20. Lo #2
I shove his jeans down far enough to get him out.
He’s heavy in my hand, flushed dark, the vein along the underside standing up, and I give myself a second to look because I haven’t looked in four months and my body remembers this like a bruise.
I spit in my palm. Stroke him again, filthy and unhurried, watching his stomach jump, watching his hands stay on my hips because I put them there and he is, for once in his life, doing what he’s told.
My own jeans are a problem. The belly makes everything a negotiation.
I get them open, shove them down my thighs with his help.
He does not take over, he just lifts when I tell him to lift, and I’m already soaked, the cotton of my underwear dark, clinging.
I drag them aside. I don’t bother taking them off.
There’s no time and I don’t want time. I want him in me.
I straddle him properly. My belly sits between us, six months of proof, round and in the way, and his eyes go stunned on it like he’s never seen me before and like he’s been seeing only this for a year.
I take his cock and drag the head through my cunt, slow, coating him, and we both watch it, the shine, the way I catch on him and have to start over, the wet sound of it in a barn that’s supposed to be for children.
“Hands,” I say, and I put them on my thighs, then higher, under the hem of my shirt, on the bare skin of my hips where I tell him. Palms work-rough. Shaking. “There. Not my tits. Not my face. You don’t get to hold me like you missed me.”
“I did miss you.”
“I don’t care.”
I sink down on him in one long, ugly slide.
We both go still. The sound of it, wet, obscene, my body taking him after four months like it never forgot the shape.
He’s big enough that it burns a little, a stretch I haven’t had, and I have to breathe through the first inch, then the next, until he’s seated all the way and my ass is on his thighs and I can feel him twitch inside me, deep, the head of him pressed somewhere that makes my vision go white at the edges.
“Fuck.” His voice is shot. “Lo. You feel-”
“I said don’t talk.”
I start to move.
Not slow. I don’t have slow in me. I ride him the way I used to when we were late for something and I didn’t care, grinding down, rolling my hips so every stroke drags my clit against the base of him, hay scratching my knees raw.
The loft smells like dust and sex and the sweet rot of old straw.
His cock drags out of me shining and disappears again, and I can hear how wet I am, obscene, the slap of it under the hymn.
Someone laughs in the yard. A child shrieks.
I bite his shoulder through the blue cotton to keep from making a sound and he makes one anyway, punched-out, my name in his teeth.
“Lo-”
“Don’t.” Not a word. Not my name like that. Not here.
He nods against my throat. His hands stay where I put them, fingers digging bruises into my hips, and when I pick up the pace he lets me use him, lets me fuck myself on his cock like he’s a post I anchored the twine to.
My shirt’s rucked up over the belly. Sweat slides down my spine.
I can feel myself dripping onto his jeans, onto the hay, making a mess he is going to have to sit in.
“Harder,” I tell him, and I don’t mean his hands. I mean his hips. “You can do that. That’s all you get.”
He plants his feet and thrusts up into me, meeting me on the downstroke, and the angle changes, deeper, meaner, the fat head of him dragging over that spot that makes my thighs shake.
I drop my forehead to his. We’re sharing air.
His mouth is open. I can see him trying not to come, jaw locked, the muscle jumping, and I squeeze down on him on purpose, mean with it, because I want to break him before he breaks me.
“You don’t come until I say.”
“Lo. I can’t-”
“You can. You’ve done harder things than not coming in a hayloft.”
A broken laugh. Then he bites his own lip and holds, shaking under me, and I ride him through it, grinding, clenching, using the wet slide of my cunt to torture him the way he used to drag it out on slow weekend mornings when we had time.
I don’t have time. I have a choir hitting the bridge and twenty minutes and a body that has been empty of him for four months and is done pretending that’s fine.
“Look at me.”
He does: wrecked open, pupils blown, hay in his hair, my teeth-print already blooming under his shirt.
“Now.”
He comes with a sound that’s almost a sob, hips jerking up, cock kicking inside me, flooding me in thick, hot spurts I feel kick against my walls.
His eyes stay on mine the whole time, my name bitten off so hard I feel it in his jaw.
The heat of it, the filthy, specific heat of him coming in me, is what tips me over.
I follow because my body has never taken orders from my better judgment, silent, shaking apart on his cock, cunt clamping down in waves that drag another groan out of him, forehead dropped to his collarbone while the hymn hits the last amen.
I stay there one extra second. His heartbeat under my mouth. His come already leaking out around him, sliding down my thigh into the hay. Then I’m off him.