Women Seeking Women #49

She remembers the night they finally crossed the line. December 30, 2008. Cold air, dry heat, his hand clamped on her wrist dragging her into the hotel room before the door even clicked shut. Shirt buttons popped. Skirt shoved to her hips. He bent her over the cheap laminate dresser, yanked her panties down to her knees and fucked her like he’d been starving for years. Same fingers that always stayed polite were now buried knuckle-deep in her, scissoring her open, coating themselves in her slick. She saw her own face in the mirror, mouth slack, eyes blown, watching him slam into her over and over. He didn’t ask. She didn’t want him to. When she came, she bit her own forearm to keep quiet; the moan still broke loose anyway. He kept pumping through it, chasing his own, breath hot on her spine, growling filthy praise into her neck. Afterward, he stayed inside until he softened, tracing the bite mark on her skin like it belonged to him. They never spoke of it again, but every December 30 the ache still comes back like the city remembers too.