Late Arrival

I knocked twice and waited, one hand braced on the frame, the other still smelling like the orange I'd eaten in the car. Your hallway smelled like cardamom and the iron of a radiator working too hard. Late. I knew it before you said anything.

"Come in."

You were already on your feet when I shut the door behind me. The gown was thin, the color of tea, and it didn't hide much. You looked me over the way you do when you've been counting minutes.

"You're late," you said.

"Gwen had questions." I set my keys down, slow, because my hands wanted to skip that part. "She kept asking where I was going. I told her a walk. She didn't buy the walk."

Your mouth tightened, not quite a smile. "And you still came."

"I wanted you with the door locked and nobody in the hallway." I stepped in until the radiator warmth was on my back and your breath was on my collar. "Just you. Slow. No interruptions."

"Ambitious," you said, but your fingers had already found the buttons of my shirt.

I took you into my arms before you finished the third one. You came up on your toes — five feet of you against six of me — and I kissed you like I'd been rehearsing it in traffic. You tasted like mint and the last of your coffee. Your hands slid under my shirt and stopped at the soft weight of my chest, the little man-boobs you've never once made a joke about, and you squeezed, familiar, greedy.

"Off," you said against my mouth.

I found the tie of the gown and pulled. It opened and fell off your shoulders, caught at your elbows, then dropped. I didn't touch you right away. I just looked.

Medium-dark skin, full through the hips, breasts heavy enough that they moved when you breathed. Dark areolae, wide, the nipples already tight. No performance in it. You never needed one.

"Staring is rude," you said.

"Then arrest me."

I put my palms on your waist and drew them up, slow, over the soft give of your stomach, the underside of your breasts, until my thumbs brushed those dark nipples and you made a small sound you tried to swallow. I bent and took one into my mouth. Warm. The skin there tasted faintly of soap. I sucked until it peaked harder against my tongue, then moved to the other, one hand cupping the weight of the first so it wouldn't feel abandoned.

"Mark."

"I'm here."

My free hand stroked down. Ribs, the curve of your belly, the crease of your hip, then lower, through the heat between your thighs. You were already wet. My fingers parted you and you shivered so hard your knees bumped mine.

"Cold?" I asked, though I knew better.

"Don't be an ass."

I stroked you, unhurried, two fingers sliding along your slit and up to your clit, circling, not quite giving you the pressure you tilted your hips for. You grabbed my bald head like it was a handle and swore under your breath.

"You want me?" I said against your breast.

"Yes."

"How."

You pulled my face up so I had to look at you. Hazel eyes, you always said, like you were cataloguing me. Age lines and a clean shave and a mouth that wouldn't stop talking.

"On the bed," you said. "Inside me. Not fast. Not yet. I want to feel all of you before you start showing off."

I laughed into your neck and walked you backward until the mattress hit the backs of your knees. You went down and pulled me with you. My shirt was gone somewhere between the door and the bed. Trousers next, kicked off with less dignity than I like to admit. My cock was already thick against your thigh, heavy, the head slick. You reached down and wrapped your hand around me, stroked once, slow, and smiled when I hissed.

"Vasectomy didn't shrink anything," you murmured.

"Years ago. Still works. Just doesn't leave a mess that means anything."

"Good. Then you can stay in me as long as you want."

I pushed into you in one long stroke. Hot. Tight in the way that made my arms shake. You exhaled like you'd been holding that breath since I knocked. I stayed buried, forehead against yours, and didn't move until you rolled your hips and told me, very clearly, to fuck you.

So I did. Long strokes, deep enough that you grabbed the sheet, shallow enough on the return that you chased me. The bed complained. Your nails found my shoulders. I watched your face because that's the part I never get tired of — the way your mouth opens when I grind instead of thrust, the way your eyes go unfocused and then snap back to me like you're checking I'm still real.

The first orgasm took you by surprise. Your pussy clenched around me, a hard rhythmic grip, and you bit my shoulder to keep from shouting. I held still and let you ride it out, kissing your temple, murmuring nonsense until your legs stopped shaking.

"Again," you said, hoarse.

"Greedy."

"You like me greedy."

