The Subaru’s Familiar Rattle

The Subaru pulls into the driveway with the familiar rattle that I've come to associate with my pulse quickening. That battered old estate has done more miles between work sites and my front door than it was ever designed for, and I can hear the exhaust note from inside the house, through the sander's whine, through the dust mask I'm wearing. I kill the power on the Bosch and pull the mask down around my neck.

You sit in the car for a moment. I can see you through the kitchen window, checking your phone, your hair pulled forward, the hood of that grey cashmere thing pulled up like you're trying to hide from the world. Or maybe just building up to something. I know that pause. You do it every time. That little moment where you sit in the driver's seat and talk yourself into it, or out of it, or just let the anticipation build until you can't stand it anymore.

My cock is already shifting in my paint-splattered joggers. Not hard, not yet, but that heavy, aware feeling, like it knows something is coming before the rest of me has caught up. Two years I've been renovating this place. Eighties build, big rooms, good bones, absolutely shite taste in everything that the previous owner left behind. I've stripped wallpaper, replastered ceilings, rebuilt the kitchen, and somewhere in the middle of all that, you turned up.

It started with tea. You'd come round to see the progress, or I'd come round to yours when your boiler packed in, and we'd sit and drink tea and eat biscuits and talk absolute nonsense for hours. Then the nonsense got flirtier. Then the flirting got touches. Then the touches got — well. Here we are.

You open the car door and step out. Skinny jeans, the cashmere hoodie, trainers. Your hair's long and loose under the hood, and even from here I can see the way you're moving — quick, purposeful, like you've got somewhere to be and you're late for it. You walk up the path and I watch you through the gap in the dust sheets hanging in the hallway.

I drop the sander on the bench in the front room. The dust is everywhere — in my hair, on my t-shirt, ground into the skin of my forearms. I should clean up. I should at least wash my hands. I don't.

The front door opens and you walk in without knocking, the way you always do now. You don't even look at the hallway or the freshly plastered walls or the new oak flooring I laid last month. Your eyes find me immediately and they're — hooded. Hungry. That look that makes my stomach drop and my cock go from interested to properly hard in about three seconds flat.

You stop in the hall. I stop in the hall. The sander is still in my hand and then it isn't — I put it down on the floor beside me without looking, without breaking eye contact. You're about six feet away from me and the hallway is dim because I've only got the bare bulb in here and the dust sheets block most of the natural light.

"I started thinking about your cock about an hour ago," you say. Your voice is quiet, almost conversational, like you're telling me what you had for lunch. "I am fucking dripping."

I don't say anything. I can't. My mouth is dry and my heart is doing that thing where it feels too big for my chest and I'm walking towards you, closing the distance, my work-roughened hands hanging at my sides. I stop about six inches from you. You have to tilt your head back to look up at me — I've got nearly a foot on you — and your lips are slightly parted and your eyes are dark and I can smell your perfume under the cashmere, something warm and slightly sweet.

I reach down. Slowly. I watch your face as my hand slides past the waistband of your jeans, past the soft cotton of your knickers, and my fingers find you and — Jesus. You weren't lying. You're soaked. Warm and slippery and so wet that my fingers slide through you without any resistance at all. I push two fingers inside you and you groan, low and guttural, your head dropping forward against my chest.

"Fuck," you breathe into my t-shirt. Your hands come up and grip the fabric at my sides, pulling me closer.

I curl my fingers inside you, pressing against that spot that makes your knees buckle every single time. I know your body now. I know what you like, what makes you gasp, what makes you swear, what makes you go quiet because you're concentrating too hard on the feeling to form words. Your hips roll against my hand and I can feel you clenching around my fingers, already close, like you've been edging yourself the whole drive over.

"Upstairs," I say. It's not a question.

You pull back and look at me and there's that cheeky grin, that amazing smile that started all of this, the one that makes you look like you're about to get away with something. "Thought you'd never ask."

We don't make it upstairs gracefully. I'm trying to walk and kiss you at the same time and you're pulling at my t-shirt and we bump into the wall at the bottom of the staircase and then the banister and you laugh against my mouth and I laugh against yours and then we're climbing the stairs two at a time, my hand on your arse, your hand reaching back to grip my wrist.

