After the Cool Down A Run Club Hookup Erotica #3
He kept going. Sweat from his stomach hit the small of her back. She could smell the sex rising off the bed, salt and skin and the laundry that had lost the fight. Her tits scraped the comforter. She shoved back to meet him so it would be sloppy on purpose.
“Dresser,” she said, voice wrecked. “I want the mirror. Pull out, walk me there, put it back in. Ask at the glass.”
He pulled out. The loss punched a noise from her.
Nate got her standing on unsteady legs and they crossed the small room, his cock wet against her hip, her knees unreliable.
The closet door was a cheap sliding mirror.
Hall light cut them into it: her flushed chest, his hands, the shine between her thighs.
He stood behind her. Waited.
“Can I fuck you here.”
“Yes. I want to watch you go in.”
He bent his knees and pushed into her while they both looked. Riley watched her own mouth open. Watched his cock disappear between her legs, thick, stretching her, coming out shiny. The visual landed harder than the last position. She reached back and grabbed his thigh.
“Don’t look away. Fuck me and watch it.”
He did. Standing made it shorter, sharper.
One of his arms banded under her tits. The other stayed on her hip.
She planted her palms on the dresser and took the rhythm, watching the 24 year old behind the 26 year old woman, watching her own ass meet his hips, watching her tits bounce when he went deep.
The dresser edge bit her thighs. She liked the bite.
“Talk,” she said to his reflection.
“You’re soaking me. I can see it on my cock. You’re going to cum if I keep this angle.”
“Then keep it.”
He kept it. Riley rubbed her clit with three fingers against the wood and the combination — the mirror, the stretch, her own hand — snapped another orgasm through her standing up.
She shook on him and he held her so she did not fold.
Her pussy milking his cock in the glass.
She watched herself do it and felt a filthy little thrill at how plain it looked.
Nate’s forehead dropped to her shoulder. He was shaking. Still hard. Still in her.
“Close?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Back it off. Don’t you dare finish on my dresser.”
He slowed, then stopped buried, breathing against her wet hair. Riley clenched around him once, mean, and watched his face in the mirror when he took it.
Her phone lit up on the nightstand.
The club group chat. Someone had sent a photo of pitchers on Fifth and a string of where did Riley go. The screen glowed against the rumpled bed and went dark, then lit again.
Neither of them moved to pick it up.
Riley laughed once, wrecked, and rolled her hips on the cock still stretching her in front of her own closet.
“They can drink,” she said. “You’re not done. I want you back on the bed in a minute, but not yet. Stay in me. Look.”
They looked. Hall light. Sweat. His hands on her. His cock seated in her pussy to the root. A Thursday night 5K that had ended like this.
Nate kissed the side of her throat and waited for the next instruction like it was the only pace group that mattered.
Riley reached back, found his wrist, and kept him there.
Riley pulled off him before either of them used the bed again.
“Shower,” she said. “I’m still salty from the run and I want you wet.”
Nate followed her down the hall without reaching for his shorts.
The bathroom fan rattled. She turned the water hot and the small stall filled with steam until the mirror over the sink went white.
Twenty-six years old, hair wrecked, pussy still throbbing from the dresser, and she stepped in first so he would have to watch the water sheet off her tits and down the seam of her.
“Ask before you get in.”
“Can I get in with you.”
“Yes.”
He crowded her under the spray. Tile cold on her back, water scalding her shoulders.
Riley tipped her face into it and then pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him through the stream, her hand finding his cock still hard, still slick with her.
She stroked him once under the water and felt him kick in her fist.
“You can fuck me in here,” she said. “Standing. Then you’re going to finish. Not in me. On me. I’ll tell you where when we’re close.”
“Can I put it in you in the shower.”
“Yes.”
She hooked one thigh over his hip. The position was sloppy on wet porcelain. He had to hold her up. When he pushed inside the water made it feel cooler at the edges and hotter where they joined. Riley’s head hit the tile. A sound punched out of her that the spray only half covered.
“That’s it. Deep. Don’t bother being fancy.”
Nate fucked her against the wall. Short wet strokes, his mouth on her wet throat, her heel slipping on the back of his thigh.
Water hammered their shoulders and ran between her breasts and down over the place he stretched her.
She could hear everything anyway — the slap turned soft by the stream, his breath, the filthy catch in her own.
Soap from a bottle she knocked crooked smeared between them and made his hands slide on her ass.
