22. Surface Rupture #3
Her expression is a mix of question and invitation when she opens the door. I step inside, the door clicking shut. The apartment is small and tidy. A single lamp casts the room in shadow, and the air smells of vanilla and something else—her.
“Hi,” she says, her voice careful.
“Hi.” I don’t move toward her yet. I want to fix this image in my mind: her, in this light and in this room. Her hair is down and falls past her shoulders. She’s wearing a yellow tank and no bra, complete with striped pajama pants.
The air conditioning unit in the living room kicks on with a low thrum. She reaches behind me to lock the door, the metallic click echoing. When she turns back, something shifts in her expression.
I put one hand on her waist, the other finding the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in the soft strands of her hair.
The kiss is soft at first, almost a tentative brush of lips. Then she makes a small sound, and presses closer, her body molding to mine, and everything else—the rain outside, the idling AC—falls away.
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her breath warm against my cheek. With a fluid motion, she pulls her thin tank top over her head, the fabric rustles as it drops to the floor. Her breasts are stunning—full, generous, and every instinct in me is to worship them.
As she guides me down a hallway, her hands lift my shirt up and off.
We enter a bedroom, a darker space where the only light spills in from the living room.
I fumble trying to unbutton my pants using one hand without breaking our kiss.
The back of my legs hit the soft give of the mattress—and then she’s straddling me, her knees on either side of my hips, the slight weight of her body a delicious pressure.
I’m not sure when she removed her pants.
“I’ve been thinking about this…” she whispers, her hands moving down my ribs, her touch sending shivers through me. “For days.”
“Yeah?” I pull her down so her forehead touches mine, the scent of her hair filling my senses. “What have you been thinking?”
“This.” She kisses me again, deeper now, her lips parting. Her hips move against mine with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “And this,” she says, gliding her hand over my cock.
The sound that comes out of me is low and embarrassing, and I can’t stop it. I cup her breasts and she arches into me as I squeeze, causing the sudden rush of air from her lungs.
I lose track of my thoughts—there’s just the small of her back, and the ridge of her spine under my fingers. There is a specific sound she makes when I find the right place, half-caught, like she didn’t mean to let it out.
Her fingers brush my stomach, and work my already open jeans the rest of the way off.
I lift my hips to help her, the denim a whisper of friction against my legs as they falls off the bed.
The glow of light from the hall illuminates the quick, efficient movement of her hand as she grabs a condom from her nightstand drawer—prepared, practical, which somehow makes it hotter.
I watch the sleek latex unroll, a faint sheen in the dim light, before she lowers herself onto me.
We both go still as she draws me into her. Her eyes close, long lashes dark against her flushed cheeks, and my hands grip her hips, the sudden pressure of her body a shock of exquisite sensation.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Her voice is rough, a breathy gasp. “Don’t stop.”
Then we are both moving—urgent. She sets the pace, slow and deliberate, the mattress springs groaning beneath us.
Then faster, the rhythm building, and I’m moving with her, finding a rhythmic cadence.
The small room fills with the sound of our ragged, quick breathing and the creak of the mattress.
The temperature in the room seems to rise with each beat, a delicious heat blooming between us.
“Look at me,” I say, and when she opens her eyes, I see everything in them—desire, and something unguarded that she’s not bothering to hide. I flip her so I’m on top, driving into her from above with hectic speed, the air thick with our exertion.
She finds her release first, a sudden, full-body tension, her nails digging into my shoulders, my name coming out as something between a gasp and a prayer, like she’s surprised to find me there.
Feeling her contract around me pushes me over the edge. I bury my face in her hair and let myself go, holding her close as the climax washes over me. We stay like that, tangled and breathing hard, the only sound the fading distant wail of a siren from the street below.
A little while later, I watch her cross the room into the bathroom, her long hair falling down her back like a silken curtain that sways with her steps. I hear the faint click of the light switch, and then the soft rush of water as she turns on the tap.
An hour later, showered and back home, I pull back the covers.
The mattress sighs under my weight as the cool sheets offer fleeting comfort.
Claire faces the other wall, her breathing even, a sliver of moonlight illuminating the curve of her shoulder.
The space between us feels wider than the mattress itself—a chasm I carved.