17. Fran #2
The sound I make is not quiet. He looks up at me from the wet concrete, from between my knees, long-sleeved and huge and already mouth-red, and I am going to have to live with this image for the rest of my life.
The floor has to be killing him. He does not appear to notice.
He bunches my dress up over my hips, hooks a finger in my underwear, drags the soaked fabric aside, and just looks.
“Fuck,” he says, reverent and crude. “You’re dripping. Is that the cold or me?”
“Don’t you dare get scientific.”
“It’s you.” He leans in and drags his tongue through me in one filthy stripe, and my head knocks back against a shelf of white dahlias. “It’s me. God, you taste - I’ve thought about this. You have no idea.”
“Logan-”
“Quiet,” he reminds me, and then he puts his mouth on my clit and I have to clap a hand over my own lips.
It’s devastating. It’s worse for the hush.
He eats me like he has fifteen minutes and a point to prove, nothing polite in it, nothing careful, just broad wet licks and then a seal over my clit that makes my standing leg shake.
One of my hands is in his hair. The other is white-knuckled on the metal upright.
My underwear is a joke, stretched aside, the elastic cutting into my hip.
Cold air on the parts of me his mouth isn’t covering.
His mouth is a furnace. When he groans into my cunt the vibration punches a noise out of me that I swallow against my palm.
He hooks my thigh over his shoulder, careful of my balance, of the belly, of the fact that I am a person with a center of gravity now, and uses his hands to keep me there.
Thumbs spreading me. He wants all of it.
He is going to have all of it. A bucket of coral knocks my elbow and sheds petals into his hair and he does not stop.
“You have to-” I’m whispering, furious with how wrecked I sound. “Logan, you have to be fast, I can’t - if someone-”
“Then come,” he says against me, simple, filthy. “Come on my tongue so I can get inside you. I’ve been good. Let me have this.”
“This is not-” I gasp when he slides two fingers into me, thick, easy, I’m so wet it’s obscene, the sound of it loud in the hum of the cooler. “This is not you being good.”
“No.” He crooks them, finds that spot like he still has a map, and sucks my clit in time. “It’s not.”
I come like I’ve been shoved. Shaking, silent, biting the heel of my own hand, my thigh clamped to his ear, dahlias nodding above us like gossips.
He laps me through it, greedy, until I’m too raw and push his head off, and he rocks back onto his heels, mouth glazed, petals in his hair, wearing the face of a man who’s just been let away with something.
“Okay,” I pant, shoving at his shoulder. “Up here. In me, right now.”
He gets to his feet. His hands drop to his belt and then stall, that old flicker of am I allowed, and I make an impatient sound and do it myself.
Belt, button, zipper. I work him free of the denim, and he’s hot and hard against the cold air, and he hisses, first at the temperature, then at my fist when it closes around him.
“Cold?” I stroke him, mean, fond, watching his abs jump under the shirt we are not taking off. “Poor thing.”
“Fran.” Warning. Prayer. Same as it ever was.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” I say, and I need him to hear it, and I need him to fuck me anyway. “Say it.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.” His voice is shot. His forehead drops to mine. “I know. I know. Please.”
I turn.
Hands on the shelving. Dress at my waist. I look back over my shoulder because I am a menace and I want to see his face when he looks at me like this, underwear yanked to the side, ass out, pregnant, ruined, offering it in a box of flowers like I have no self-respect left.
His mouth goes slack. His hands shake when they find my hips.
“Jesus Christ.” One palm slides around to my belly, spreading there, possessive and terrified and hot as hell. The other fists my dress. “Look at you. You have no idea what you look like. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Then do something about it. And if you make me scream I will end you. There are people in that field.”
“I’ll keep you quiet.” He fits himself against me and pushes, the thick head of him breaching me through all that slick, and we both stop breathing. “Tell me if it’s too much. The baby. The angle. Anything.”
“The baby is fine. I am not glass. If you treat me like glass I will-”
He pushes in.
The sound I make, he swallows. One hand claps over my mouth, gentle, huge, and the other stays on my belly as he feeds that thick cock into me in one long, devastating press that wipes every word I own.
Cold steel under my palms. His shirt against my back.
His jeans still halfway down his thighs.
The wet filthy give of me taking him. He bottoms out and we stay there, shaking, my moan trapped against his palm, his mouth open on the back of my neck.
