywhere else.
"You want to talk about yesterday?" I ask.
"No." She sighs. "You know what I do want...?"
I shake my head.
"I want to cook you Sunday lunch this weekend. I haven't had anyone to cook for like that in ages." She climbs up my chest to play with my collar. A small smile pulls at her lips, sleepy and sated. "You ever had Yorkshire pudding?"
"What the fuck is Yorkshire pudding?"
"Oh God." She tuts. "I have work to do."
"Apparently so." I swirl my fingertips along her spine, and she shivers against me in pleasure. "Is it dessert?"
"Nope. You have it with roast beef—properly rare roast beef, just the kind you'd like—and it's technically like pancake batter, only—"
"You eat beef with pancakes? What kind of fuck-ups are you all over there, anyway?"
She laughs. Slaps at me. "Let me finish! It's baked instead of fried, and it ends up like this puffy ball. All soft and lardy and awesome."
"You're not really selling it to me."
"It's delicious, I promise. You'll like it. I want to make it for you." She pauses. Pushes her face into my shoulder. "You could bring your brother."
I don't mean to stiffen—normally, I'm not that obvious—but I just came inside her, and I'm disarmed. "Ash is busy."
"Busy? All the time? Isn't he, like, eight years old?"
"I don't share him, Leo." I find myself avoiding her eyes. "We're not going to be like that."
"I see."
Leo and I have had many awkward silences, especially in the beginning of our relationship. This one, however, feels like the worst of all.
Eventually, I stretch over to grab the remote and begin flicking through the TV channels, settling on a football game. The shouts and cheers do nothing to drown out my suddenly erratic heartbeat, nor do they distract from the way Leo has begun to shake in my arms.
"Rachel's mom called me this morning," she croaks.