Nice View

Spring barely touched the windows when the rain started drilling Melbourne’s skyline. Audrey Quinn and Sam B stood pressed to the glass, the drizzle wiping everything grey. Their jog had been right there, two minutes from the door. Now they were wired, muscles restless, and nowhere to take it. "Fuck the treadmill," Audrey said, and pulled the blinds half down. "We’ll do it here." She stripped off her shirt, rolled her shoulders so her bra straps cut pale lines across fresh skin. Sam watched, jaw tight. She shoved the coffee table against the couch and cleared a strip of hardwood between the rain-spattered windows. They started slow—alternate lunges, hip flexors burning—then switched to jumping jacks. Sweat beaded fast, slid between her breasts and disappeared under the waistband of her shorts. On the next set Audrey bent forward into a plank. Sam dropped behind her, counting out push-ups so close his breath warmed the back of her neck. Push-ups turned to mountain climbers; she drove her knees toward her chest until her thighs trembled. Sam reached under, cupped one of her breasts through damp fabric. Audrey answered by arching, pressing into his palm while her arms shook. The rhythm stuttered—her shorts hit the floor, his sweats followed. He gripped her hips, lined himself up, and sank in deep on the first thrust. Audrey gasped, palms flat on the boards, elbows locked. Every drive rocked her forward. Rain needled the windows; the wet, steady slap of skin filled the room instead. She came with a low, startled sound, knees buckling. Sam hauled her upright, thrust harder, chasing his own edge until he spilled inside her, groaning against her shoulder. They stayed locked a moment longer, catching breath, heartbeats hammering in sync with the storm.