After the Cool Down A Run Club Hookup Erotica #4
One finger, careful, curling while he sucked her clit. Riley’s heel slipped on the stone. She came quieter than the other rooms, a deep pull that made her close her thighs around his ears and then remember to let him breathe. He stayed with her through it and only stopped when she tapped his temple.
She pulled him up by the jaw and kissed her own wet off his mouth.
“Shorts off. Ask me the next one.”
He shoved the shorts down. Hard again, not as desperate as the first time, thick against her thigh when he stepped in.
“Can I fuck you on the counter.”
“Yes. Slow. I want to feel it and I want to keep talking.”
He lined up and pushed in by degrees. Riley’s mouth opened on a sound that was almost tired and almost not.
Sore in a sweet way. Full again. The cold stone under her ass and the heat of him inside her did a mean little contrast.
She locked her ankles at the small of his back and kept him from turning it into the shower.
“Hold. Just like that.”
He held, buried. She picked up a piece of pasta with her fingers, ate it, made a face, and fed him the next bite because the joke of it kept the moment from turning into something she had not named yet.
He chewed, forehead against hers, cock throbbing in her pussy while they pretended they were people who had sat down to dinner.
“Tuesday’s route is the river loop,” she said, ridiculous and honest. “I’m going. You’re going. We don’t have to walk in together.”
“Okay.”
“You can move now. Long strokes. Don’t bounce me off the cabinets.”
He fucked her like that. Slow drag out, slow fill.
The wet sound was softer than the bedroom, almost polite except for how deep he sat at the end of each stroke.
Riley watched his face in the stove light.
She put his hand under the T-shirt on her tit and left it there.
A 24 year old in her kitchen at midnight, jeans-free, inside her, listening.
“This is the part I wanted after the shower,” she said. “Not another sprint. I wanted you in me while the clock was stupid and the food was bad.”
“You feel different than before.”
“I’m swollen. You did that.” She clenched around him on purpose. “Don’t you get proud. Just keep going.”
He kept going. She came on a grind more than a thrust, rubbing her clit against him while he stayed deep, a long shiver that made her drop her forehead to his shoulder and laugh once into his skin. He shook and did not follow her over. She felt him choose not to.
“Out,” she said, gentle. “I don’t want you to finish again yet. I want you to stay in the apartment more than I want another mess on my stomach.”
He pulled out slow. She made an unhappy noise at the empty and pulled the T-shirt down like that would help. Nate stood between her knees with his cock wet and his hands on the counter either side of her hips, waiting.
Riley touched his mouth with her thumb.
“Stay. I’m not putting you in an Uber.” She glanced at the sad bowls.
“You can have the couch or you can have the bed. The bed is not a trick either. I want to sleep and I want someone in the room. If you pick the couch I will not be offended. If you pick the bed you keep asking in the morning before you put your hands on me.”
“Can I take the bed.”
“Yes.”
She hopped down. Her legs still did not love her. She left the pasta where it was, left the stove light on because turning it off felt like a bigger decision than it was, and walked him down the hall by two fingers hooked in his waistband.
At the bedroom door she looked back, 26 years old, T-shirt stuck to still-damp skin, a run club hookup that had refused to end at the shower.
“Shoes stay in the pile,” she said. “That’s as domestic as it gets tonight.”
Gray light found the gap in her blinds first.
Riley woke already warm. Nate was on his back in her bed, one arm flung above his head, the sheet shoved to his hips.
Twenty-four years old and still in her apartment because she had told him the Uber was off the table.
She was 26, T-shirt twisted under her tits, a dull sweet ache between her legs that proved the night had happened.
She watched him breathe for a minute. Then she put her palm on his stomach, not lower.
His eyes opened.
“Morning,” she said. Voice rough. “You ask before you do anything. I’m sore and I’m interested anyway.”
Nate swallowed. “Can I touch you.”
“Yes. Fingers first. Slow.”
He rolled toward her. The sheets smelled like sex and detergent and sleep.
His hand slid under the T-shirt, over her stomach, down.
He cupped her pussy without pushing in, just heat, and waited until she nodded again.
One finger traced her seam. She was already a little wet.
Morning and memory. He eased that finger into her and she breathed out against his shoulder.
“That’s it. Don’t add another yet.”
He didn’t. He worked her with one finger and his thumb on her clit, lazy circles, the kind of pace that belonged to a room with no club and no shower tile.
Riley hooked her knee over his hip and let him.
Birds somewhere outside. A truck on the next street.