“Harder.”
He gave her harder. Her tits mashed to his chest.
The 24 year old from the pace group holding a 26 year old woman on one foot in her own shower and driving up into her like the 5K had only been the warm-up.
Riley rubbed her clit with two fingers under the water, no patience left for building it slow.
She came with her mouth open against his cheek, pussy clamping on his cock, water running into the corners of her grin.
He kept moving, shaking.
“Close,” he said, because she had trained that into him four rooms ago.
Riley kissed the word off his mouth.
“Out. Now. I want to see it.”
He pulled out at once. The empty made her gasp. She wrapped her hand around him, dropped her other hand to spread herself, and looked down through the steam.
“On my pussy. On my stomach. Not in. You ask.”
“Can I cum on you.”
“Yes. Do it.”
Nate came with a broken sound she felt in her palm.
Thick stripes hit the top of her cunt and the soft of her belly and washed pinkish down her thigh in the spray.
She kept stroking him through it until he flinched and caught her wrist.
Twenty-four years old, forehead on the tile beside her head, emptying on her because she had told him to.
Riley looked at the mess while the water tried to take it. She dragged two fingers through his cum and over her clit, not to start again, just to feel the claim of it, then let the shower thin it away.
They stood under the heat until his breathing came down. She shut the water off. The fan kept rattling. Drip from the head. Her legs had the unreliable shake of too many orgasms and a long run.
Nate grabbed the towels off the back of the door. He wrapped her first. Then himself. They sat on the bathroom floor because the bed felt far and the tile was honest. His shoulder against hers. Steam sliding down the stall door.
“You lasted until I said,” Riley said into the towel.
“You told me to.”
She laughed once, quiet, and leaned her temple against the vanity.
“There’s pasta in the fridge that is not good.” She closed her eyes. “You’re going to sit on my counter anyway. I’m not putting you in an Uber with wet hair.”
Nate’s hand found her calf under the towel and stayed there, not climbing.
“Can I stay.”
“Yes.” Riley opened one eye. “Kitchen next. Not immediately. I want five minutes where nobody is inside me and I can still feel where you were.”
He nodded.
Her phone buzzed again through the wall, group chat still hunting her at Fifth.
She did not get up for it. She sat on her bathroom floor with a 24 year old in a matching towel, his cum rinsed off her stomach and the ghost of it still there, and she let the fan rattle until the steam thinned enough to see both of their faces in the cleared streak on the glass.
The pasta was worse than she had promised.
Riley heated it anyway because her hands needed an excuse to be ordinary for ten minutes.
Stove light only. Two towels abandoned on the bathroom floor.
She had pulled on an old T-shirt that did not cover much and nothing else.
Twenty-six years old, bare-assed against her own cabinets, hair still damp from the shower, the good ache sitting between her legs like a bruise she had ordered.
Nate stood at the island in his running shorts and nothing else. Twenty-four years old, shower-pink across the shoulders, watching her stir leftovers like it was another kind of cool down.
She set two bowls down. Neither of them ate more than a bite. The noodles stuck. The sauce had gone sweet and sad. Riley laughed at her fork and shoved the bowls aside.
“This was a prop,” she said. “Come here.”
He came around the island. She hopped her ass onto the counter. The stone was cold enough to make her hiss and pull the T-shirt up without taking it off. He could see her. She let him.
“You already finished once,” she said. “If you can’t go again we sit here and you eat bad pasta. If you can, you ask.”
Nate’s gaze dropped to her pussy, still swollen, still obvious in the dim. “Can I touch you.”
“Yes. Mouth first. Then I want you in me again. Slow. This is not the shower.”
He pulled a stool in and sat like he had at the club curb, except now his shoulders were between her thighs.
Riley planted her heels on the edge of the counter and opened her knees.
The refrigerator hummed. A neighbor’s TV thumped through the wall.
He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, and looked up.
“Can I use my mouth.”
“Yes.”
He licked her like they had time. Slower than the entry bench, slower than the shower.
Long passes through her folds, a pause on her clit, the kind of attention that made her drop her head back against the upper cabinet.
She threaded her fingers in his wet hair and did not shove.
Salt and leftover soap and her own taste rising off his mouth.
She was tender and she told him so and he eased up without leaving her.
“That’s good,” she murmured. “You can put a finger in. Not two.”
“Can I.”
“Yes.”