The bedroom is the only room that's properly finished. I did it first, months ago, because I needed somewhere to sleep that wasn't surrounded by dust sheets and power tools. King-size bed, clean sheets, blackout curtains. It's become our room, really. The place where the tea and biscuits and easy conversation turned into something else entirely.

I push you down onto the bed and you bounce once and then you're pulling your hoodie off in one fluid motion. No bra. Your tits are full and pale and your nipples are already hard and I stand there for a second just looking at you because — Christ, you're beautiful. Blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, skinny jeans still on, top half bare, looking at me with that hunger that hasn't dimmed once in the months we've been doing this.

I pull my t-shirt off and your eyes drop to my chest, my stomach, the line of hair below my navel. I'm not a sculpted gym guy, I'm a forty-three-year-old who swings a hammer and carries plasterboard, but you've told me enough times that you like the way I look that I don't feel self-conscious anymore. I just feel wanted.

"Jeans," you say. "Off. Now."

I undo my joggers and push them down, my cock hard and heavy against my stomach. Your eyes fix on it and you bite your lower lip and I can see your hips shift on the bed, your thighs pressing together. I kneel on the mattress and reach for your jeans, popping the button, pulling the zip down. You lift your hips and I drag them off along with your knickers, and then you're naked and I'm naked and the afternoon light is filtering through the curtains and you're spreading your legs for me.

I don't go straight for it. I never do. I know you like the build-up, the anticipation, the feeling of being teased until you can't take it. I kiss your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. I take a nipple in my mouth and you arch up off the bed with a sharp intake of breath. My hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh. You're trembling.

"Luke, if you don't fucking touch me properly in the next ten seconds—"

I slide two fingers back inside you and you break off with a moan that sounds almost angry. Your hand grips the back of my neck and pulls me up to your mouth and you kiss me hard, teeth and tongue and desperation. I fuck you with my fingers, slow and deliberate, my thumb finding your clit and pressing in circles the way you taught me, the way you showed me that first night in my car when we couldn't keep our hands off each other.

You come fast. Faster than usual. Your whole body goes rigid and then shudders and you make a sound that's somewhere between a gasp and a sob and I feel you clench and pulse around my fingers. I keep going, easing you through it, slowing down as the waves subside.

"That was quick," I say against your neck.

"Been thinking about it for an hour," you remind me, breathless. "You owe me more than that."

I smile against your skin. "I've got plenty."

I kiss my way down your body — between your breasts, over your stomach, along the crease of your thigh. You know what's coming and your legs fall open wider, your hand tangling in my hair. I drag my tongue through you, slow and flat, tasting you, and you groan and your hips buck up against my face. I find your clit with my tongue and work it, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles, slipping two fingers back inside you and curling them.

"Jesus — fuck — Luke—"

You're loud. You've always been loud. It's one of my favourite things about fucking you, the way you just let go, the way you don't hold anything back. The neighbours probably think I'm murdering someone, but I don't care. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to know exactly what you're feeling.

You come again, harder this time, your thighs clamping around my head and your back arched off the bed. I work you through it and then pull back, wiping my chin with the back of my hand, grinning at you. You look wrecked already and we've barely started.

"Get up here," you say, reaching for me. "I need you inside me."

I move up your body and you reach between us, wrap your hand around my cock, and guide me to you. I push in slowly and we both groan at the same time, the same note, the same pitch, and I almost laugh because we're so in sync it's ridiculous. You're hot and tight and so wet that I slide in to the hilt in one smooth stroke.

I hold still for a moment, feeling you around me, watching your face. Your eyes are closed, your lips parted, your hair spread across the pillow like a halo. You look like you're praying.

"Open your eyes," I say.

You do. And they're wide and dark and locked on mine and I start to move.

I fuck you slow at first, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Your legs wrap around my waist and your nails dig into my shoulders and you match my rhythm perfectly, rising to meet me, grinding your clit against my pubic bone on every downstroke. The room fills with the sound of it — skin on skin, wet and urgent, our breathing ragged and synchronised.

"Harder," you say. "I don't want gentle today."

I pick up the pace. I thrust harder, faster, and the bed frame creaks and the headboard bumps the wall and you're making sounds that are barely human, guttural and raw. I'm slamming into you now and you're taking it, all of it, your hips bucking up to meet every thrust, your tits bouncing with the impact.

