Six
Mom Club Confidential
Naomi
7:32 PM
bring wine. don’t care if it’s 8.99
Naomi
7:35 PM
and don’t bring kids.
Harper
7:37 PM
god I hope someone says “discharge”
Rachel
7:45 PM
if no one says the word “discharge” tonight I will personally make a toast
Rachel
7:51 PM
Evan can go fuck himself
Brielle
7:41 PM
i’m wearing pants with a zipper tonight so NO ONE FUCK THIS UP FOR ME
Brielle
7:47 PM
DELETE THIS
It feels like they’re doing this just to mess with her, she thinks. Or to have something to hold over her head when she shows up to wine night two minutes late with the excuse that “the kids were a lot tonight” and not nearly as creative as Naomi’s last one, which involved her three-year-old gluing his hand to the backseat of her luxury SUV.
Claire catches the cloud of notifications on her lock screen one last time before they buzz away like a gnat
Every message is unhinged. Every woman is over it.
And Claire? She’s already halfway out the door, keys in hand, mascara on point, heart finally in it.
Claire checks the time. If she waits any longer, they’ll think she’s running late because she was actually doing laundry and not… other things. Like refilling her glass and whispering just a little more, a little deeper, oh my god, don’t stop before heading out the door.
?
In Naomi’s house, there’s not a single plastic train or chicken nugget in sight. It’s clean and calm and Pinterest-perfect, exactly the kind of place Claire imagines when she thinks of a pre-child version of herself who could finish a thought, a project, or a sentence without needing to refill anyone’s milk cup.
It’s a universe away from her own cluttered house, and she’s half convinced Naomi uses them all as test subjects for her impossibly orchestrated dinner parties: look at these poor exhausted souls! Imagine what I could do for you!
The front door opens before Claire can knock, revealing Naomi’s latest feat of carefully planned hosting: a full spread of alcohol, snacks, and Instagram-ready friendship, complete with coordinated charcuterie board. There’s no telling what Naomi has planned, only that it’s probably labeled in a secret Google Doc with contingencies for wardrobe malfunctions, unexpected toddlers, and getting cut off at wine number three.
Somewhere between a hip-looking houseplant and an overpriced throw pillow, Brielle declares, “Is it fucked up that I don’t know how to sit in jeans anymore?” She kicks off her shoes and plants herself on the couch, her toned legs crossed in a way that makes Claire simultaneously jealous and grateful that Bri is the one person who doesn’t care that she showed up in a t-shirt she slept in.
Rachel rolls her eyes but pulls out her phone. “If no one says ‘discharge’ tonight,” she mutters, thumbs working with machine-like efficiency as she captures a perfect shot of Naomi’s wine selection, “I will personally make a toast.” Her glossy black bob doesn’t have a single hair out of place, and she’s wearing a posh new “fuck me” dress that would put Sex and the City-era Carrie Bradshaw to shame.
Harper is the next to arrive, in all black with a sharp tongue and sharper eyeliner. Claire never knows if she should laugh or cringe when Harper opens her mouth. She likes that about her. “We need to establish some rules here,” Harper deadpans. “Like if you say the word toddler more than twice, you have to chug.”
Rachel raises her hand and winks. “I’m fine with this.”
They aren’t the kind of friends Claire imagined herself having—not with Rachel’s perfectly curated life, or Naomi’s strict adherence to color-coding, or Harper’s cold but brilliant humor, or Bri’s refusal to commit to anyone or anything—but they’ve quickly become the people who keep her sane when she can’t hear her own thoughts, the ones who look at her sideways and tease her until she finally bursts.
?
Naomi has the kind of closet that Claire might actually murder for, and even when they’re being casual, she looks like an Athleta catalog. Claire immediately knows the outfit Naomi opens the door in: it’s the kind of outfit she used to plan, coordinated without being obvious. Soft cardigan, lace peeking underneath, perfect curls that look effortless but Claire knows actually took ten minutes in a mirror and some kind of styling tool she has never bothered to learn the name of.
