Chapter 2 — Chuck
Her rental is a small house on the residential side of town, one of those furnished places landlords keep for short-term contracts. Porch light on, yard neat, nothing personal visible from outside.
She parks in the driveway and I pull up behind her, kill the engine. The quiet after is loud, just cicadas and my pulse in my ears.
She gets out of her car and walks back to me. I'm still straddling the bike when she stops close enough, and I smell her perfume under the August heat, something clean and a little sweet.
"You're sure about this?" I keep my voice low.
"Are you?"
"Darlin', I've been sure since you asked what took me so long."
She smiles and it does something to her face that kicks my pulse higher. Then she turns and walks to her front door, hips swaying in those jeans that fit her curves like they were made for the job, and I follow because there's not a chance in hell I'm doing anything else.
Inside, it's generic rental furniture, beige walls, nothing decorative except a canvas print of a beach sunset that probably came with the place. Her two suitcases sit against the wall by the couch, evidence of a life that fits in luggage.
She drops her bag on the kitchen counter and turns to face me.
We stand there maybe three seconds.
Then she closes the distance and kisses me first, her hands sliding up my chest to my shoulders.
I grip her hips and pull her flush against me, feel her curves press everywhere. She makes a small sound and opens her mouth and I take advantage, deepening the kiss until she's gripping my cut to stay steady.
Her body is soft against mine, substantial and real. I walk her backward until her shoulders hit the wall near the door, pin her there with my hips while my hands map her body over clothes.
When I slide both hands under her shirt she gasps against my mouth.
"This okay?"
"God yes. Don't stop."
I pull her shirt up and over her head, toss it somewhere behind me. She's wearing a simple black bra and what it's holding makes my mouth go dry. I palm both breasts through the fabric and she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.
"Bedroom," she says, breathless.
"Here first."
I reach behind her and unhook the bra with one hand. It falls away and then she's bare from the waist up and I take a second just to look. Her breasts are heavy and full, nipples already tight. I lower my head and take one into my mouth.
The sound she makes is better than anything I imagined at the bar.
I work her nipple with my tongue while my hand palms the other breast, thumb circling until she's panting and her hands fist in my hair.
When I bite down gently, she gasps and her hips roll forward seeking friction.
I straighten up and kiss her mouth again, messy and deep, while my hands work her jeans open. Get the button undone and the zipper down, then slide my hand inside her underwear.
My fingers find her slick and ready she makes a sound that's half gasp half moan.
"Fuck," I breathe against her mouth.
She laughs, breathless. "That's the idea."
I work her with my fingers, learning fast what makes her breath hitch, what makes her grip my shoulders harder. She's not quiet and she's not performing. The sounds are honest and desperate, and I want to remember every single one.
"Chuck." My name sounds like begging.
"Tell me what you need."
"You. Inside me. Now."
I pull my hand back and she whimpers at the loss. Work her jeans and underwear down her hips, let them fall to her ankles. She kicks them off along with her shoes.
When I shove my jeans and boxers down just enough, her eyes track my hands, and her tongue touches her top lip like she's already thinking ahead.
"Come here," I say, and my voice sounds rougher than intended.
She does.
I lift her and she wraps her legs around my waist, thighs thick and strong bracketing my hips. Her weight is perfect, substantial, real. I position her and push inside in one slow thrust that has both of us groaning.
She's tight and hot and I give her five seconds to adjust before I start moving. She's got her back against the wall and I'm holding her up by her ass, my fingers digging into soft flesh.
Every thrust makes her gasp and her breasts bounce with the movement, and I can't look away from her face, from the way her mouth falls open, and her eyes go half-lidded.
"Harder," she says.
I obey.
The angle has me hitting deep and she's making sounds now that are barely words, just desperate need vocalized.
Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt. Her head tips back against the wall and I lean forward to bite her neck, not hard but enough she feels teeth.
"Oh god, yes, right there."
I shift my grip so I can get a hand between us, find her clit with my thumb and press circles. She tightens around me immediately and I know she's close.
"That's it, darlin'. Let me feel it."
She comes with a cry that she tries to muffle against my shoulder, her whole body locking up.
The way she clamps down around me drags my own orgasm out faster than I expected and I follow her over, hips stuttering, groaning into her hair.
We stay like that for a minute, both breathing hard, my forehead against the wall beside her head. Her legs are still wrapped around me and I'm not in any hurry to move.
Eventually I have to. I lower her back to her feet and pull out. Her legs shake and I steady her with a hand on her hip.
"You alright?"
She laughs, still trying to catch her breath. "Are you kidding? That was exactly what I needed."
When we get to the bedroom it’s as generic as the rest, queen bed with a beige comforter, nightstand with a lamp.
She turns on the bedside light and the glow is softer, warmer. I take a second just to look at her properly this time. Full curves, soft stomach, wide hips, thick thighs. She's not trying to pose or arrange herself, just comfortable in her body and letting me look.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, because it's true and needs saying.
"You're not bad yourself."
I strip off my cut, lay it over the chair in the corner. Pull my shirt over my head and add it to the pile. My boots and jeans take longer but she watches me undress with obvious appreciation, her eyes tracking over my chest and down.
When I'm finally naked she steps close and runs her hands over my chest, traces the scar from a knife fight in Tulsa with her fingertips.
"How'd you get this one?"
"Long story."
"And this?" She finds the puckered skin on my shoulder from a bullet graze.
"That one too."
She looks up at me, curious but not pushing. "Maybe you'll tell me later."
"Maybe."
I pull her down to the bed and she comes willingly, settling on her back while I take my time exploring.
I map her body with my hands properly now, learning the weight of her breasts, the softness of her stomach, the way her hips curve.
When I slide my hand between her thighs she opens her legs without hesitation.
