Women Seeking Women #60 - Scene 1

She slams the door hard enough to rattle the frame. The old safe-house smells like cordite, rain, and the sweet rot of the spilled whiskey she knocked over an hour ago. She peels off the torn dress, fabric dripping water across scarred hardwood, and doesn’t bother to close the blinds. He watches from the corner, lit by one weak lamp. Clothes aren’t thrown; they’re ripped and left where they fall. When she straddles him on the threadbare couch he tastes blood on her bottom lip and decides it might be his. His hand finds the bruise high on her thigh and presses until she hisses, but she arches into the pain instead of pulling away. She’s slick—has been since the alley half a block back—and she sinks down without ceremony, taking every inch like she owns it. They fuck like the room’s on fire and the neighbors are deaf: ragged breaths, wet slaps of flesh, her nails carving welts into his shoulders every time he thrusts up too sharply. Sweat slides between them, salty, warm. Outside a siren wails and fades. Inside the table lamp clicks and buzzes like it might die. Neither of them cares. The only clock they’re racing is the next dangerous thing on the street, and the only mercy she grants him is the sound of his own name cracking in her throat when she comes, clenching hard enough to make his teeth ache.