“Someone take a picture,” Naomi sighs, posing with an artfully placed hand on the side of her face and the side of her hip. “This will never happen again.”
Claire used to be the planner, the creative, the girl who coordinated her own outfits and her own events before Rachel dubbed them the “Mom Club” and they all stopped pretending to be put-together. Now she just throws on something clean enough to pass for an actual wardrobe. Which, at the moment, happens to be a second-hand top from Rachel, a pair of shorts, and a shrug of wine-fueled confidence. She doesn’t care that the color is two seasons ago. It’s not going to be on her for long.
?
“Claire!” Brielle’s bright voice fills the space when Claire finally makes it through the door. “You look… like you need a drink.” She pats the empty cushion beside her, shaking her head at Claire’s thrift-store look.
Harper smirks as she fills Claire’s glass and passes it across the room. “Is this one of Rachel’s?” she asks, fingering the sleeve as Claire collapses on the couch. “We have to burn it.”
The burn doesn’t land; it vanishes into an alcohol-laced giggle as Claire’s tired body hits the cushion. Brielle snaps another picture, and within seconds everyone’s phones buzz with the latest update. “Day drinking?” Bri asks, staring at her screen as Rachel chokes back laughter and nearly a mouthful of wine. “Or is there something we don’t know about you?”
Rachel leans in close, scrutinizing Claire’s expression, and nudges her side. “Did you get a sitter? Your face looks very we’re-not-doing-laundry-tonight.” She leans back, eyes narrowed, and adds, “Someone’s husband is getting some.”
The observation sends Claire into another fit of laughter that she can’t stop, a kind of laughter she didn’t even know she had in her a few weeks ago. She used to think she didn’t need this kind of night; she used to think the cracks in her marriage would just close up, or that she’d be fine if they didn’t. The journal she kept was a reminder, an escape, a fantasy that gave her back the pieces of herself she was sure were gone for good.
But then the pact started.
And it’s why she’s here, why she feels alive enough to keep laughing until everyone’s staring and the wine nearly spills from Brielle’s phone to Claire’s shorts.
It’s why she doesn’t know what to say when Bri asks if there’s something they don’t know about her. Because there is, but she doesn’t know how to tell them without admitting she kept her wild, sexy secret under wraps for a year.
The night unfolds with the same chaotic rhythm of their group chat, but with more alcohol and less chance of anyone having to stop mid-sentence to prevent their child from playing with an open flame or joining the party. The rooms of Naomi’s picture-perfect house echo with laughter and half-drunk confessions and Claire’s coy avoidance of any real answers.
No one mentions toddler more than twice; no one has to chug. They have two solid hours of freedom as partners and grandparents take over parenting duties, and Claire can’t remember the last time she felt this loose.
“This one time?” Brielle starts, loud enough that the words echo over the sharp angles of Naomi’s vaulted ceiling, “Julian and I tried to—” She cuts herself off, her laugh turning infectious as she motions at her phone. “Yeah, actually, no. You don’t get this story.”
Harper stares, deadpan. “Is that what it’s like when you’re off the clock? ‘Yeah, actually, no’? Real hardcore there.”
Rachel nearly spits out her drink and nudges Claire with her elbow. “How do we say this?” she teases, a perfectly manicured finger resting on her chin. “Our little Clairebear has been acting... differently.” She waggles her brows and leans back against the crisp, color-coordinated couch. “What do we think is going on here, ladies?”
“We’re not doing laundry tonight,” Naomi mimics, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a practiced motion that belongs in a shampoo commercial.
Brielle snaps another photo with her camera, while Harper catches it with her words. “Okay, Claire. Spill. You’ve been glowing for, like, a week.”
?
It’s more like three weeks, Claire thinks as the words blur and vibrate in her head.
