nc-17 | sexual content
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
She had entertained fantasies about it, naturally. Once the administration was over, he'd arrive at her door, but this time, he wouldn't be drunk. He wouldn't yell at her roommate's cats, or vomit in her toilet. He'd push her against the wall, take her to bed, and say all the words she needed to hear. Of course, he loved her. Of course, he wanted her. Of course, he had thought about this moment, waited for this moment, when they'd be safe.
And it would be perfect, because she was just foolish enough to believe in perfect, even though nothing between them had ever been that way.
As his lips closed on hers, all she could think was that if he was kissing her, he thought the administration was over.
She wanted him to be drunk. She wanted to taste alcohol on his lips. She didn't want him to be rational. She didn't want this to be over. She had spent the entire afternoon talking to people, explaining how impeachment didn't automatically mean this was over. But he tasted like despair and coffee and Josh.
"Tell me you want this," he murmured. No, she thought. Not like this. But she let him pull off her shirt anyway. His hands were cold. Her head hurt, because she had only taken the pills ten minutes ago, and the analgesics hadn't made their way into her system yet. He nipped at her lips and sought out her tongue.
Then he stopped suddenly, pushing her aside and staring at something past her. She turned her head until she found the object of his attention.
She had left her television on.
"Turn it off," he said, and it was an order. She complied, walking over and pressing the power button. The image of the political analyst, the devastating words flying across the bottom of the screen, it all faded to black, and she felt his hands on her again. He was more demanding this time, and she heard fabric ripping. Then he was everywhere, caressing her breasts, kissing her neck, finding all her favorite spots, finding all the spots she hadn't known about. She closed her eyes, one hand clutching his wrist, the other blindly seeking out a wall, a chair, something, because she felt like she was falling.
And then she came, and they were. The carpet was rough.
"It's over," he mumbled into her hair. She started to object, but he cut her off.
"Tell me you're on the pill."
She nodded, and he was inside her. He didn't tell her she was beautiful. He didn't tell her how good she felt, how tight she was. He didn't say anything.
She wanted to ask him if he was guilty, even though she couldn't believe that he was. She would know, she convinced herself. Long, deep strokes, and she kept thinking about how much she hated this position. She buried her face in the rug, feeling his fingers on her clit, his cock inside of her, his teeth on her back. He came and it was as if his soul was sucked out of his body; he collapsed on her, and the weight was uncomfortable. The whole experience had been uncomfortable. Sloppy and rushed, clumsy and wrong.
And maybe this was how it was supposed to be.