Uninvited Heat

The front door didn't so much open as surrender to Hurricane Becky. I looked up from my crouched position by the skirting board, paintbrush dripping beige emulsion onto the dust sheet, to see you standing there with that grin plastered across your face. Your blonde hair was piled up in some kind of chaotic knot, strands already escaping and sticking to your temples.

"You know, most people knock," I said, dipping the brush back into the tray. "Or text. Or send a carrier pigeon. Some form of warning."

You kicked off your sandals and shut the door behind you with your foot. "Where's the fun in that? Besides, I could smell the DIY desperation from down the street. Thought you might need rescuing."

"From painting? It's the highlight of my week."

Your laugh bounced off the bare walls. The house was a mess, I knew that. Two years of renovation and it still looked like a builder's yard had a fight with an IKEA catalogue and lost. But the new wooden floors were down, gleaming pale oak across the open-plan space, and the big windows let in a ridiculous amount of light without trapping the heat. Thirty-eight degrees outside, and in here it was maybe twenty-five. One of the few advantages of a 1980s house with thick walls and decent ventilation.

You walked past me, your shorts barely qualifying as clothing, that strappy top clinging to you in ways that made me focus very hard on my paintbrush. "God, it's like a fridge in here. I'm menopausal enough without this bloody weather. I'm basically a human furnace."

"You're basically a human nuisance."

"A hot nuisance, though." You winked and then did something so utterly, perfectly Becky that I had to laugh. You just lay down on the floor. Right there in the middle of my hallway, arms and legs spread like you were making a snow angel on the wood, eyes closed.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"The floor is cold. The floor is my friend." You made a theatrical fanning motion with your hand. "I'm never moving again. This is my life now. Bring me snacks."

I stood up, my knees cracking in protest. Forty-three is a bastard of an age for crouching. I'm six foot seven, so standing up from anywhere takes planning and a small prayer to the god of lower backs. I walked over and stood over you, casting a shadow across your face.

"Alright?"

You opened one eye. "No. I am melting. I'm going to be a puddle on your nice new floor. You'll have to mop me up."

"Water?"

"Yes please. Before I evaporate entirely."

I stepped over you carefully and headed to the kitchen. The open-plan layout meant I could still see you lying there as I filled two glasses from the filter jug. Ice cubes clinked. The kitchen was half-finished, cupboard doors missing, but the countertops were new. Black granite. Cold as a tomb. I'd spent a stupid amount of money on them and regretted nothing.

"You know Tom's mum has air conditioning," I called out. "Proper air con. Vents and everything."

"Tom's mum also has seventeen cats and a framed picture of Princess Diana in the downstairs loo. I'll take my chances with you."

I came back with the water and you sat up, cross-legged on the floor, reaching for the glass. Your fingers brushed mine. You drank half of it in one go, a trickle escaping down your chin, and wiped it away with the back of your hand.

"So where are Tom and Jessy?" I asked, lowering myself onto the floor next to you. It was genuinely cooler down here. I stretched my legs out and leaned back on my hands.

"At his mum's. I'm on call this weekend so I can't go anywhere." You finished the water and set the glass aside. "Can I hang here for a bit? It's so much cooler than ours. Our house is basically an oven. A shitty, terraced oven with no parking."

"Of course. You know you're always welcome here."

And you were. That was the thing. It was so easy between us. Always had been. From the moment we'd met at that disastrous barbecue three years ago, where I'd set fire to the burgers and you'd laughed so hard you'd snorted prosecco out of your nose, there'd been something effortless about us.

You lay down again, flat on your back, staring at the ceiling. I did the same. The wood was cool through my thin t-shirt. We lay there in silence for a moment, side by side, like two starfish on the ocean floor.

"Oh yeah," I said. "It is cooler down here."

"Told you. I'm a genius."

"Debatable."

Conversation flowed like it always did. In-jokes about Gogglebox, a heated debate about whether Monty Don was secretly a sex symbol, smutty references that made you snort and me grin. You told me about your week, about the idiot at work who'd cc'd the entire company on an email about his haemorrhoids. I told you about the bathroom demolition, how I'd found 1980s pornography stuffed behind the old cabinet, pages stuck together and featuring women with hair bigger than their heads.

"Did you keep it?"

"For historical research purposes, obviously."