I pulled out, ignored your protest, and slid down your body. Kissed the soft skin under your breasts. Kissed your stomach. Spread your thighs with both hands and put my mouth on you. You tasted like both of us. I licked you open, slow, then closed my lips around your clit and sucked, tongue flicking, two fingers sliding back inside you and curling until I found the spot that made your heel drum the mattress.

"Fuck — Mark — right there—"

I stayed there. You came again, louder, one hand clamped over your own mouth, the other fisted in the pillow. I didn't stop. I eased off just enough to keep you from shoving me away, then built it again, licking, sucking, fucking you with my fingers while my cock ached against the sheets, balls drawn tight and full, every instinct telling me to climb back up and finish. I didn't. I wanted all of you first. The shake in your thighs. The way you said my name like a complaint and a prayer in the same breath.

Third time, you sobbed and pulled my hair — what little there is — and told me if I didn't get back inside you you'd lose your mind.

I was lining myself up, cock in my fist, your knees hooked over my arms, when the knock came.

We both froze.

Another knock, lighter, and then the latch turned. I hadn't locked it. Stupid. The door opened and shut with a soft click, and two pairs of feet crossed your rug.

Gwen stood at the foot of the bed in a dress the color of a ripe cherry, red hair down her back, makeup perfect, freckles standing out because she was flushed. Cindy was half a step behind her, bottle-red hair pinned up, blue eyes bright, the kind of face that didn't need anything and still dressed like a dare.

"Daddy," Gwen said, and the word landed warm and filthy, the way she always meant it. "You said a walk."

"Baby Girl." My voice came out rough. I was still kneeling between your thighs, cock wet, nowhere to hide. "This was supposed to be quiet."

"We got bored of quiet." She looked at you, and something in her face softened — she likes you undressed, she's never pretended otherwise. "Neha. You look wrecked already. Rude of him not to share."

Cindy's mouth curved. "We came to liven the party. Unless you're sending us home."

You were breathing hard under me, hair stuck to your cheek, but you didn't pull the sheet up. You looked at them, then at me, and your hand found my wrist.

"Stay," you said. "Both of you. He was about to get cocky."

Gwen's dress had a tie at the side. She loosened it and the whole thing dropped. I heard myself make a sound I couldn't have planned. Long red hair, small waist, breasts full and high, large areolae with nipples that matched, a neat triangle of light red hair between shapely legs, red polish on her fingers and her small feet. Striking even when she wasn't trying. She was trying.

"Jesus, Baby Girl."

"You can look," she said. "You can do more than look."

Cindy didn't bother with a performance. She unzipped, stepped out of her dress, and stood there in nothing but the curve of her hips and those blue eyes. Fair skin, womanly all the way down. She slid two fingers between her own lips, stroked her slit until they shone, and held them up.

"Want me too, Mark? Or are you going to pretend you only came for one of us?"

"I came for her," I said, honest, because you'd earned that. "I'm not sending either of you away."

Gwen climbed onto the bed on your other side and kissed you before she kissed me. Deep, wet, the kind of kiss she gives when she's decided the room belongs to her. You kissed her back. I felt you clench around nothing, empty, impatient. Cindy knelt behind me and ran her nails down my spine, then reached around and stroked my cock, slow, spreading your wetness along the shaft.

"He's shaking," Cindy said, delighted. "Balls like he hasn't come in a week."

"I haven't," I said. "I was saving it."

"For her." Gwen nipped your lower lip and looked at me over your shoulder. "Then give it to her last. Fuck us first. I want to watch you try to hold it."

I fucked Cindy first because she was already open and asking, and because Gwen liked to watch almost as much as she liked to be taken. Cindy got on her hands and knees at the edge of the bed, looked back at me with that unmade-up-beautiful face, and told me not to be gentle about the first stroke. I wasn't. I pushed into her pussy in one drive and she dropped her head and moaned, low and satisfied, pushing back to take me deeper. She was hot and slick and she knew exactly how to roll her hips so the head of my cock dragged where she wanted it.

"Harder," she said. "You know I can take it."

I held her hips and fucked her in steady, deep thrusts, the sound of it obscene in your quiet apartment. Gwen had her mouth on your breast. You had two fingers in yourself, watching me, mouth open. Every time I slammed into Cindy you flinched like you could feel it.

Cindy came with a sharp cry, pussy fluttering around me, and I pulled out while I still could, cock shining, pulse hammering in my balls. I hadn't come. Close. Not close enough to lose it.

