Groom’s Mother Taken by the Cold Guest

Salt. That was the first thing, the whole thing, the taste of Jesse’s throat flooding Abigail’s tongue like something she had been thirsty for without ever naming it. His pulse kicked under her lips, fast and thick, and the cologne that had drifted past her all night went rank-sweet where sweat had cooked it into his skin. She opened her mouth wider. She dragged the flat of her tongue up the long tendon of his neck and felt him swallow, felt the muscle move under the wet stripe she left, and her fingers had already knotted in the front of his shirt and hauled him backward into the balcony rail before any part of her that answered to the name Mom had a chance to speak. Steel rang softly against his spine. Forty floors of night air breathed up around their legs. Her hips followed her hands, pressing her whole soft front against the hard line of him, and the wreck of a sound that left her went straight into his skin.

Jesse felt her tongue on his throat and every muscle in his back went to wire. She tasted him like she was checking whether he was real. Christ. He had watched this woman for four hours, watched the champagne slide down that throat during the toasts, watched the dress ride every step she took past the bar, that heavy, deliberate sway a body only learned after decades of being looked at, and he had spent the last hour not deciding whether but how. Now here she was doing the work for him, her perfume rising warm off her cleavage, her breath sugared with prosecco and panic, and the calm that came down over him was almost cold. Good. He wanted to be cold for this. He wanted to be the only one on this roof who could still think.

“Look at you,” he said, and the words came out low and scraped, a register he did not use inside. His palms found her hips and stayed there, spreading, weighing. “Fuck. Look at you.” One hand slid up the silk over her ribs and closed on her breast, squeezing until the flesh spilled between his fingers. “This.” The other went down and took a fistful of her ass through the dress, hauling her tighter against the ridge already straining his fly. “This. All night. Walking around like that. In front of everyone.” His thumb found her nipple through the fabric and rolled it hard. “Say you want it. Use your mouth for something other than licking me.”

Abigail’s knees went soft. The heat between her thighs was sudden and shameful, a flute filled too fast, foam running down the stem, and she could feel herself soaking through the lace as if her body had been waiting for permission and taken his voice as the signal. Behind her the party went on in its lit glass box: the clink of stemware, the DJ’s bass thudding through the door seals, her son’s laugh somewhere in the middle of it, bright and easy. She looked back over her shoulder once, one guilty half-turn of her head, and through the glass door she caught the fiancée’s hand lifted in a toast, the new ring catching the pendant lights like a tiny surveillance camera. Abigail turned her face back to Jesse and rolled her hips against his cock instead of looking again. “Please,” she said.

“That’s not an answer.” His hand left her breast and fisted in her hair, tugging her head back until she had to look at him, at the flat black hunger sitting in his eyes. “You’re wet. I can smell it on you.” He tugged harder. “Say it.”

“I’m wet.” It came out cracked. “I’ve been wet since you took your jacket off. I need you to fuck me. Please. Fuck me.”

“Good girl.” The praise dropped over her like something warm poured slow, and it was the last soft thing he gave her. He came off the rail in one step, his fist still in her hair, swung her past his hip so that the steel was suddenly at her front instead of his back, and folded her over it so fast her breath left her before she hit it. The rail stood hip-high. The steel cap took her hipbones like a bite; the glass panel beneath it laid a sheet of cold against the fronts of her thighs. He found the tab of her zipper at the nape of her neck and ripped it down her spine, the dress sagging open off her shoulders, and then the hem went up in two rough handfuls, cold rooftop wind licking the backs of her thighs, and his fingers hooked the lace and tore it, the seam giving with a small ugly sound, the ruined scrap dragged down to hang off one knee. “Ass out.” His palm cracked across one cheek. “Arch. Let every window in this city see what a greedy woman you are under all that mother-of-the-groom polish.”

Her palms slapped down on the rail. She arched because her body knew the shape before her mind agreed to it, spine dipping, ass lifting, head up, the whole spread of her offered to a skyline that looked back with a hundred thousand lit windows like a jury that had already voted. Her breath went out into nothing, forty floors of black air in front of her face and nothing to catch it. The steel edge pressed a hot line into her hips. Behind her a second zipper rasped, unmistakable even over the wind, and then the fat blunt head of his cock was dragging through her slit, sliding up over her clit and back down, painting itself in her, and she heard herself whine out over the drop. He notched at her opening. He did not ease. He drove in one long ruthless stroke that opened her all the way down and her moan tore loose and went out over the city.

“Quiet.” His mouth was at her ear, his hips flush against her ass, his cock seated so deep her thighs shook. “You don’t get to be loud.” He drew back in a slow slide that let her feel every inch leaving. “You get to take it.” Back in, hard, the slap of it loud. “Wider.” Her feet scraped apart on the concrete. “Good.” Another long stroke, the drag of him inside her so complete her toes curled in her heels. “You’re soaking my cock. You feel that? Feel how easy you take me?” He pulled her hair. “Answer.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yes.”

