Women Seeking Women #63

He wasn't supposed to be there that night. Red low-slung lights. Jazz crackling through cheap speakers. She slid off her coat, left it on the chair, didn't look back. He waited at the far table. The usual game. Not tonight. They'd done this dance three weeks straight. Sharp heels on worn tile. His hand brushed her wrist under the table, like it was nothing. She kept her eyes straight, like nothing was nothing. Except now her pulse was a drumbeat and every inch of skin ached. Her dress was thin. He wanted it gone. She knew it. Took her time. Slow sip, slow shift in her seat, letting the fabric ride high on her thigh. His jaw tightened. He reached, knuckles grazing bare skin, and didn't pull away. The alley was dark when they stepped out. No more waiting. He backed her against cold brick, knees forcing hers apart, palms dragging the dress up over her hips. No politeness. His mouth on her neck, teeth and tongue. She bit her lip, tasted iron. His fingers worked fast, rough, pushing aside the thin lace, finding her wet. She grabbed his belt, yanked it open, yanked him close. Nothing soft. Nothing shy. He slid two fingers inside her, curled just right, rubbed that spot that made her thighs shake. Her breath came ragged. She ground against his hand, hips jerking, fingers digging into his shoulder. The brick was cold. Her cunt hotter. She came fast, sharp, legs quaking, cursing low through clenched teeth. He didn't stop. Kept working her, made her take another wave, made her moan his name like a warning, like a threat. When he finally pushed inside, it was all sweat and heat and friction. No rubber. No second thoughts. Just her back flat to brick, his cock deep, her nails scoring his neck. Every thrust knocked a sound out of her, every sound drove him harder. She came again, tighter this time, clenching around him. He followed, groaning, teeth in her shoulder, spilling deep, hips twitching through every last spasm. After, nothing but the hum of night. Her dress wrinkled. His shirt button missing. The usual game—finished. Over the edge. No going back.