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She doesn’t say anything. We both know why I’m here, naming it would make it a thing to be acknowledged. Instead, she simply steps back and lets me enter. I hang my coat in the closet on the left of the hallway, brush the rough fabric of the tweed section of the sleeve with my fingertips, then glide over the smoother leather.
It’s late. Very late. So late only headlights of passing cars or the occasional streetlamp lit the street outside as I walked here. I tell myself she’d be mad if she knew. It would suggest she cared but that might be an assumption too far. So, I stay quiet. I don’t want it confirmed one way or the other. This way I can keep the narrative in my head. Imagine the argument. The vein in her throat throbbing betraying the way her heart raced at the thought of something happening to me. The strain in her voice as she pleaded with me to take a taxi next time.
This way I can pretend that she means the way she touches me.
The way she kisses me.
The way she keeps kissing me even as my body seizes. Even as I gasp for breath.
There is only one scenario in which she doesn’t do that and I’m convinced it is because it isn’t physically possible with her mouth busy elsewhere.
Her hands are on me as soon as I close the door to. We won’t make it to a bed today. We rarely do, but the times we have I’ve held onto more in my memory than healthy. No, she’ll have me here. Against the wall. Or on the stairs and I’ll cling to the wooden lip that bites into my back, my fingers curled around the unforgiving material, as she takes me apart. I’ll cling to anything I can. Take the scraps. Clutch them to my chest and carry them home so I can mentally catalogue and preserve them later.
Right now, I do exactly that, raise my head, over my shoulder and let my fingers sink into soft white hair as she leaves open-mouthed kisses on side of neck. She pulls me into her more, then presses herself into me. I let her. Of course, I let her. I want nothing more than to be in embrace. I tilt my head to the side and let it fall back onto her shoulder, give her better access. Her tongue flicks over that spot that makes me gasp and her grip on me tightens.
She’s got what she wants. A reaction from me. That seems to be all the wants, my reactions. So she’ll push and pull, pinch and twist, bite and lick and lick and lick…
God, she’s so good at licking. I secretly hope that’s how she finishes me today, but I get little say.
No say in fact.
Partly because I never voice it. Not more than the moans that slip past my lips that become screams when she gets me there.
A couple of fingers on her right-hand slip beneath the waistband of my Chanel and trace round to just under my navel only to leave me. I whimper at that loss and then realise the reason when her other hand leaves my breast to work at the belt buckle. The leather smacks her wrist slightly in her hurry to free me and I feel her jump behind me. It doesn’t slow her much, when she is focussed on a task she has set, little will deter her. It’s one of the many reasons she has managed the professional success she has. Sheer determination. She’s like that sexually as well, and I benefit so intensely from that single-minded focus.
Her nails scrape down my thighs and I know I’ll look down at the red stripes when I’m alone in the shower later and think of how much she wanted me in this moment. I step out of my pants and knickers when they gather round my ankles. She only allows me time for that before her hand is between my legs and even then, it is pragmatic. I can spread them more now there isn’t fabric restricting them.
Now she presses against me. Presses me into the wall, this time face to face so she can claim my mouth as her fingers find my slippery clit. I brace myself against the wall with one arm, the other hooks round her neck and I hang on for dear life. She touches me with a studied familiarity. She’s learnt every tell, every trick, every spot that makes my toes curl. It’s unfair how quickly she works me and just when I think tonight is going to be one of the quickest ever, she takes away her hand.
I’m man-, well woman-handled onto the stairs before she drops to her knees at the foot of them.
For a second I congratulate myself for having predicted correctly, but all thoughts fly from my mind as soon as her tongue swipes up, parting me and gliding tantalisingly over my sensitive clit. She seems to take a moment to appraise the taste, seemingly to turn over the sample she has taken in her mouth and she hums her approval. Her pupils are blown when they fleetingly meet mine. She dips her head and really sets about her intent leaving me panting.
Turns out this evening I am getting one of my desires and I don’t regret it at all. She toys with me. The tips of her fingers digging into my thighs as she takes me right to the edge and then withdraws just enough that the pressure recedes. I make a high-pitched whining noise on each occasion. One I hate but I’m barely in control. I’m too desperate to come at this point.
Eventually she takes pity and I buck so hard I know I’ll have a bruise right across my lower back from the edge of the step. She sits back on her heels, licking round her mouth, collecting every drop of evidence with the tip of her tongue as she watches me writhe.
When she gets to her feet, I know it is over. She’s had her fill for tonight. I try not to think that I’ve done something wrong. That I couldn’t have been alluring enough for her if she didn’t want to dip her head and taste me again. She does sometimes.
Sometimes she makes me come so many times I struggle to stand after.
Not tonight. Tonight, one was enough. For her.
I know the drill. Have the routine down. She will call me a car while I gather my clothes. I’ll spend the ride home trying not to cry in the car and tomorrow morning we’ll see each other in the office and say nothing about this.
We never say anything.
And as long as we do that, we never need to deal with the fact it happens.