Three weeks since Nate closed the door and asked, “This what you wanted?” in a voice that didn’t expect a yes, because her phone was full of unread fantasies and her eyes were tired and he thought he knew the answer until he didn’t. Until she said, “Yes, fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” like a different version of herself.
It’s more like three weeks since Nate locked the laundry room door with a quick, practiced motion and slid his hands into her shorts with the same confident ease. She remembers the feel of his fingers—how different it was than the way she imagined—rough, deliberate, getting her wetter with each slow stroke until she forgot how exhausted she’d been an hour earlier. It’s more like three weeks since he reached for the toy she thought he didn’t know about, coaxed her against the vibrating dryer, and filled her with both his thick length and the quiet, unspoken promise of another night like this one.
?
Claire wants to tell them, but all that comes out is a glassy, embarrassed, I’ve been keeping this under wraps for a year and don’t know how to say it kind of laugh. She wants to tell them how things shifted, how her dream—the one that broke the numbness between Nate and her, the one she had to write down so she wouldn’t forget, the one where she didn’t care who saw or who heard—became real.
But she keeps the words in for now, watches her friends pass knowing looks, and feels the intoxicating buzz of all the other things that haven’t stayed in: toys, fingers, a hard length, the plug that made her squirm and scream and hold onto Nate like he was the only thing keeping her on this planet when he stretched her so tight and so fucking full.
She takes a deep breath and holds it as long as she can before she gives in to another wave of laughter, louder than before.
Her friends don’t believe her deflection of “I’m just sleeping better” for a second. They’ve never seen her like this; they know she’s hiding something, that she’s bursting. And so is Claire. She doesn’t care if it comes out as a laugh, a gasp, or a quick breathless cry when she opens the door later and Nate is there, and he’s all hers again.
?
A game called “Fantasy or Fiction” lights up the room as soon as Rachel mentions the word cock ring; wine sloshes into glasses with each loud guess, and flushed faces turn to Claire when she whispers the question that gets Naomi refilling her drink and Harper asking, “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Naomi crosses her legs and stares Claire down. “It’s not real until you say it,” she taunts, dark red hair pulled back into a severe but chic bun. “Now tell us what’s going on with you.”
It’s easier to keep the words in when she isn’t drunk and surrounded by the best group of prying wives anyone could ask for. “You all sound like horny teenagers,” Claire deflects, picking at the hem of the hand-me-down shirt that’s starting to grow on her. She takes another sip, and another, while Brielle declares, “One hundred percent real. I’ve probably read it,” and Claire knows she’s not just guessing.
Rachel flips to the next index card, and the stack looks suspiciously well researched. “We do sound like horny teenagers,” she admits. “I like it. Next one! He’s a trauma surgeon. She’s a brat who won’t follow the rules.” She looks up, eyes sparkling, her voice all bright, tipsy amusement. “Or is that too close to home?”
?
Naomi raises her hand, three fingers outstretched like a girl scout pledge. “Real. And I bet it’s rated three stars because it didn’t count unless she tied him up and put it in his ass.”
Rachel holds up her glass. “To discharge!”
“Jesus, Rachel.” Claire’s laughter bubbles up again, louder and more spontaneous than before. She almost lets out the words, almost tells them, almost spills every delicious detail she swore she wouldn’t until Brielle saves her.
“Way more than three stars,” Bri counters, cutting into Naomi’s toast. “Trust me. I’ll loan it to you.” She’s all smiles, the playful ease of her voice almost like music. “Or did someone here write it?”
This time, Claire’s the one holding up her glass. It’s nice not to be the one with the most embarrassing secrets.
?
They’re off the clock. They’re loud and loose, and they keep bringing up cock rings, which sends Claire’s mind spinning with both fantasy and memory. In another life, she wouldn’t have been embarrassed to write about that kind of thing. She’s kept the impulse buried for so long that she almost forgot about it—almost convinced herself that fantasies are easier to keep when they aren’t shared.