“Fuck.” It’s a whisper, wrecked. “You feel - you’re so tight, you’re so warm, it’s freezing in here and you’re - Fran. Fran.”
I nod against his hand. Move.
He moves.
Not the workshop, not the bench. This is hush and heat and the threat of a door.
He fucks me in short, deep strokes that don’t rattle the buckets, that don’t make the sound carry, and it is somehow filthier for the restraint.
His hips snap. My knuckles go white on the shelf.
Every thrust pushes a little punched noise into his palm that he drinks like he’s been thirsty for them.
The cooler hums. Water drips. I can hear how wet I am, the slick obscene kiss of him fucking into me, and I would be embarrassed if I could feel anything except full.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” I manage when he eases his hand down so I can speak, and it comes out like a lie even to me. “Logan. It doesn’t-”
“I know.” He fucks up into me harder, just once, and I have to bite my lip. “I know. You can say it again. Say it while you’re clenching on me. I don’t care. I’ll take nothing. I’ll take whatever you give me.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“Yeah.” A breathless almost-laugh against my ear. “It is. You feel fucking incredible. Tell me to shut up.”
“Shut up and get your hand on my clit before I die in a refrigerator.”
He obeys like it’s the only language he ever learned.
His hand slides down, under the curve of my belly, two fingers finding me, rubbing in tight filthy circles timed to his thrusts, and I am going to come again standing up in work clothes with his cock in me and dahlias in my hair.
His other arm bands around me, holding me together, holding the weight, his mouth at my temple.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you. Come on, quietly now. Let me feel it. Want you to soak my cock. Want to walk out of here with you still dripping. That’s - fuck, that’s all I-”
I come with my teeth in his wrist. Silent, shaking, vicious.
I lock down around him so hard he chokes on a groan and buries it against the back of my neck, teeth on cotton, hips stuttering, and he rides me through the clench in short deep drives until he breaks too, emptying into me in hot spurts I can feel even in the cold, filling me, making a mess we are not going to hide half as well as we think.
We stay locked like that for a few stupid seconds. His breath in my hair. His hand still cupping my belly. His cock twitching inside me. Petals on the floor. My underwear a crime.
Then I move.
I reach back, push at his hip. He pulls out carefully, a wet slide that makes both of us flinch, and I feel him leak out of me immediately, down my inner thigh, warm against the cold.
I yank my underwear up like that will do anything.
I yank my dress down. I smooth my hair with hands that are not steady. I do not look at him.
“Okay,” I say, and I make it flat. I make it bored. I make it nothing. “That was nothing. We’re done.”
Silence behind me. The rustle of him tucking himself away, zipper, belt. When I glance, his mouth is still wet and his ears are red and he looks like I hit him with a board in a kind way.
“Fran-”
“Don’t analyze it.” I’m already at the door. “Don’t make it a conversation. We got cold, we got close, we scratched an itch. That’s the whole story.”
I pull the release.
Nothing.
I pull it again. Harder. The handle gives a sick little half-movement and stays. The door does not move.
For one awful second I’m back in that bedroom, smoke crawling under the door, the sash jammed no matter how hard I shoved. My chest locks. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t-
Cold air. Not smoke. Cold clean air that smells like stems and water and nothing burning. I force myself to feel it, count the chill on my skin, and the panic loosens just enough to let me move.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My phone is outside on the processing table, charging. Logan’s is in his coat pocket, also outside. I try the emergency release. It gives the same sick half-movement and sticks. The whole mechanism is gummed up, old, frozen in place.
He comes up beside me, still breathing like he ran here. Tries it himself. Brute force. The latch doesn’t budge. The door stays shut.
“Are we-” He stops. “We’re stuck.”
“Yes, Logan. We are stuck. In a flower cooler. After we-” I cut myself off, plant both palms on the door, and bang. “Hey - anybody out there? The latch is stuck.”
My voice rings off steel and dies. The processing shed on the other side is empty.
The crew is in the south field. I know this.
I knew this. I bang anyway, because if I stop moving I will have to stand here with his come cooling on my thighs and admit I just let my husband fuck me against the dahlias and called it nothing.
I bang until my palms sting. Then I stop.
The hum of the cooler fills everything.
“Someone will come,” he says, quiet. “They always check if you’re in here long enough.”
“Great.”