The Weight of Him by Nora #6
We were a mess on his floor. Marks on my thighs. His bite on the high swell of my breast. My mouth swollen. His back mapped by my nails. The cabin smelled like a secret that had already failed at being one.
That was when I heard it.
Far down the washed road. Not close. Not certain.
A low mechanical growl. Engine, maybe. Or thunder wearing a truck’s coat. Or hooves on wet stone, a rider too stubborn to wait for the water to drop.
It faded.
Came again, thinner.
Died in the rain.
Cal lifted his head. His cock was still in me, still twitching, still leaking.
Neither of us said maybe nothing.
The sound had already gotten into the room.
He didn’t pull out.
The maybe-engine had already done the work of a knock.
Whatever tenderness had lived in his hands an hour ago was gone.
What was left was closer and worse. He gathered me off the floor and put me against the bunk frame standing, one of my thighs hooked over his hip, and shoved back into the mess he’d made like the road had already found us.
No talk about Grant.
No talk about babies.
Just breath and the wet sound of a cock working through its own cum, and the way his forehead stayed on mine so I couldn’t look anywhere but at the man who was about to lose everything on purpose.
“If that’s them,” I whispered.
“Then they hear you.” His voice was wrecked down to gravel. “They hear what you sound like when I fuck you like the door’s already open.”
He gave it to me harder than the day had.
Not sloppy. Precise and mean in the hips, deep enough that the bunk knocked a warning into the wall.
My back scraped wool and wood. I held the underside of his jaw and felt the grind of it while he used me.
My pussy was swollen, oversensitive, slick with him, and every thrust dragged a sound out of my throat I didn’t try to swallow.
This wasn’t a performance for a fiancé who wasn’t in the room.
This was two people trying to get one more true thing done before the ridge lights found the porch.
I came fast, almost angry at how fast, clinging, shaking, nails in the meat of his shoulder.
He kept going through it, fucking the flutter, mouth open on a silence that was louder than dirty talk.
I felt him swell and I thought he would follow.
He almost did. Then he locked down, trembling, and stayed hard inside me like finishing would make the headlights real.
“Cal.”
“I know.” He kissed me once, unpretty, all need. “I know.”
He set me down because my leg wouldn’t hold. For a second we just stood there joined by the smell and the slick on my thighs and the rain that had finally started to lose its teeth on the roof.
The storm was thinning.
Not gone. Thinning. That particular traitor light that comes when a mountain storm decides it’s bored.
We dressed in what was left.
My blouse still damp. Jeans that didn’t want to button over the ache.
No panties — I couldn’t find them and I didn’t look long.
His flannel went on my body again because mine felt like a costume from a different woman.
He pulled on his jeans, his undershirt, the canvas jacket with the dark rain map still on the sleeves. His hands were steady. His face wasn’t.
I looked like I belonged to him.
Marks at my throat the collar didn’t hide. Mouth used. Hair that wouldn’t go back into a city shape. His shirt hanging off me like a claim. The ring still on my hand, stupid and bright, a lie sitting on top of the truth.
He looked like a man who had already packed the truck in his head.
Eleven years. The bunk. The cabin. The job. He settled his shoulders under the jacket like he could feel the weight leaving.
I touched his wrist. “If it’s Grant—”
“Then I talk first.” He took the hat off the nail. Set it on his head. The brim cut his eyes back into that careful shadow I’d met on the county road, except nothing about him was careful anymore. “You don’t explain me. You don’t apologize to a man you already left in this room.”
The rain eased another degree.
That was when the light came.
Not lightning.
Twin beams, dirty gold, dragging themselves up the last visible scrape of ridge road. Too high for the wash. Too stubborn for weather. A truck taking the same high line we had taken when my rental died.
They bounced once, vanished behind pine, came back closer.
Cal looked at me. One last second with no audience.
I stepped in and kissed his mouth like the porch wasn’t about to exist. He kissed me back like he’d already stepped through the door.
Then he put me half behind him by instinct, or habit, or the stupid leftover honor that had made him sleep on the floor the first night, and he opened the cabin door.
Cold air rushed in. Pine. Wet earth. The last of the storm. Sex smell followed us out onto the boards whether we wanted it to or not.
Cal Brennan stepped onto the porch first, hat on, shoulders square, a 36 year old foreman who had done exactly what a 26 year old woman asked him to do, and then some.
The headlights cleared the trees and pinned him.
I couldn’t see the windshield yet. Only the light, and his back, and the ring on my hand where it rested against the doorframe.
The engine kept coming.
If that got you messy… wait.