17. Senna #3
He does. He works me with his tongue and his fingers in a rhythm that builds and builds until my thighs are shaking around his head and I’m clutching at foam and metal and anything that will keep me from flying apart.
The orgasm hits hard - sharp, hungry, weeks of tension breaking all at once.
I cry out. He doesn’t stop, dragging me through every aftershock until I’m boneless and begging, my grip gone slack in his hair.
“Rocco - too much - I can’t-”
He rises, mouth shining, eyes black. “You can. You will.”
He stands. I reach for his belt with shaking hands, yank it open, shove his jeans and briefs down just far enough. His cock springs free - thick, flushed, already wet at the tip - and I wrap my fist around it and stroke once, watching his face go tight.
“Senna-”
“I’ve been fighting this for weeks,” I say, echoing my own words from minutes ago, stroking him, feeling him jump in my hand. “Fighting how much I want you here. How much I want this. I’m done fighting.”
“Good.” He lifts me - easy, like I weigh nothing - and my legs wrap around his waist. My back hits the foam wall. The head of his cock nudges against where I’m soaked and open. “Because I’m done pretending lunch was enough.”
He pushes in.
Not slow. Not careful. One hard thrust that seats him deep and punches the air out of both of us. I cry out against his shoulder. He freezes, buried to the hilt, shaking.
“You with me?” he rasps. “Need the word-”
“Move.” My nails dig into his back through his shirt. “No soft version. I said stay and I meant the whole song.”
He moves.
Hard. Deep. The wet sound of it fills the small booth, swallowed by foam, and every thrust knocks a soft sound out of me that he swallows with his mouth.
He fucks me against the wall like a man half-admitting everything - that he wants me, that he’s missed me, that the song and the lunch and the lobby were all just excuses to get close enough to do this.
I meet every thrust. My shoulders grind into foam. The mic swings forgotten beside us.
“Jesus, you feel-” His voice breaks against my ear. “You feel like the song finally landing. You feel like everything I’ve been trying to write.”
“Then put the whole track in me.” I bite his shoulder. “Harder. I want the bruise of this tomorrow when I’m sitting at that board pretending I’m fine.”
“You won’t have to pretend.” He shifts his grip, hooks my knees higher, gets deeper. “I’m not walking out of here and going back to the lobby. Not after this. Not after you.”
“Don’t make vows you can’t-”
“I’m not promising forever.” His forehead drops to mine, hips snapping. “I’m promising right now. This booth. This door that isn’t latched. You and me choosing it. That’s all I’ve got. Is it enough?”
“Yes-” The word breaks. “Yes, it’s enough. Fuck - Rocco - I’m-”
“Break for me.” His hand slips between us, thumb working my clit in time with his thrusts. “Break on me in this fucking booth. Let me feel you. Let me remember what it sounds like when my wife stops fighting.”
The second orgasm hits like a chorus - deep, rolling, inevitable.
I come undone with his name shredded in my throat and my back against foam and him so deep my vision whites out.
He follows me over a handful of thrusts later, groaning into my neck, pulsing inside me with a shudder that runs the length of his body, holding me up against the wall like he’ll never put me down.
We stay like that. Locked together. Breathing hard in the thick silence of the booth.
He sets me down eventually - gentle, careful of my bare feet on the carpet - and we dress in the half-dark of the booth with the awkward tenderness of people who just came apart and aren’t sure what to do with the pieces.
My jeans. His belt. The sweater that still smells like me and now smells like him too.
I catch our reflection in the control-room glass: flushed, wrecked, smiling in a way neither of us has smiled in months.
“Your mouth is swollen,” I tell him.
“Your hair looks like you’ve been thoroughly fucked in a recording booth.”
“I have been thoroughly fucked in a recording booth.”
“Good.” He tucks a strand of it behind my ear. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time you let me sing for you. Since the first time you said *less vibrato* and I realized I’d forgotten what it felt like to be directed by someone who actually heard me.”
“I always heard you,” I say quietly. “Even when you stopped hearing me.”
He flinches. Soft. Honest. “I know. I’m learning. I’m trying so fucking hard to learn.”
“I can tell.” I button the last button of my jeans and lean up to kiss him once more - slower, sweeter, the hunger banked but not gone. “That’s why the door stayed closed.”
The door is closed. Not latched. We both know it. Neither of us reaches for the handle.
Somewhere under the want and the sweat and the half-admission, the unfinished song is still waiting on the board outside - his voice, my arrangement, the thing we made before we made this.
His forehead rests against mine in the half-dark.
My hand finds his, fingers lacing the way they used to in the early years, before silence taught us other habits.
“Senna,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“I’m not going to push. I told you I wouldn’t. But-”
“Don’t.” I kiss him, soft now, the question answered. “Don’t talk. Not yet. Just - stay. For a minute. In here. With me.”
He stays. We stop talking for a while.