Waiting Until the Kids Are Asleep

“I get so wet for you I have to change my underwear twice before the kids even go down,” she gasped against my throat. “Every night. Thinking about this. About you bending me over and just—using me.”

My hands were on her before the last word finished landing. No decision in it, nothing that ran through my head first—just fists in the back of her tank top, hauling her the final inch into me on the gallery landing until her hips knocked mine and the sound she made went straight into the skin under my jaw.

I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. What came out of me was low and unshaped, more chest than voice, and I felt the jolt of it go through her from teeth to tailbone. Three doors down the landing both bedrooms had finally gone quiet, and every part of me that had spent the evening listening for a cough, a cry, a small voice asking for water, simply switched off. Whatever governor had been holding my speed down all these months had been running on a stripped bolt for a long time. It sheared now. Clean.

She was burning through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts, pressed up against my thigh, and I could feel exactly what she’d just confessed—the heat of her soaked straight through and damp against my jeans where she was riding the muscle. I dragged her harder onto it and her breath broke against my throat in a wet little hitch.

“Fuck,” I said into her hair. “Fuck, you’re perfect. That’s it. Ride it.”

My palm went up under the tank and found her breast, heavy and hot, the nipple already drawn so tight it caught on the pad of my thumb. She arched into my hand and whined, high and helpless, and I rolled the peak between finger and thumb until her hips stuttered against the hard line of my cock through the denim. She was rubbing herself on me without any idea she was doing it, wet cotton dragging over rough seam, and I put my mouth to the side of her neck and let the words come out the way they wanted to.

“Good girl. That’s it. Look how bad you want it.”

She made a noise into my collar that wasn’t language. I shoved my hand down the front of her shorts. There was no resistance, no hesitation, just heat and slip, two fingers sliding into her so easily that my knuckles were wet before I’d even curled them. She was slick the way a brand-new phone screen is slick, that glassy, frictionless gloss that makes your thumb skid, and when I dragged my fingers back out they came away shining in the little bit of lamplight climbing the stairs from below.

“Christ, Hanna. Soaked. Fucking soaked for me.”

“Rex—”

I pushed back in and she clenched down around my fingers, greedy and tight, her whole body going up onto her toes. I worked her slow at first, deep, the pads of my fingers finding the swollen ridge behind her pubic bone and pressing there until her breath went shallow and fast against my collarbone. The sound she made in the silent house was obscene—a soft, wet click every time my fingers moved—and I wanted more of it. Faster. My thumb found her clit, stiff and slippery, and I dragged her own wetness over it in tight, relentless circles while she shook and gripped my shirt and tried to climb me.

“That’s my girl. Take it. Give it to me.”

Her forehead dropped to my shoulder. Her thighs closed around my wrist and opened again like she couldn’t decide whether to hold me in or let me have all of her. I could feel her getting closer, the flutter starting deep, her hips grinding down onto my hand in short, desperate jerks, and I kept my mouth on her neck the whole time, tasting salt, feeling her pulse hammer against my lips.

“Please—”

I didn’t let her finish.

I spun her. Bent her over the gallery railing so hard the whole run of it groaned in its brackets—the same railing I’d tightened myself last spring, every anchor screw, because my daughter liked to hang off it. It held. Barely. Her hands slapped down on the top rail. Her spine curved. Below us the living room sat in the yellow spill of the lamp we’d left on, and it threw light up through the balusters and across her, across the shape of her ass shoved back against my fly.

I yanked her shorts down. Not off. Down, to the middle of her thighs, trapped there. Something small and hard hit the hardwood and skittered—the monitor receiver she clipped to her waistband every night, its green light blinking up at us from the boards beside her foot. Neither of us looked at it.

She was bare. Swollen. Shining. Her cunt was flushed dark and wet to the inner thigh, that same high-gloss sheen, and a thick line of it was already sliding down to soak into the bunched cotton strangling her legs. I palmed her ass and spread her open with both thumbs and watched the cotton go dark with it.

“Look at that,” I rasped. “Running down your legs. All of that for me.”

I got my fly open with one hand. My cock came out hard and heavy and already wet at the head, and I fisted it, dragged it through her folds once, twice, coating myself in her until I was as glossy as she was. She pushed back. Impatient. Trying to catch me on the next pass. I notched at her entrance and drove in.

One thrust. To the hilt.

She cried out. I snarled into the back of her neck. Buried.

The heat of her was total, a tight, clutching grip from root to head, and she was so wet the slide made a sound. My hips hit her ass flush, denim against skin. The railing shuddered under both of us.

I didn’t wait. I started fucking her.