"Neha," I said.

You were already reaching for me. I slid back into you and the relief of it nearly undid me — familiar heat, the way you locked your ankles behind my back and pulled. I thrust slow at first, then harder when you told me to, because you like it hard and you've never been shy about saying so. Gwen kissed my shoulder. Cindy, shaky, crawled up and licked the sweat off your throat.

You came around me again, fourth time, biting Gwen's fingers because they'd ended up in your mouth. I pulled out shaking, a string of wet connecting us, and Gwen was already on her back, legs spread, red nails on her own thighs, holding herself open.

"Daddy. Now. I've been wet since the car."

I sank into her and she arched like I'd plugged her into something. Tighter than I'd braced for. She wrapped those shapely legs around me and didn't let me set an easy pace. Greedy. She always is when I walk through a door she's been waiting behind. She kept me there — every time I tried to pull back to the tip she hauled me in, heels digging, telling me deeper, telling me she could feel me in her stomach, telling me not to you dare finish anywhere but where I'd promised.

"Baby Girl—"

"Not yet." She grinned, wrecked, makeup finally smudging at the corner of one eye. "You said you were saving it. Save it. Just fuck me until I can't talk."

I did. Long enough that Cindy had to hold Gwen's wrists above her head because Gwen kept trying to drag me down and finish me with her mouth. Long enough that you slid a hand between us and rubbed Gwen's clit while I thrust, and Gwen came so hard she went silent, mouth open, freckles stark, pussy gripping me in pulses I had to breathe through. I stayed in her until the grip eased. Then I pulled out, careful, still hard, still aching, a thread of her wetness cooling on my thigh.

"Enough," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine. "I want Neha."

You were limp and shining, hair a mess, chest heaving, but you opened your arms and your legs without being asked. I moved over you and pushed in deep, one slow stroke to the root, and the sound you made went straight through me. Your legs came up and locked around my waist. You pulled me in and held me there, heels at the small of my back, not letting me retreat even an inch.

"There," you whispered. "Stay. Fuck me like that. Deep."

Gwen was at your ear, voice hoarse and fond. "Take him, Neha. He's been holding it for you. Make him give it up."

Cindy bent over your chest and took one dark nipple into her mouth, sucking, her hand covering the other breast, thumb circling. You moaned and tightened around me, and that was the end of my discipline. I thrust into you, deep and uneven, the rhythm gone, your pussy soaking me, Gwen's hand on my ass urging me harder, Cindy's mouth on your tit, your legs dragging me in like you meant to keep me.

"I love you," you said, barely sound, and I didn't have a clever answer.

My orgasm hit like a door coming off its hinges. I drove in and stayed, cock pulsing, spilling into you in thick surges I felt all the way up my spine. Years since the vasectomy and it still felt like emptying a year of wanting. You held me through it, ankles locked, whispering yes, yes, while Gwen kissed the side of my face and Cindy didn't stop with your nipple until I was shaking and done and half collapsed on your chest.

For a while nobody moved except to breathe. The radiator knocked. Someone's phone buzzed in a pile of dresses and gave up.

I eased out of you and watched a slow spill of cum leak from your pussy onto the sheet. You made a small, satisfied noise and didn't close your legs.

"Again," you said, eyes half shut, smiling like a woman with no sense of physics. "Harder. I want you mean this time."

"You want a coroner," I said.

The bedroom door opened a third time. Susan stood there with an armful of towels and the expression of a woman who has managed worse rooms than this one. She took us in — four wrecked adults, one ruined sheet, my cock soft against my thigh, cum shining on you — and sighed.

"Up," she said. "All of you. Shower, water, bed. In that order. Round two is not happening on a sheet that could stand up by itself."

Gwen laughed into your shoulder. Cindy muttered something about tyranny. You reached for me anyway, lazy and certain.

"Ten minutes," you told Susan. "Then he fucks me again."

Susan snapped a towel open and dropped it on my chest. "He'll fuck you again when he can stand without using the wall. I'll set an alarm. Nobody dies before then, and nobody argues with the woman holding the clean linen."

I caught your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and let my head fall back on the pillow, spent and stupidly happy, already doing the math on ten minutes and knowing I'd lose.