"Obviously."

We laughed. The sound echoed slightly in the empty space. Our breathing slowed. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was full. Comfortable. The kind of silence you can only have with someone who knows you properly.

I turned my head to look at you. Your profile was sharp against the light from the window, your blonde hair fanned out on the wood. You had that smile on your face, the one that wasn't quite a smile. Just the ghost of one. Contentment, maybe.

"Yes?" I said slowly, as you turned to face me.

We both laughed again, quieter this time.

"I love being here," you said. "With you."

I swallowed. My throat had gone dry despite the water. "Well, you do spend enough time here."

The silence came back, but this time it was different. Heavier. Charged with something unspoken. We both turned onto our sides, facing each other, hands tucked under our heads like children at a sleepover. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in your eyes.

We carried on chatting. Nonsense, mostly. But underneath it, something was shifting. I could feel it in the way you looked at me, in the way my pulse had picked up.

Then you said it.

"I often wonder, if things were different, would you want me?"

I sat up. Fast. Too fast. My head spun. "Beck, that's not fair."

You sat up too, crossing your legs, facing me. Your expression was serious now. No more jokes. "Why isn't it fair?"

"Because." I shook my head. "Because you know."

"I don't know. You need to tell me."

The air between us felt thick. I reached out before I could stop myself and touched your face. My fingers brushed your cheekbone, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your skin was warm. You leaned into my touch, just slightly.

"You know how I feel," I said.

"I don't. Tell me."

"The eyes. The flirting. It's not fair, Beck."

"You do it too." Your voice was steady, but your eyes were searching my face. "Every time. You look at me like that and I can't think straight."

I pulled my hand back. "I don't know what to think. One minute I think you want to take me on your kitchen counter and the next I think you can't bear to be around me."

I stood up. Walked to the window. Put my hand on my head. The sun was blazing outside, the tarmac on the driveway shimmering with heat. Inside, everything had gone very cold and very hot at the same time.

"You're fucking married, Beck."

I heard you stand. Heard your bare feet on the wooden floor. Then your hand was on my back, warm through my t-shirt, and you were nuzzling into me, your forehead pressing between my shoulder blades.

"I need you, Luke." Your voice was muffled against my shirt. "I am so fucking wet for you. I have been all day. All week. All year."

You took my hand. Guided it down. Down past the waistband of your shorts, past the damp cotton of your knickers, and then my fingers were touching you and you were so wet. Soaking. Slick and hot and absolutely drenched.

"Fuck," I breathed.

"I want you to taste me."

I turned. We collided. The kiss was frantic, desperate, years of tension exploding in a single moment. Your mouth was soft and demanding, your tongue sliding against mine, and I grabbed you. Lifted you. You weighed nothing. I walked you to the kitchen, your legs wrapping around my waist, and I set you down on that cold black granite counter.

I still had to bend to kiss you. Even with you sitting on the counter, I was so much taller. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the way you were pulling at my t-shirt, the way I was yanking your strappy top over your head, the way your tits spilled free and I had to stop for a second just to look at you.

"Jesus, Beck."

"Don't stop."

I didn't. Your shorts came next. I pulled them down your legs, taking your knickers with them, and then you were naked on my kitchen counter. Bare skin on black granite. Your legs fell open and the sight of you, wet and wanting, made my head swim.

I knelt. On the floor. On my half-finished kitchen floor with the missing cupboard doors and the new countertops. I knelt and I put my mouth on you.

You gasped. Your hands flew to my hair, fingers tangling, pulling. You tasted incredible. Salty and sweet and utterly intoxicating. I licked into you, slow at first, learning the shape of you, the sounds you made when I did certain things. When I circled your clit with my tongue, you moaned. When I sucked gently, you whimpered. When I slid two fingers inside you and curled them upwards, you cried out.

"Oh fuck, Luke, right there, don't stop, don't stop—"

I didn't stop. I worked you with my mouth and my fingers, feeling you tighten around me, feeling your thighs tremble against my shoulders. Your breathing went ragged. Your hips started to rock against my face. I could feel you getting closer, could feel the tension building in your body like a wave about to break.

"Luke, I'm going to— I'm—"

You shattered. But it wasn't just an orgasm. It was a flood. You squirted, hot and sudden, soaking my face and dripping down the cupboard fronts, pooling on the new wooden floor. I kept going, kept licking, kept drawing it out of you until you were pushing at my head, oversensitive, gasping.