It doesn’t help that Rachel’s dirty “fiction” sounds a lot like the ones Claire can’t stop imagining, the ones Nate has somehow made more than fiction these past few weeks. He’s not a security guard, not a trauma surgeon, not a hot cop with a gun to match, but it’s hard not to think about him like that when she’s buzzed enough to let her mind wander to places she never thought it would again.
He’s not the kind of guy who does these things, the Claire she used to be thought. It would feel weird to ask. What if it’s awkward? What if it makes him stop wanting? She knows better now. But it took time, and nights like this one, and moments like when he got rougher with her than she imagined and she begged, shaking, fuck, Nate, more, more, oh god, don’t stop.
?
Claire stays quiet, but she’s not as quiet as last week, and the week before, and all the weeks before that. The room buzzes around her, a flurry of alcohol and secrets that taste like the wine she wasn’t bold enough to bring until now. She bites her lip, her grin like a tightly wound spring.
“What happened to ‘just sleeping better’?” Naomi teases.
Harper gives her a sharp side-eye, daring her to answer with more than laughter this time.
“Come on,” Rachel cuts in. “Something changed.”
“I did.” Claire gives them the vaguest of shrugs and the boldest look she can muster. She remembers when they used to be her lifeline, her last-ditch attempt to find herself again, her escape. She doesn’t need escape anymore, but she needs their energy, their friendship, their fuck-it-all attitude. She doesn’t want them to stop asking, even if it takes all night to get to the truth.
“I think this is the last bottle,” Naomi sighs, refilling glasses with cheap red before settling back into her own. “Better than getting pregnant again.”
Harper nods. “Or being awake at 2am.”
“Or admitting Evan is too tired to fuck me.”
Bri gives Rachel an incredulous look. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.”
“Well that sucks.”
“Seriously.”
Claire watches her friends break into couples, a flurry of quick stories and quicker glances and the same kind of barely suppressed tension that she felt before the pact, before the dream, before Nate pushed her further than she thought she’d go. It won’t be long, she thinks, before someone else in this group takes her lead.
Naomi corners Rachel on the floor, while Brielle takes Harper on the couch.
“What are the odds?” Bri asks.
“Higher than you’d think,” Harper snaps back.
And the teasing goes on and on, until Naomi is flat on her back with a pillow behind her head, Rachel straddles the end of the couch, and Brielle flips Harper off with a smirk.
?
“Two years.” Bri rolls her eyes and takes a long sip, then holds up a finger. “Wait. No. A year. He got his new office chair right around the time we—”
Harper squints, her eyebrows arched in disbelief. “A chair? Are you saying his ergonomic back support is hotter than you?”
“I’m saying Leo’s going to wish he was this chair.”
Claire stares at the couch, where Rachel is leaning back against the cushion, lips pursed. “Micah’s contract,” Rachel says, blowing her bangs off her forehead and clinking Naomi’s glass, “isn’t the only thing his boss is riding him on.”
Naomi puts a dramatic hand over her chest, mock-scandalized and way too amused. “You think I can’t handle that information?”
Rachel shrugs and grins. “I think you need another drink.”
“Okay, but only if you tell me about this fucking chair. He’ll never see it coming.”
Claire holds her glass tight and tries to catch every word, every secret, every hint that their relationships are a bigger mess than she thought.
It reminds her how lost she felt before the night Nate closed the door, touched her in ways she had to dream about, and proved that the husband she wanted—the husband she wrote about—was closer than she thought.
?
“Now it’s my turn,” Rachel cuts in, stealing Claire’s attention before her mind goes any further from the room. “Are we done with the last bottle yet? Are we?”
Naomi barely finishes her drink before Rachel starts again. “She’s a mom of three. He’s a cowboy with a pair of handcuffs and a tight pair of jeans.” She scans the room for a reaction, but this time it’s not Claire who gives it to her.
Naomi nearly chokes. “Sounds familiar?” She laughs and lets the words hang over the room like an old joke. Claire used to hate when they teased her, but it feels different now, lighter, less like a punch in the gut and more like a punchline she’s happy to run with.
