16. Nora #2
For a split second the old voice gets through. His confession is an hour old. Your marriage died in a ballroom sixty minutes ago and you’re already bare in another man’s hallway. There are rules - a decent interval, a mourning period, some respectable amount of grief.
I grieved for two years in a bed with a stranger’s face. The interval is paid - in full, with interest.
I lean in and press my mouth against his and silence whatever’s left.
“Nora,” he groans, his voice a guttural wreck. He trails his lips down the column of my throat, tasting the salt and the scent of my skin. “Nora.”
He moves lower, his tongue swirling around the curve of my shoulder. I feel a shiver ripple through me, but I don’t pull away.
Instead, I reach up, my fingers locking into his hair, forcing his head back so I can look him in the eyes.
“Nobody else has ever touched me like this,” I whisper, my voice raw, vibrating with an intensity that makes his pupils blow wide. “Not the real me. Do you understand? You’re the first person to touch a woman everyone else buried.”
The look in his eyes changes. The hunger there becomes primal, a dark, consuming fire. He doesn’t want to be gentle; he wants to mark me, to claim every inch of me, to erase the memory of the cold earth with the heat of his skin.
He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my soft flesh, leaving marks I know I’ll crave tomorrow.
He kisses me again, a bruising, demanding collision of lips and teeth, while his hand slides up to cup my breast. My nipple is already a hard peak, straining against his palm.
He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing firmly, and I let out a sharp, broken moan that echoes through the quiet house.
I feel a surge of power, a need to show him exactly how much I want this. I step back just enough to break the kiss, my gaze heavy and hooded.
I don’t wait for him to lead. I sink to my knees slowly, my eyes locked on his, the movement deliberate and teasing.
An hour, the old voice tries. Your marriage has been dead for one hour.
Wrong. It’s been dead for two years. I’m just the widow now.
A choked sound escapes his throat as I reach for his belt. My fingers are nimble, undoing the leather and the button of his trousers with an efficiency that tells him I know exactly what I want.
When I push his underwear down, his cock springs free, hard and throbbing, aching for me.
My husband’s best friend, the voice tries one last time, from very far away. I look up the length of this man who dug me out of a grave with his bare memory, and I tell the voice the truth: my husband is the reason I have a grave. This one is the reason I climbed out.
I don’t hesitate. I lean forward, my warm breath ghosting over the head of his dick before I swirl my tongue around the rim.
Theo hisses, his head hitting the wall behind him. I take him in, my lips tight and wet, sliding down the length of him in one slow, agonizingly perfect motion.
“Fuck, Nora,” he groans, his hands finding purchase in my hair.
I suck him with a rhythmic, hungry intensity, my throat opening up to take as much of him as I can. I want to memorize him - the salt, the heat, the way he pulses against my tongue.
My tongue dances over the vein, my cheeks hollowing as I draw him deeper, feeling the vibration of his moans in my own chest.
Through my lashes, I watch the sheer agony of pleasure on his face, and it only makes me want more.
“You’re so fucking good,” he rasps, his hips beginning to twitch involuntarily. “God, you feel incredible.”
I pull back just an inch, a thin string of saliva connecting us, a slow smile touching my lips before I dive back down, swirling my tongue around the head and sucking hard, using everything I have to drive him to the edge.
I can feel him trembling, the tension in his body reaching a breaking point. Suddenly, he reaches down, gripping my shoulders and hauling me back up to my feet with a desperate urgency.
He doesn’t want to wait for a bed. He doesn’t want a pillow or a sheet. He wants me right here, against the hard surface of the hallway wall.
In one fluid motion, he spins me around, pressing my chest flat against the wallpaper. My breasts are crushed against the wall, and his chest heaves against my back.
He reaches around, his large hands cupping my breasts from behind, kneading the soft flesh and twisting my nipples into hard knots.
“Tell me you want it,” he growls into my ear, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
“Now, Theo. Please, now,” I whimper, my hips arching back, searching for him.
He doesn’t give me a second more of anticipation. He guides his cock to my entrance - slick, dripping, and wide open for him. He lunges forward, driving into me in one deep, punishing thrust that buries him to the hilt.
I let out a scream that is half-sob, half-ecstasy, my fingers clawing at the wallpaper. He doesn’t slow down.
He fucks me with a rhythmic, driving force, each thrust slamming his pelvis against my ass with a wet, slapping sound.
His wall under my palms. His house around us. Somewhere across town your marriage is still legally breathing, the voice observes, making its final rounds. Let it flatline, I answer, and push back to meet him.
He is hungry, starving for me, pushing himself into me as if he can merge our two bodies into one.
“You’re mine,” he groans, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. “You’re alive, Nora. You’re right here.”
As he hammers into me, he slides one hand down from my breast, his fingers finding the swollen heat of my clitoris.
He rubs me, his thumb circling the sensitive nub with a precision that makes my legs begin to tremble. I can feel my internal muscles clamping around him, milking him, pulsing with every stroke of his hand.
“Theo! Oh god, Theo!” I cry out, my voice breaking.