"Holy shit," I said, pulling back, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. "Beck, that was fucking filthy."

You were panting, braced on your hands, your chest heaving. "I am so fucking turned on right now. I need you to fuck me, Luke. Please."

I stood up. My cock was so hard it hurt, straining against my jeans. I undid my belt, my hands shaking slightly. "Oh, don't you worry. I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to sit down."

You whimpered. Actually whimpered. And your pussy, still glistening and swollen, let out another trickle of wetness. I watched it slide down your thigh and onto the granite.

My cock sprang free and it twitched. Throbbed. I looked down at myself, then at you. "Jesus. I didn't think I could be this hard."

You opened your legs wider. Reached up and grabbed your own tits, squeezing them, thumbs brushing over your nipples. Looking at me with those eyes. That was it. Something snapped inside me. A low, guttural sound came out of my throat, something primal and hungry, and I grabbed your hips. Pulled you forward to the edge of the counter. Lined myself up.

And slammed into you in one motion.

We both groaned. You were so tight, so wet, so perfect around me. I stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, just feeling you. Feeling your muscles clench and flutter. Feeling your legs wrap around my waist. Feeling your hands on my chest.

"Fuck me," you whispered. "Please."

I did. I fucked you hard and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. The sound of it was obscene. Wet slaps echoing through the empty kitchen. Your moans getting louder with every thrust. I leaned down, still inside you, and took one of your nipples in my mouth. Sucked. Bit gently. You cried out and your nails raked down my back.

"Harder," you gasped. "Don't hold back."

I didn't. I grabbed your hips and pounded into you, the counter creaking beneath us, your body sliding on the smooth granite. I watched my cock disappear into you over and over, watched the way your tits bounced with every thrust, watched your face contort with pleasure.

"Touch yourself," I growled. "I want to watch you come on my cock."

Your hand slid down your belly. Your fingers found your clit. You started circling, fast, frantic, and I could feel you getting tighter, could feel your orgasm building again.

"That's it. Come for me, Beck. Come all over my cock."

You screamed. Actually screamed. Your back arched, your pussy clamped down on me like a vice, and you came so hard I could feel it ripple through your entire body. Your legs shook. Your eyes rolled back. You were saying something but it wasn't words, just sounds, just pure animal pleasure.

I wasn't far behind. The sight of you, the feel of you, the sound of you—it was too much. My balls tightened. My rhythm faltered.

"Where do you want me to come?"

"Inside me. Please, Luke, come inside me."

That was all I needed. I buried myself deep and let go, groaning your name as I pulsed inside you. Wave after wave, filling you, marking you. My vision went white at the edges. My legs nearly gave out.

I collapsed forward, catching myself on my hands, still inside you. Our foreheads touched. Our breathing was ragged, synchronised. Sweat dripped from my temple onto your collarbone.

"Holy shit," you whispered.

"Yeah."

We stayed like that for a long moment. Then I pulled out gently, and you made a small sound at the loss. I helped you down from the counter. Your legs were wobbly. You had to hold onto me to stay upright.

We looked at the mess. The puddle on the floor. The smears on the cupboard doors. The wet handprints on the granite.

"I'm going to need to clean that," I said.

"I'll help."

"You'd better. You're the one who made most of it."

You laughed. That proper laugh, the one I loved. "Fair enough."

We cleaned up in silence. Not awkward. Comfortable. The same comfortable silence we'd always had, except now everything was different. Better. When we were done, I put the kettle on.

"Weak tea?" I asked.

"You know me so well."

We sat on the floor again, backs against the cupboards, mugs in hand. Your head rested on my shoulder. The tea was terrible. You'd made it exactly the way you liked it, which meant it was basically hot water with a vague memory of a teabag.

"So," you said.

"So."

"What happens now?"

I thought about it. About Tom. About Jessy. About all the complications waiting outside this cool, quiet house. But right now, with you warm against my side and the taste of you still on my lips, I couldn't bring myself to care.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "But you're always welcome here."

You tilted your head up and kissed my jaw. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

And that, I thought, as I wrapped my arm around you and pulled you closer, was exactly what I'd been hoping you'd say.