“Someone might be,” Claire counters, an eye-roll in her voice and a buzz on her lips. “Are we really out?”
Rachel pours the last drop of the last bottle and nods. “Yes. But I feel a liquor store run coming on. Some of us are just starting to remember.”
The wine’s almost gone, and so is the tightness Claire used to carry with her to these kinds of nights.
Just a couple weeks ago you were… Naomi starts, but Claire cuts in, unable to stop the smile on her face from reaching the rest of her. “Sleeping? Tired? Not screaming?”
?
Harper lets the word hang in the air as she holds the door for Rachel.
“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder, not one for drawn-out goodbyes. “Someone here has definitely done it in a laundry room.”
The last of the wine buzzes in Claire’s body like the texts that came earlier: fast, insistent, impossible to ignore.
“Not everyone,” Brielle says as she trails Naomi out the door. “Just the lucky ones.”
?
Their voices fade down the driveway, leaving Claire alone with a light head and a tingling that only gets worse as she thinks of how far away her laundry room is.
It’s not just the wine that’s doing it; it’s not just her friends’ laughter and not-very-subtle attempts to pry a confession out of her. It’s how quick and wild her mind goes when she thinks about everything she couldn’t say out loud. Not just how much Nate surprised her when he got rough and dirty, not just the hard length of him pushing inside her in places she didn’t know she’d love, but how much she surprised herself when she begged for more.
Nate wouldn’t know what to do with a cock ring, she used to think. And I wouldn’t know what to do with a fantasy.
Now, she knows. Now, it doesn’t take much to feel breathless, giddy, as if the hint of a cowboy in handcuffs could push her over the edge before she makes it halfway home.
It doesn’t take much to know exactly where her night is going, or who’s going to remember this version of her best.
?
The leftover wine pulses in Claire’s veins, syncs with the pace of her racing heart, while a charged memory vibrates through her body with the same urgency as her footsteps from Naomi’s door. The night winds down, but her breathless anticipation only grows.
Rachel’s laughter echoes as she half-fumbles, half-flies toward her car: She’s a mom of three. He’s a cowboy with a pair of handcuffs and a tight pair of jeans. Claire had laughed too, carefree and loud, letting the wine and the jokes buzz in her body like a swarm of impatient messages: don’t care if it’s 8.99. Sleeping better? More like better than all of us.
She was breathless. She still is. The heat in her cheeks flares as she thinks of Nate, how he pushed her against the washer, how every slow thrust sent a jolt through her, how he didn’t hold back when she begged for more. The sensation was so raw, so all-consuming, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. When they finished, he cupped her face and waited for the world to come back, steady, quiet, filled with promise. He always waits, and it drives her fucking crazy in the best possible way.
This time she doesn’t want to wait.
She fumbles with the keys, half-drunkenly and a little out of breath. The porch light is on, like he’s waiting for her, like he’s listening to her heart pound and her head spin and her body scream. She thinks of the dream again—how fast and rough he took her, how much she wanted him to—and she pushes her front door open in the kind of hurry that gets even Claire surprised at how bold she’s become.
?
Inside the quiet of her own house, she pauses to catch her breath. It doesn’t take long; the pause only makes the need worse.
She’s surrounded by toys and clutter and reminders of the wild, messy life that sometimes feels too big and too close and too much to hold together. She feels different now, unsteady in a way she loves, like she’s breaking all over again but in the best possible way.
Her own house is nothing like Naomi’s. There’s not a coordinated throw pillow in sight, and that’s okay. It’s not pristine, not manicured, but it’s hers. Warm, imperfect, alive. There’s an energy that Claire didn’t notice before she poured herself a glass of wine earlier, before she slipped into the bedroom for what was supposed to be a quick drink and turned into the best possible start to a long, needy night.
It feels like Nate, she thinks. Like them. Like things aren’t just drifting anymore.