Jesse looked down and let himself have the picture for one long second, because he had earned it. Her dress rucked at the small of her back, the zipper gaping open down her spine, the pale spread of her hips banded pink where the rail cut into them. The ruined lace swinging off her knee. The city thrown open beneath her like a circuit board, every light live, and this woman bent over the top of it with her cunt stretched white around the base of him and her wet running down the inside of one thigh in a bright line. She was tight the way a body was tight when it had not been used in a long time and had never once been used like this: gripping, fluttering, adjusting around him in small clenches she could not control. He set his thumb into the dimple above her ass, pressed hard, and felt the answer travel through her whole spine. Holding his own pace cost him. He could feel the heat gathering at the root of his cock, the pull of it, the animal simplicity of just taking her hard until he came. He shut it down. Slow. Deliberate. The whole point was that she would break first, and only when he said.

“Tighter,” he said, and she clenched around him so hard he had to breathe through his nose. “Again.” She did. “You hear that?” He stilled deep inside her, and in the quiet under the bass she heard it: the soft, steady tick of her own slick dripping off his balls onto the concrete between her feet. “That’s you. On the floor. Say thank you.”

“Thank you.” It shredded on the way out. The rail bit deeper as he pulled her back onto him by the hips. Her breasts had spilled free of the slackened neckline and swung with every thrust, bare to the wind coming up off the street, and each gust across her nipples went through her like a lit fuse.

Then the rhythm changed. The long strokes shortened into something brutal and fast, his hips hammering against her ass in short, deep snaps that never let him leave her more than an inch, and his hand came around the front of her thigh and found her clit, two fingers pressing tight circles into the swollen slick of it. The sound of them was filthy, wet flesh on wet flesh, the steel rail ticking faintly in its mounts. Abigail’s thighs began to shake in earnest, a fine tremor that climbed her body and shook her voice loose in soft, broken chirps she could not keep behind her teeth. It was building. It was right there, the whole pressure of it crowding up behind her clit, her cunt clamping down on him in a rhythm that had nothing to do with obedience.

He felt it and stopped. Just stopped, buried to the root, his fingers lifting off her clit and his palm flattening on her belly to hold her still. She sobbed out into the dark.

“No.” One word, dropped into her ear like a stone. “You come when I say.” He rocked once, deep, and she nearly screamed. “Not on this rail. Not with your ass in the air for the whole city.” A slow grind. “You come where I put you.”

He pulled out, and the emptiness was a physical insult, her cunt gaping and clenching on nothing, the sudden cold air on her slick opening enough to make her cry out. Wetness ran freely down both thighs now, warm then chilled, tracking into the backs of her knees. His hand closed on her upper arm and dragged her up off the rail, and her legs did not hold; he spun her by that arm as she went, turning her to face him so she fell toward his chest instead of the rail, and took her weight by the arm and the back of the neck and brought her down with him, the bare backs of her thighs hitting the concrete first, the shock of it cold and gritty and brutally real against skin that had been burning. Her shoulders went down next. Her hair fanned across the floor. She heard his knees hit the ground between her legs, felt his hands shove her thighs open wide enough to ache at the hips, and then the head of him was at her again, and she was so much wetter now that he slid in with a slick, sucking sound she would hear for the rest of her life, the stretch different at this angle, deeper, blunter, his weight following his cock down until his chest pinned hers to the floor and there was nowhere left in her body for him to go.

“Look at me.” His hand cupped her jaw and turned her face up out of the shadows. The light from the party fell through the glass door in a long gold bar across his shoulder, across the strip of her face; behind his head the skyline ran on like a screen nobody was watching. “Eyes on me. You don’t look at the door. You don’t look at the sky. You look at the man fucking you.” He began to grind, not thrusting now but rolling his hips in slow, crushing circles that dragged his pubic bone over her clit with every pass, and she felt her heels scrabble against the concrete for purchase. Her dress was a twisted rope at her waist. The torn lace had slid down to her ankle and hung there. His mouth came down on her throat, on the same stretch of salt she had tasted on him, and his teeth scraped.

The pressure came back fast, faster than before, her body already trained to the edge. She could feel it in her belly, in the way her cunt started that involuntary rhythmic pull around him. “Jesse,” she said, “Jesse, I’m—”

He stopped dead. His weight dropped fully onto her hips, pinning them flat to the floor so she could not buck, could not grind up into him even the half inch she needed, and she felt her cunt clench around his motionless cock over and over, uselessly, like a fist closing on water.

“Did I say?” The words were almost gentle. That was the worst part. “Did I fucking say?”

