Goodbye Sex

I lied. Pulled that worn-out line, told Jizz she’d left her charger at my place. Cheesy, sure, but it dragged her back through my door. She shrugged, dumped her jacket, and stepped past me like nothing was planned. The second the latch clicked shut, the air changed. In the hallway I pinned her wrists above her head against the plaster. Her shirt rode up; warm skin, soft, taut, brushing my fingers. I dragged the collar down, mouth sealing over a stiff nipple. She tasted warm, faintly metallic, maybe a whiff of perfume she wore for someone else. She didn’t pull back. I pressed the flat of my palm over her skirt until the fabric dampened. One slow push—inside, quick, slick. Two fingers, knuckle-deep. Pulse. Slick heat gripping me back. She made this sound, half gasp, half swear, hips grinding into my wrist, one high heel scraping the floor. Twice she told me to wait. Twice I didn’t. Then the thong was yanked aside, thighs shoved open, skirt bunched at her hips like a goddamn belt. I lifted her, braced one forearm under her ass, other hand clutching at the nape of her neck while I fucked her upright—hard, frantic, hips slapping. Every slap pulled another low, growling moan out of her throat. Sweat, salt, cheap cherry gloss melting off her mouth. No messing around. When she came she clenched, bit down on her lip until it whitened, fists slamming once against the wall before going still. I kept her up there until her breath evened and she slid off my cock with a wet sound that echoed. Legs trembled, stockings slipped. I set her back down on shaky shoes, fingers still gleaming with her. Charger? Didn’t even exist.