it is morning
nc-17 | sexual content
He's still standing behind her, kissing a path from the nape of her neck to her shoulder. He undoes the zipper on her dress, the clip in her hair, the clasp of her bra. There was a time when he could undo her, completely, but that's the past. This will be comfort sex. Or pity sex. Or maybe even just-something-to-do-so-we-don't-feel-helpless sex.
He whispers something about her hair and she can't make out if he's complimenting her or complaining, so she stays silent. As her bra falls to the floor, she belatedly pulls her curtains closed. When he kisses along the length of her spine, she arches her back, fingers twisting around the coarse fabric of her drapes. Work won't leave her mind, even as he gropes her (there's no use in romanticizing this).
So she closes her eyes, but then she's reminded of her headache, the one she had managed to forget about once he started kissing her. A small moan escapes her, either from the dull pain or the fact that his hand is now inside her underwear. With his cheek pressed against hers, she can make out the smell of beer and smoke on his breath. Maybe he's drunk and maybe it doesn't matter.
It won't be good because drunk sex never is, and they won't talk about this in the morning (it is morning). She tries not to think about that. His beard scratches her skin; his fingers make her groan. She suggests moving to her bed, but his only response is to push her to the edge of her couch. He hoists her up, spreading her legs. Then he's inside her, but he doesn't press his lips to hers. He's talking, muttering, and she willfully ignores him. If he's talking about work, she doesn't want to hear it; if he's not, he's probably drunk, so it's doubtful he means it anyway.
There's a twinge of pain, so she shifts her hips, leans back, changing the angle of his penetration. Then there's just delicious friction, a dull ache that grows in intensity. He keeps thrusting and mumbling; she holds onto his shoulder with one hand as she massages her clit with the other. He finally shuts up, or maybe she just can't hear him anymore over the ringing in her ears. With her head tilted back, she almost chokes on her own saliva when she comes, gasping quietly. His breath is hot on her neck, his hands tight on her hips, and her mind blissfully goes blank for a fleeting moment.
Before the tingling even subsides, he's talking again, but this time, she can make out the words. He has to get home, to shower, to change, because he has to be back in the office early in the morning (it is morning). She stands up as he tucks in his shirt, zips up his pants. When he touches her face, kisses her cheek, it's almost like an afterthought.
"We'll fix it in the morning," he says (dammit, it is morning), and she assumes he's talking about work.