She knows they’ll keep this going; they’ll keep finding ways to fit the real them into the rest of their chaotic lives. That was the promise, and it felt big, like the promise of not drifting through everything. Like not being ghosts. Like seeing, feeling, touching.
Her heart pounds and her core tightens with a different kind of heat when she remembers how Nate touched her before she left, slow and hard and with his fingers deep inside. It was only supposed to be a taste, a reminder, a preview, but he couldn’t stop and neither could she. Her hurried goodbye turned into a frantic, all-consuming, I can’t wait.
He told her to think of it when the others asked what’s different. Now, it’s all she can think about.
?
A low buzz pulls her attention to the counter, where her phone vibrates with the last volley of group texts. The screen is blurry and her head is fuzzy but she can still read their words, breathless and laughing: Oh my god, someone really did it. Laundry room.
Her cheeks flare again, hotter than the wine and brighter than the giddy blush of being caught with the hints she didn’t want to hide.
When she started hanging out with the others, the best Claire could do was an awkward grin and an occasional flustered response. Her face used to match her words, subdued, quiet, like the edges of a life that was all fine, fine, everything is fine.
Now, she types with bold fingers and flushed cheeks, less worried about saying the right thing, more worried about the wait until she gets to feel this breathless again. She doesn’t hit delete when she taps a new message:
Claire:
...Some of us are just starting to remember.
They can say what they want. Claire has more to say. More to do. More to hold onto.
?
She lingers in the entryway, but not for long. She knows where this is going. She knows how this ends. She knows how this feels, and how good it is, and how much better it will be in five minutes. It’s all too much to handle and all too hard to let go. It’s a fast and slow burn at the same time, and Claire can’t stop drifting toward it.
There’s a sudden but welcome impatience in everything she does; she can’t get through the house fast enough, can’t relive the memory of Nate pushing her against the dryer enough. The anticipation is so thick it almost leaves a trace in the air, the same way the kids leave smudged fingerprints on the sliding door when they get so restless they can’t wait to get outside.
But this isn’t like that. It’s waiting to get in, not out, to see and feel, to burn and hold.
She doesn’t even stop for her shoes, which she kicked off on her way out and left where she thought she might be too tired for a round two by the time she got back. She knows she’s going to crash hard when she makes it to the bedroom, and she wants to crash as fast as she can.
A sharp pulse runs through her as she stands in front of the door and sees a sudden flash of what this will be. She leans her head against the cool wood and tries to savor the feeling of not knowing, of being breathless, of hiding the real her and finally letting the real her out.
?
When she does push the door open, she’s flushed, shaking, buzzing.
The anticipation she felt in the hallway only gets worse when she sees Nate stretched out, waiting, like nothing has changed. But everything has, and she feels like she might burst the way she did earlier, except it’s a different kind of burst, a messier one, and one she can’t laugh through the way she did when Naomi pushed a glass into her hand and teased her until she was dizzy.
“Long night?” Nate’s voice is soft, low, but not quite as soft as the look he gives her. She bites her lip, knowing she has no chance at holding in her words or her breath when he gets his hands on her again.
She pushes the door closed with the same deliberate motion she felt when he pressed her against the wall and filled her with more than she ever thought possible, when he entered her from behind, when she was stretched so tight she could barely speak or breathe, and when they came together in the quickest, hottest, loudest moment they’ve ever had.
She wants that again, and he knows it.
She wants that again, and it drives her toward him.
Her bare feet barely touch the floor as she drifts through the space between them, fast and deliberate, like her heart. She doesn’t have to rush, she tells herself, but she wants to. She doesn’t have to drift, but it’s okay if she does.
She doesn’t have to do anything but feel, like this, like everything.
She lets the door swing shut.
She doesn’t want to wait.
?
In the dim, private space of their bedroom, Nate traces the length of Claire’s damp skin with quiet intensity, closing the gap between want and touch. Their kisses deepen, their bodies collide, and the last two hours feel like the longest of her life as she writhes under his demanding hands and unfaltering thrusts.
