“Don’t stop. Please. I feel— I feel it everywhere.”
He backed her to the counter. Lifted her onto it as if she weighed nothing, and she was not nothing — hips, thighs, the dancing weight of her — but his body had been built for iron and she was the thing the iron had been for. Her knees opened around him because they knew him. He rucked the salwar down. She lifted her hips to help. Petticoat, school-day cotton panty already marked with what the kiss had done. He pulled them off her ankles and dropped them on his clean floor.
Naked from the waist, blouse hanging, breasts wet from his mouth, she sat on his counter with her hair falling and her mouth red and looked at him with an expression I have only seen on her in pieces — in a trial-room mirror, in a midnight screen-glow, never whole.
He shoved his shorts down.
She saw him and said his name like a prayer that had gone wrong.
He rubbed first, because even now some part of him was the boy who ate her poha. The head of him against the slick heat of her. Slow. Her forehead on his. Both of them shaking.
“Tell me to stop.”
“If you stop I will hate you.”
He pushed in.
She was tight in the way a woman is tight when it has been a long season of only her own hands and a husband’s sleep. She took him with a long, stunned moan, eyes wide, fingers digging into his shoulders, the sound climbing into something raw and disbelieving.
“Ah— Vivek— it’s— it’s too—”
“Breathe. I have you.”
“Don’t have me. Fuck me.”
He did.
First there, on the counter, her legs around him, her breasts moving with every thrust, the cake box trembling at the edge. He held her hips the way he held them on the floor of Forge — thumbs in the hollows he knew — and used that knowledge without mercy. She moaned like she had never been entered. High. Broken. Ah, ah, there, there, and then words that had no place in our language at our dining table. He kissed her through it, ate the sounds, told her she was wet, told her he had known, told her the grey shirt had driven him insane, and she answered with her body because her mouth was busy being ruined.
He lifted her off the counter without leaving her.
That was the thing she had not imagined clearly enough — the sudden drop of the floor, her naked weight in his arms, his cock still buried, her arms locked around his neck. He carried her three steps to the heavy chair at his table and sat, and she came down in his lap, impaled, gasping, hair in both their mouths.
“Sit,” he said into her throat. “Ride it. You’re not glass.”
She laughed, a wild small laugh, and then the laugh broke into a moan as he pulled her down onto him fully. Her thighs — the ones the tights had taught the city — spread over his, the thick beautiful working flesh of a woman, and she began to move.
Lap. Deep. His hands full of her ass, spreading her, lifting her, dropping her onto him. Her breasts in his face. He sucked while she rode. She held the back of the chair and the back of his head and forgot every decent sentence she owned.
“Like a girl,” he muttered against her nipple. “Listen to you.”
