Over me, Thomas props one hand on the tree, the other stroking his still-jerking arousal. His head is bowed and his eyes scrunched shut. If I didn’t know any better and if I hadn’t sucked him to completion, I’d think he was in pain. But no—this is the aftermath of his lust for me, agonizing and glorious.
Thomas focuses on me. “Goodbyes aren’t my forte, but I won’t leave you like a coward either.”
Thomas’ words rattle inside my brain, and it takes me a moment to get it. When his meaning settles over me, I sag with relief and swell with tenderness. He is giving me a non-promise promise that he won’t leave me like Caleb did, not without telling me first.
I let go of my skirt and rub his cum over my neck and chin in circles, hoping to get him under my skin. I lick a few drops clinging to my mouth. It tastes like the best kind of chocolate, salted and thick.
His lips part on a harsh breath and he yanks me up by the arm, at the same time pulling his pants up. I squeak at the sudden pain in my knee as the pressure of kneeling lifts off.
“What’s wrong?” Thomas asks with a frown. “Did I…Did I hurt you?”
His concern for me eases the pain. “No. It’s just… I think I busted my knee when I fell earlier. It’s nothing.”
Before I can finish, Thomas is the one on his knees, examining my injury. He lowers my tights even farther and inspects my knees—they’re bleeding. He curses and unzips my right boot.
“What are you doing?” I brace myself on his shoulders as he lifts my leg and takes the boot off. The ground is freezing—like, literally freezing—and it makes me shiver. I feel like a bleeding Cinderella who just sucked off her dirty Prince Charming, and now, instead of fitting my boots on my feet, he’s taking them off.
“You can’t go home like this,” he replies while working on my other boot. “You need to be cleaned and bandaged.” After my boots are off, he strips off my leg warmers followed by my tights, until my lower half is exposed to the chilled air. He stands. “Come on, I’ve got a first aid kit.”
Like the weather, I freeze at his words. They punch me awake, dispersing the insanity. My actions become crystal clear, as if I hadn’t committed them myself. I sucked him off in his backyard, right in front of the window I watched him and his wife through.
God, I’m such a slut, and even Thomas’ presence can’t ease the guilt right now.
“Layla.”
I focus on him, the languidness of his frame, the flecks of arousal still coloring his cheeks. “I can’t…I can’t go in there.”
He is silent, like he understands why, like he sees the craziness of what we’ve just done. We can’t break all the rules. I can’t break all the rules of being The Other Woman and step foot in his house.
He runs his eyes over my legs and pauses a beat on my stomach, as if seeing my tattoo through the sweater.
“I made you bleed, so I’m the one who has to clean you up.” He says it like a punishment, but it still manages to sprout butterflies in my cartwheeling stomach. With that, he turns around and begins walking to the back of his house, carrying my tights, boots, and leg warmers.
I stand immobile for a fraction of a second before righting my coat and taking off after him. Thomas is at the door, waiting for me to catch up. He unlocks it and stands aside to let me in first. Entering his house through the back door makes the whole situation even more illicit. It feels like we’re breaking in. His shoulders are tensed as if he realizes the same thing as me. We’re like thieves in the night, trespassing together.
The stove light is on and the fridge makes a dull whirring noise. It’s a typical sound of a typical kitchen, but I’m in awe—because it’s Thomas’ house, and I’m in it.
Thomas stands still at the island, not for a long time, but long enough that I notice and wonder. Why does he look lost in his own house?
He comes out of his trance then, and tosses his phone, wallet, and keys on the marble island. “Take a seat. I’m going to get the first aid kit.”
I hear him walk down what must be the hallway and I use my time to absorb everything about the place. There’s a coffee machine right by the door with a stand for mugs. He’s got an NYU mug hanging at the top and I touch the cold ceramic, missing the city with an ache. Thomas went to NYU when I must’ve been eight or nine. He lived in the same city as me. It floors me to think we might have crossed paths, the poet in the making and me. Soul mates. Maybe I saw him through the crowd but never took notice.
His house has an open floor plan and the living and dining rooms are both visible from the kitchen, lit by tiny nightlights. I trace the leather couch with my hands, the couch he sits on at night while grading papers.
To the left are the stairs and the hallway down which Thomas disappeared. I can hear him rattling things in the bathroom. I pad down the hardwood floor, my bare feet hardly making a sound. I stop at a room with a half-open door. It issues an unspoken invitation for a trespasser like me.
Swallowing, I open it wider to reveal a room full of boxes and a sprawling desk, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window. I trace my palm over the surface of the wood and feel the scratches, the rough texture of it. This is a desk with history, with a certain character to it. It’s unlike the glossy, polished surface of the desk in his office. I like this one better.
The top is empty except for a dusty small lamp. Not even a pen resides. I wonder if it’s his organizational skills at work or something more. It feels like more.
I glance at the boxes, the whole mountain of them by the wall. They are labeled Old, NYU, Poetry, Literary, and so on. I stop at the one labeled Anesthesia. It’s taped up. I want to tear it open and see what’s inside. What are the chances of him noticing if I steal something from here?
“Don’t even think about it.”
Jumping, I whirl around. “Think about what?”
Thomas switches on the light on the desk, throwing the room into stark relief. The yellow light is the same as his office, reminding me of our fucking in the shadows. I press my hand on my stomach where I feel something moving.
“Taking my things without permission.”
“I wouldn’t,” I scoff. “I was just looking around.”
“Strangely, I’m not surprised.” His tone is dry. “Sit.” He points to the desk, and that’s when I notice he’s carrying a first aid box.
I walk over and shimmy my ass onto the surface. He watches my every move, making me very aware of my own body, especially my bare thighs and calves.
He sits at the chair, which creaks under his weight, and a shot of arousal runs through my core. If I get any wetter, I’ll leave prints on his desk, and this isn’t the time. I’m trying to be good, respectful.
Lusting after Thomas in his own home is wrong, more wrong than anything we’ve done till now. Isn’t a house supposed to be a safe place? And I’m invading that safe place with my sullied, ruined presence.