She’s breathing too hard, too fast. She’s feeling too much, too soon. Her skin burns under his hands, and her shorts are already on the floor before she has a chance to answer him, to say anything but his name. He moves her like it’s the only thing that matters, so steady, so sure, that she can’t keep up with her breath, her words, her body.
“Better than 8.99?” he murmurs, breathless himself as he guides her to the bed.
He knows it was; he knows it is. He sees the way her pulse races. He feels the way she stretches against him like a taut wire, about to snap.
The heat of his body is everywhere—surrounding her, pushing against her, taking over every inch of space and skin and air. The soft cotton of his shirt, the rough callouses of his hands, the familiar length of his body; everything sends her into a frenzy. Everything makes her feel like she’s finally unraveling, losing the threads she kept wound tight when she laughed and flushed and tried not to touch herself while the others guessed.
It’s not guessing now. She knows exactly what’s going to happen, and it feels fucking amazing.
His fingers curl around the hem of her shirt, moving up, up, brushing her bare skin until the fabric and the air between them are gone. Her need is insistent, greedy, and she’s never been happier to feel like it might never be filled.
The world falls away in a mess of tangled sheets, tangled limbs, tangled breaths. Claire arches her back, presses herself into him, loving the frenzied, desperate rhythm of his hands and lips and unrelenting touch. She’s going to come apart, and she’s going to love it, and she’s not going to hold back, not when she’s this wet, this full, this stretched.
His fingers slide inside her, thick and wanting, and she’s gone.
?
She writhes and squirms, and it’s not like before—when she thought it was gone, when she thought he was too. Her cries are louder now, breathier, full of shock and satisfaction and longing. She’s lost, clutching him, thrashing against him, wondering how the fuck he’s still holding on. Every push and pull leaves her trembling, arching, begging, oh god Nate, don’t stop, don’t stop.
His body is strong, unrelenting, hard against hers. He grips her waist, brings her close, shifts her so he’s above her, around her, everywhere.
The quick press of his fingers fills her in a way that makes her gasp and twist. The faster he goes, the wetter she gets. The more she wants, the more she’s given. She’s shaking, leaking, so fucking close.
It’s more than she imagined. It’s more than her body can take. It’s more than anything but him.
“Fuck,” a sharp cry rips from her lips, “fuck, yes, yes—”
The plug slips in deep, and her cries catch in her throat. He stays steady, waiting for her to beg, testing the tight limits of her body. She doesn’t know how long she can last, how long she can hold it in.
He knows she’s not the only one.
“Want it?” he asks, knowing she does.
Claire gives him her body, her breath, her voice, but it’s not enough. She wants to give him everything.
She loses track of her cries, her breath, herself. His hands hold her still, his thrusts make her wild, and the entire room spins with an intensity she can’t keep up with. She can’t remember the last time she wanted like this, the last time she had like this, the last time they went for a round two and she wasn’t holding back.
Her memory spins and fades and fuck, she doesn’t want to remember. She wants to feel. She wants to feel it like this forever.
The past weeks crash together, a blur of tight, filthy, late night everything. Her friends’ laughter and Nate’s steady promise tangle and unravel until it’s all she can do not to scream.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop—”
He moves his lips down her stomach, slow, hard, wet. She grips the sheets, digs her nails into the mattress, not sure how much longer she can keep her hands off him.
But she loves it, she loves him, she loves how he fills her with each steady, deliberate, agonizing stroke of his tongue.
Her legs close around his head and her words dissolve, turn to gasps, to shudders, to a frantic cry as he pushes her right to the edge. He holds her thighs, spreads her wider, gives her more, faster, until she forgets everything but his mouth and her desperate, breathless pleas.
She wants, and he gives.
He watches, and she comes undone.
She feels it, all of it, as it should be: Nate, his lips, his tongue, his thick fingers working her as she arches and moans and swears she’ll never stop.
?
