Midnight In Mistakes

Midnight hits like a cold steel door. You sit in your room at her place, jacket still on, gun on the table, listening to the low bass of traffic outside. Megan’s heels stopped clicking an hour ago. Should be done for the night. Should be. Then the latch on your door slips, silent as breath. She steps inside wearing last night’s dress, black stockings shredded at the thigh, tits half-spilling from the neckline like they’re trying to escape. Blonde streaks cut through the brunette, catching the lamplight, and the silver barbells in both nipples press through the fabric like they want to draw blood. You smell her perfume and vodka and the wet between her legs before she speaks. She doesn’t say anything clever. Just kicks the door shut and pushes you back onto the bed. Her hands are already at your belt, fingers moving like she’s on the clock and time’s almost up. The second her mouth closes around you, your brain blanks white. You forget the rules, forget you’re paid to keep her alive, forget everything except the slide of that tongue and the way her big tits bounce every time she takes you deeper. She moans around your cock like it’s the first time, like it’s the last, and you feel the piercings cold against your thigh when she leans in harder. Her dress rides up. No panties. She swings a leg over, straddles your face, and the whole world narrows to the heat and weight of her. She rides your tongue like she owns it—slow, then faster, thighs shaking, that little silver hoop in her navel flashing every time she grinds down. You taste salt and lipstick and something sweeter underneath. She comes once, hard, flooding your mouth, then again when she reaches back and fists your cock in time with her hips. Her other hand works her clit in tight circles until her knees buckle and she almost loses balance. She doesn’t ask. Just spins around, sinks onto you in one rough drop, and takes every inch like she’s been thinking about it all night. The stockings rasp against your skin; the dress is bunched at her waist; her tits swing heavy and free now, nipples dark and tight. She leans forward so you can watch them shake. Every slap of skin sounds louder than it should. She keeps one hand between her legs, rubbing herself while she fucks you, breath coming in short, filthy bursts. You feel her clench, feel the sudden rush of heat, and then she’s grinding down hard, milking you, taking everything you give her until you’re empty and she’s still moving, still chasing one more aftershock. She stays there, breathing against your chest, until the sweat cools. Then she climbs off, straightens her dress, and leaves without a word. The room smells like sex and her perfume and the faint iron bite of the piercings she never took out. You lie there listening to the city again, knowing the phone could ring in five minutes or five hours, knowing you’ll answer it either way.