I work her with my fingers, slower this time, watching her face while I learn what she likes. Firm pressure on her clit makes her gasp.
Two fingers inside her curling forward makes her arch off the bed. When I lower my mouth to her breast and suck while my hand works between her legs, she fists the sheets.
"You're really good at this," she manages between gasps.
"Practice, darlin'."
She laughs but it cuts off in a moan when I bite her nipple gently and add a third finger. I work her higher with steady rhythm, not rushing, just building until her thighs start to shake and her breathing goes ragged.
When she comes this time she doesn't try to be quiet about it. Just lets herself make noise, her back arching and her hand flying down to grip my wrist like she needs the anchor. I work her through it until she finally stills, breathing hard.
"Your turn," she says after a moment.
Before I can respond she pushes me onto my back and straddles my hips in one smooth motion.
The view is incredible. All her curves on display, breasts heavy and full, hair falling around her shoulders. She reaches down and wraps her hand around me, strokes twice with just the right pressure.
She sinks down, taking me all the way, and we both groan. She settles with her hands braced on my chest for a moment, adjusting. Then she starts moving and I forget how to think in complete sentences.
She rides me slow at first, rolling her hips in a rhythm that has my hands gripping her thighs hard enough to leave marks.
I watch her above me, the lamplight catching on her skin, the way her breasts move with each motion, the concentration on her face like she's chasing something specific.
"God, you feel good," I tell her.
She smiles and picks up the pace.
I let her control it, enjoying the view and the sensation, but eventually I need more. I grip her hips and start thrusting up to meet her, harder and deeper. She gasps and her nails dig into my chest.
"Yes. Like that."
I give her what she wants. What we both want. The rhythm gets faster, more urgent. I can feel sweat on both of us, hear our breathing harsh in the quiet room. My hand slides up to palm her breast and when I pinch her nipple she cries out.
"Close," she gasps. "So close."
I get my thumb on her clit and press hard. She breaks apart above me three thrusts later, shaking and crying out my name.
The sight and sound of it drag my own orgasm out and I come hard, my hands gripping her hips tight enough I know she'll bruise.
She collapses forward onto my chest and we lie there breathing like we ran miles.
Eventually she lifts her head. "That was..."
"Yeah."
She grins and kisses me, softer this time. Then she slides off while I’m trying to remember how my legs work.
When I turn back she's already under the covers, watching me with drowsy eyes.
I should leave. That's the protocol. Casual hookup, clean exit, no complications.
I get back in bed instead.
She turns on her side facing me and I mirror her. We lie there looking at each other in the dim light.
"You stayed," she says. Not a question, just observation.
"That okay?"
"Yeah. It's okay."
I reach out and rest my hand on her hip because not touching her feels wrong somehow. She closes her eyes and her breathing evens out within minutes.
I watch her sleep and try to sleep myself but it doesn't come easy.
My mind keeps replaying the evening. The way she looked at me across the bar. The sounds she made. The way she didn't perform or hold back, just gave me honesty. The weight of her body against mine.
When's the last time sex felt like that?
I don't have an answer.
Eventually I drift off but it's not deep. I wake up twice and both times my hand is still on her hip like it got stuck there.
When the sky starts going gray through the window, I'm awake for good.
I lie there watching Isla breathe and thinking about nothing and everything.
She stirs awake around seven-thirty, her eyes opening slowly and focusing on me with brief surprise before she smiles.
"Morning."
"Morning," I say back.
"You're still here."
"Seems that way."
She stretches and the covers slip down, revealing skin I spent half the night touching. My body responds immediately and from her expression she notices.
Before either of us can act on it, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I grab it. Text from Clint: Need you at clubhouse by noon. Crane intel developing.
Then another immediately after: Where you at?
I text back: On my way.
Isla sits up, pulling the sheet around herself. "Work?"
"Yeah. Gotta be at the clubhouse by noon."
She nods and the easy intimacy from last night shifts into something more thoughtful. We both know what we agreed to. One night, clean ending.
"I should get going," I say.
"Right. Yeah."
I get out of bed and start finding my clothes. Pull on boxers, jeans, shirt. My cut goes on last and I smooth the patches out of habit.
When I turn back Isla's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Last night was good," she says.
"It was."
"Thanks for... you know. Keeping it simple."
"Course."
My phone buzzes again. Clint: Not seeing your bike yet.
I pocket it. "I really gotta go."
"Okay."
I walk toward the bedroom door and stop. Turn back. She's still sitting in bed looking at me and for a second, I almost say something. Don't know what. Doesn't matter because my phone buzzes a third time.
"See you around maybe," I manage.
"Maybe. I'm here till Sunday."
"Right."
I force myself to walk out, through the living room, out the front door into morning heat that's already building. Get on my bike and kick-start it.
The engine rumble is loud in the quiet street.
I ride away without looking back.
Route 9 is empty this early and I take it faster than I should, leaning into the curves, trying to focus on the road instead of the feeling in my chest that something's off.
We agreed on one night. That's what she wanted. What we both said we wanted. Clean ending, no complications, she leaves Sunday.
So why does leaving feel wrong?
I make it five miles before I slow down, pull onto the shoulder, kill the engine. Sit there in the growing heat trying to figure out what the hell is happening. It was good sex. Great sex. That's all. I've had good sex before and moved on just fine.
Except I'm sitting on the side of Route 9 at seven forty-five in the morning trying to convince myself of that, which means it's not working.
I start the bike again and ride toward the clubhouse because Clint's waiting and the club comes first. Always has.
But the whole ride my hand feels wrong without her hip under it.
That's not normal.
I push the thought away and focus on the road.
By the time I reach the clubhouse I've almost convinced myself last night was just good sex with an attractive woman and nothing more complicated than that.
Almost.