His mouth found her throat and stayed there, not sucking hard enough to mark her unless she asked, and she did not ask.
“Can I use my mouth,” he murmured.
“Not yet. Fingers. I want to cum like this first.”
He listened. The wet sound was small, private. Riley rocked onto his hand and came that way, quiet, a long shiver into his chest, her pussy pulling at his finger. He eased her through it and only slipped out when she made a noise that meant enough.
She pushed the sheet down and found him hard against her thigh.
“Now you can ask the other thing.”
“Can I be inside you.”
“Yes. Slow. I feel last night. That’s not a no.”
He hooked her thigh higher and pushed in by inches.
Riley’s mouth opened on a nearly silent sound.
Swollen. Tender. Still greedy. He sank to the root and held because she closed her hand on his shoulder and made him.
Morning light put a stripe across his back.
She could see the mark her nails had left after midnight, already fading.
“Okay,” she whispered. “You can move. Don’t fuck me like the dresser. This is the lazy version.”
Nate moved lazy. Long, careful strokes that never quite left her.
The headboard did not knock. The neighbors got nothing.
Riley kept her face in the warm place under his jaw and breathed him — sleep and her soap and skin.
She slid a hand between them and touched her clit with two fingers because she wanted another one and she did not want to work hard for it.
“Tuesday’s the river loop,” she said, ridiculous with him sliding in and out of her. “Six-thirty meet. I’m going to be there. You’re going to be there.”
“I’ll be there.”
“We don’t have to pretend we didn’t do this. We also don’t have to announce it in the stretch circle.”
“Okay.”
She smiled against his throat. “You’re in my pussy at dawn talking about a run club calendar. I need you to understand how funny that is.”
He huffed a laugh that turned into a groan when she clenched. “I understand.”
“Good. Harder by a little. Not much.”
He gave her a little. The sweet ache sharpened and went good. Riley came again with her fingers trapped between them and his cock deep, a sleepy orgasm that made her eyes sting for no useful reason. She blinked it off and kissed his mouth, slow.
He was shaking the way he did when he was close.
“Don’t,” she said, gentle. “Not this morning. I want you walking the river loop on Tuesday without looking wrecked. Pull out when you need to.”
“Can I pull out.”
“Yes.”
He slipped free and pressed his forehead to hers, breathing through it, cock wet against her hip. She wrapped her hand around him once, not to finish him, just to be kind, then let go.
His watch buzzed on the nightstand.
Neither of them reached for it.
Riley stared at the ceiling with her T-shirt rucked up and her legs still open and a 24 year old trying not to come in her sheets. The watch buzzed again. Work, or a timer, or the world starting.
“If that’s an alarm to leave,” she said, “it can wait ten minutes. You’re not putting your shoes on while I’m still dripping.”
Nate shut the watch off without looking at the face. He dropped back into her pillow.
Riley pulled the sheet over both of them and left her knee thrown over his thigh.
The room went quiet except the street. She was 26 years old in her own bed with run club still on her calendar and a man she had met over a water bottle staying past dawn because she had told him to ask, and he had kept asking.
“River loop,” she said to the blinds. “Then we see.”
His hand settled on her hip, not climbing.
“River loop,” he said.
They did not get up.
The river loop smelled like wet grass and whoever had burned toast in the lot.
Riley got there at 6:27. Sports bra, black shorts, hair in a knot that would fail by mile two.
Twenty-six years old and trying to look like a woman who had slept alone.
Nate was already stretching against his car, 24 years old, same beat-up shoes, a look that lasted half a second too long when he saw her.
They did not walk in together.
The group went out in a pack. Riley found her pace.
He found it too, a few feet off her shoulder, not cute about it.
Conversation around them was all cadence and weekend long runs.
Nobody asked where she had gone on Thursday.
The river moved brown and slow. Her lungs burned in a clean way that had nothing to do with his mouth.
Two miles. Water stop. She drank from her own bottle.
“You good?” he said, quiet enough that it stayed between them.
“I’m good.” She wiped her mouth with her wrist. “Don’t you peel off early in front of people.”
“I won’t.”
They finished with the pack. Stretch circle started to form on the grass. Someone yelled about coffee. Riley untied and retied a shoe that did not need it until the circle thickened without them. Nate checked his driver’s side door like he had forgotten a gel.
She met him there when the first people drifted toward the cafe.
“Your car,” she said. “Not mine. Mine’s under a light.”
“Can I kiss you once we shut the door.”
“Yes. Then you ask for the rest. Lot has to be emptier than this.”