The more she gives him, the less she can hold back. His mouth moves in a punishing rhythm, his fingers curl inside her, his body shifts to replace what she loses. He moves with her, against her, all around her, and it drives her to the breaking point.
She gasps, shudders, so fucking close, and Nate thrusts hard, pulls her legs over his shoulders and buries himself inside. His fingers reach for her clit, and his cock pushes deep, like the last three weeks condensed into a single moment of raw, forceful intensity.
He knows exactly what to do, and so does she.
Her release catches fire. Her cry rings out. Her whole body comes in a wave of ecstasy and disbelief as she feels him push and fill and fuck her to the core.
?
She’s not done, and neither is he.
Claire wraps herself around him, pulls him deeper, wanting every inch of him, wanting more than she thought possible. His rhythm is steady, hard, and just this side of reckless as they climb together, as they beg and scream and make up for the lost, numb, drifting months when she thought she couldn’t want like this again.
Nate flips her on top of him and she rides, unrestrained, wild, gasping for more, faster, yes, please, more. Her body tightens and she forgets her words, just wants to take him, feel him, fuck him in every way.
She doesn’t have to do this; she wants to. She doesn’t have to be loud; she loves to. She doesn’t have to be the version of herself she thought she lost; she knows now that she never lost it.
Her nails rake his chest, his teeth graze her lip, and they’re caught in a rough, wanton pace that burns, screams, does exactly what Claire fantasized.
They’ve gotten loud these past few weeks. She loves it. He loves it. His hands press hard against her waist, against her back, against her messy hair. She’s so full, she can barely stand it.
He grips her hips, flips her over, his thrusts so deliberate and hard she sees stars. Her body quivers and clenches and she doesn’t know how she’s kept it in, how he’s held on, but it’s all coming out. Every inch of her, every part of him.
She thought they lost this, but she was wrong. They’ve just begun.
?
Claire gasps, holds, feels. She’s tight, out of breath, out of her mind. The friction is maddening. She doesn’t want to come down from it, and he won’t let her. He takes her from behind, pushes hard, and she’s his. She’s his, and he knows it. She’s his, and she fucking loves it.
The room shakes with each wild, messy cry. The neighbors might hear; she hopes they do. Her hands grip the headboard and she moans, pleads, explodes, more than she’s ever let herself. Nate gives it back, drives it home, lets her be the loud, dirty, unrestrained version of herself she almost forgot.
He holds her like this, not slowing down, even when she thinks she might lose it, even when she screams, when she comes, when she begs. She doesn’t know how they’re still going, how they’re still loud and filthy and fast. It’s so much, too much, she’s filled, she’s wet, she’s breathless, she’s wrecked, she’s all the things she never thought she’d have again.
His possessive thrusts drive her mad. It’s the hottest thing she can imagine, the loudest thing she can say. She knows it’s coming, and she doesn’t hold back. Neither does he.
It happens all at once and it’s the best thing ever, fucking ever, forever.
They’re flushed, breathless, completely spent, but he can’t stop. He pushes hard, pushes through, keeps it going. He fills her with more than she’s ever imagined, holds her through it all, tells her he’s not letting go.
She collapses, they both do. It’s reckless and tender and hotter than anything she thought they’d have again. It’s everything she needed, everything she thought she lost. Her heart pounds. Her skin burns. She can’t stop, won’t stop, until they crash, breathless, wild, hers.
They stay locked together, not wanting to leave this moment, not letting each other go. He never wants to stop, and Claire never wants him to. Her pulse is fast and so is his.
When it slows, when they fall asleep in a tangled, tight mess, she still feels it. The promise. The edge. The heart-pounding relief of not losing him. Of being lost in him.
?
Her body aches but she doesn’t care. Her heart pounds but she’s too far gone. She wanted this, and it’s everything, everything, more.
They stay like this, sweaty and exhausted, holding on and breathless, the loud, crashing promise of another round keeping her awake long after they’re done.