“No.” Tears spilled sideways out of her eyes and ran into her hair, hot tracks turning cold in the wind. “No, no, please—”

“Then hold it.” He waited until the spasms faded, until her thighs stopped jerking against his flanks, and only then did he move again, the grind resuming slow and total, his cock a heavy iron heat seated so deep inside her that every roll of his hips seemed to shove the breath up out of her lungs from below.

He brought her up again. He knew exactly how. He pushed up off her chest onto his knees, the cold air rushing in between their bodies where they had been sealed with sweat, and from there he had the angle and the room: the slow rolling pace, one hand flat on her sternum pressing her into the concrete, two fingers of the other set against the hood of her clit and working it in time with his hips. He felt the exact moment her body forgot itself, felt the flutter begin around him, and he pulled his hips back a half inch and locked them there, fingers lifting, palm still pinning her flat, and watched her face come apart.

“Please.” It was barely a word anymore. “Please, I can’t, I can’t, please, Jesse, I need—let me—please—”

“You can.” His voice went lower, flatter, a blade laid against her. “You will. You’re going to lie on this floor with your son’s whole party ten feet away and you are going to hold my cum inside you when I give it to you and you are not going to come until I decide you’ve earned it.” He rolled once, deep. Her whole body arched off the floor and he pushed her back down. “Say yes.”

“Yes.” Sobbing it. “Yes.”

He came down onto her again, chest to chest, all of his weight, and the grind came back, and this time he did not slow it. His hips worked in short, savage rolls that mashed her clit against him with every stroke, the concrete grinding into her shoulder blades, her nails digging red crescents into his back through his shirt. She could hear herself, high broken noises she had no control over, half smothered against the side of his neck. She could feel him swelling inside her, thicker, harder, the hot slide of him going frantic, and still he held the word back, held her right at the lip of it while the party’s bass thudded through the floor into her spine like a second, slower heartbeat.

Jesse felt his own end coming and made the decision the way he had made every other one tonight: clearly, on purpose, with a kind of icy pleasure in the choosing. He could have held her there another minute. He did not want to. He wanted to feel her break on his order. He dipped his head, set his lips against the wet whorl of her ear so that no one on this roof or in that room or in the whole lit sprawl below could have heard it, and whispered, slow and filthy and absolute, “Now. Come on my cock. Right now, Abigail. Give it to me.”

Her body obeyed before the whisper finished. Her back bowed clean off the concrete, her heels drumming a frantic beat against the small of his back and the flex of his ass, her cunt seizing around him in hard rhythmic pulls that milked him from root to tip. A rush of wet hit his pelvis and ran down between their bodies to pool cold under her ass. The cry that came out of her she buried in his shoulder, teeth in his shirt, and even muffled it was wrecked, a sound like something being ripped open. He kept fucking her through it, short, punishing strokes that dragged every spasm out to its limit, and when she was still coming he let go, snarling into her hair, driving in to the hilt and holding there while he pumped into her in thick, heavy pulses that she felt one by one, heat flooding the deepest part of her until there was no more room and it began to spill out around the base of him and run down the crease of her ass onto the floor.

They stayed like that, locked, twitching, his weight crushing her into the concrete and her thighs still clamped around his hips, both of them breathing like they had run up all forty floors. He did not put his forehead to hers. He kept his mouth at her ear and listened, past her ragged breathing, to the room behind the glass. The bass line was the same. The clink of glasses was the same. Nobody had come to the door. He catalogued it coldly: the woman under him with his cum running out of her, the groom’s mother, ten feet and a pane of glass from her own son, the silk twisted at her waist gone dark and heavy where it had wicked up the mess spreading beneath her, a slick shine on the concrete under her bare ass, her mascara tracked to her temples, his shirt wet through with her sweat and his. He had taken something he would not be able to give back. The thought moved through him without a single ounce of regret attached to it.

Abigail lay under him and felt everything at once. The concrete grit in her shoulder blades. The dress a sodden knot under the small of her back, and the slow, cooling seep of him leaking out of her with every small shift, sliding down the creases of her groin and spreading into the puddle already chilling against the backs of her thighs, going tacky in the wind. His cock softening inside her but not gone, still lodged in the swollen, stretched ruin he had made of her. Then, through the glass, a voice, clear and easy over the music, coming closer: “Mom? Has anyone seen my mom?”

The door handle rattled.

Every muscle she owned went rigid. Her son’s laugh followed, aimed at someone else, warm and oblivious, and the handle rattled again, someone leaning on it, someone about to look out. She turned her head on the concrete and could see, from the floor, the bar of gold light through the glass door widen by an inch. She could see, past it, the fiancée’s ring flash once as her hand moved.

Jesse’s hand closed over her mouth. His hips pressed down, pinning her flat into the shadow along the base of the rail where the light did not reach, his cock shifting inside her, a fresh trickle of his cum sliding out to join the cold pool beneath her. His breath was hot and even against her ear.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Not until I say.”

Abigail did not move. She did not breathe. The handle turned.