"I'm close," I say through gritted teeth. The pressure is building at the base of my spine, my balls tightening, and I know I can't last much longer.

"Don't come inside me," you say. "I want to see it."

I pull out and you sit up quickly, pressing your tits together with your hands, and I wrap my hand around my cock and pump it twice, three times, and then I'm coming — hard, thick spurts across your chest, over your tits, the first rope hitting your collarbone and the rest landing in streaks across your skin. I groan so loud it's almost a shout, my hand braced on the headboard, my whole body shaking.

I look down and you’re—fuck, Beck—working my come into your skin with one hand while the other’s buried between your legs, fingers circling your clit, slow and deliberate. You scoop a thick streak off your breast, lift it to your mouth, and lick your fingers clean with a wet, lazy stroke of your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

"Jesus Christ, Becky."

My cock, which had started to soften, twitches and thickens again. You see it happen and that cheeky grin spreads across your face, the one that started everything, the one that makes my chest tight.

"Again?" you say, raising an eyebrow.

I don't answer. I just flip you over. You yelp in surprise and then laugh, and then you're on your hands and knees and I'm behind you, my cock hard again already — the recovery time of a man half my age, and I don't know if it's you or the gym or sheer stubbornness, but I'm not complaining. I slide into you from behind in one hard thrust and you cry out, your arms buckling, your face pressing into the mattress.

I fuck you hard. There's no other word for it. This isn't making love, this isn't tender, this is raw and filthy and exactly what you asked for. I grip your hips and pound into you and the sound of it — my thighs slapping against your arse, how wet you are, the muffled sounds you're making into the pillow — is obscene and perfect.

"Yes — fuck — right there, don't stop—"

I reach around with one hand and find your clit and you come immediately, your whole body convulsing, your pussy clenching around my cock so hard I can barely move. I fuck you through it, slamming into you, and then I'm coming too, this time inside you, because you're too far gone to tell me otherwise and I can't stop, can't pull out, can't do anything but bury myself as deep as I can go and let go.

I collapse forward onto my elbows, my chest against your back, both of us breathing like we've run a marathon. I can feel your heart hammering through your ribs, or maybe that's mine, or maybe it's both of ours at the same time. I press a kiss to the back of your neck and you shiver.

"Get off, you're heavy," you mumble into the pillow, but you're laughing.

I roll off and onto my back beside you. You stay face-down for a moment, then turn your head to look at me. Your hair is a mess, your mascara is smudged, and there's still dried come on your chest. You look like you've been thoroughly fucked and you look absolutely radiant.

"That was—" you start.

"Yeah."

"We've got maybe twenty minutes before I need to leave."

I look at the clock on the bedside table. "I can work with twenty minutes."

You laugh and roll onto your side, your hand sliding down my stomach. "You're going to kill me."

"What a way to go."

You grin at me, that amazing smile, the one that makes me feel like a teenager instead of a forty-three-year-old man with a half-sanded front room and dust in his hair. I pull you closer and kiss you, slow this time, and I can feel you smiling against my mouth.

"Your house is a tip," you murmur.

"You're a tip."

"Romantic as ever." You nip my lower lip with your teeth. "Make me a cup of tea first."

"Tea, then round three?"

"Deal."

I get up and pull on my joggers and pad downstairs to the kitchen, barefoot, still slightly dazed, and I put the kettle on and lean against the worktop and grin at nothing. The hallway still has dust sheets on the walls. The front room is half-sanded. The bathroom needs retiling. There's a list of jobs as long as my arm and I haven't touched any of them today.

I don't care. I've got a cup of tea to make and a beautiful woman upstairs and twenty minutes that I'm absolutely going to stretch into thirty. The Subaru can wait. The renovation can wait. Everything can wait, because you're here, and you're still here, and every time you pull into my driveway in that battered old car, I feel like the luckiest bastard alive.

I hear you moving around upstairs, hear the creak of the floorboards, hear the tap running. I grab two mugs from the cupboard and drop a teabag in each and think about round three.

The kettle boils. I pour the water. And I'm already thinking about the next time you pull into my driveway, hood up, eyes hungry, ready to walk through my door and turn my whole day upside down.