Hard. Deep. Every drive shoved her forward against the rail and I hauled her back by the hipbones to meet the next one. The wood bit into the front of her thighs. Her knuckles went white on the top rail. The anchors ticked in the plaster with every impact, a small structural complaint, the whole gallery run flexing a quarter inch and coming back, flexing and coming back.

“Take it. Take it. Fuck—”

Grunts. Panting. The wet slap of my cock driving into her over and over, echoing down into the lit room below. I leaned over her back, one hand fisting in her hair, the other wrapping around the rail beside hers—the hand with the ring still on it, white gold against the oak—and I rutted into her with no rhythm but need.

“Months,” I growled into her nape. “Fucking months.”

She whined. Clenched. My name came out of her chopped in half.

She was so tight every drag out made her flutter around me, and every slam back in knocked a broken sound out of her that she tried and failed to swallow. I felt her gush. Felt it run hot over my balls and soak straight into the denim at the tops of my thighs, the jeans going heavy and dark where they were jammed up against the backs of her legs. I took my hand off the rail and put it around the front of her throat instead, not squeezing, just holding her in place while I fucked her, the ring warm against the pulse hammering under her jaw.

“Good. So good. Squeeze me. Fuck—like that—again—”

She came on the railing. Sudden and violent, her whole body locking, her cunt seizing down on my cock in hard, milking pulses that dragged me right to the edge and held me there with my teeth clenched. I bit her shoulder to keep from roaring loud enough to carry down the landing. Kept driving through it. Used it. Chased the way she got wetter, louder, a string of gasps and my name and nothing else, until her legs went to rubber and only the rail and my hand on her throat were holding her up.

Not enough.

Not even close.

I pulled out of her slow, and the drag of it made her sob. My cock came free glossed and heavy, and what followed it was a thick, glassy run of her that slid down the inside of both thighs and vanished into the twisted cotton bunched there, the shorts wrecked, sodden, useless. Her knees buckled off the rail the second I wasn’t inside her. I caught her. One arm hooked under hers, the other hand still on her throat, and I turned her and took her down.

No grace to it. Her back hit the boards with a flat thud, the sweat-soaked cotton of her tank slapping damp against cold wood, and the breath went out of her in a single punched sound. The floor was cold. She was burning through the thin fabric anyway. I saw her spine try to arch off it and fail. I got a fist in the waistband of the shorts still bunched around her thighs and hauled, and the seam gave with a small tearing sound as I dragged them down over her knees, her calves, her feet, and threw them somewhere behind me into the dark end of the landing.

Then I was tearing at myself. Shirt up and over my head and gone. Jeans shoved down off my hips in one furious drag until they were rucked hard around my thighs and my knees hit bare wood. I got both hands in the hem of her tank and shoved it up, up, over her breasts until it was a twisted rope of cotton jammed under her arms, her bare back finally meeting the boards, and everything below it was mine to look at.

For one second I was above her on my knees, breathing like I’d taken the stairs at a run, looking down at her spread bare on the floor of my gallery with her cunt open and wet and the lamplight from below catching in it, her tits heaving above the ruined tank, her stomach shining. Then I was on her.

My cock slid through her folds, slapped wet against her clit, and I notched and pushed home in one long slide that took me deeper than the rail had allowed. She locked her legs around my hips and I pressed all the way in until there was nothing left to give, until my pelvis was flush to hers and my pubic bone was grinding down onto her clit with my full weight behind it.

And then I didn’t pull out. I ground.

There’s a difference between fucking and this. This was pressure, deep and rolling, my hips working in slow, heavy circles with my cock seated as far inside her as it would go, the head pressed up against the end of her and staying there. Every roll dragged my pubic bone across her clit. Every roll made her cunt clench around me in a full-length squeeze I felt from base to tip. Her legs came off my hips and her heels found the hardwood behind me, and she used it—planted, lifting her hips into the grind, taking the pressure and pushing back into it until I could feel her swollen and pulsing against the root of me.

Sweat ran off me and pooled in the hollow of her stomach, between our bodies, and every time I rolled my hips it smeared hot between her belly and mine. Her nails scored down my bare back. Her mouth was open against my jaw, breath coming in ragged pants that matched mine breath for breath until I couldn’t tell which of us was making which sound. I was so deep the slightest withdrawal felt like too much, so I barely did—a half inch out, a hard press back in, and then the grind again, the slow crushing circle that made her whole body shake under me.

“Rex—Rex—fuck—”

“I know. I know. Feel that. Feel me.”

Her cunt was hot and swollen around me, every fold of her stretched tight on my shaft, and I could feel my own pulse in my cock beating against the walls of her, could feel hers beating back. The hardwood creaked under her shoulder blades. My knees were going raw on the boards and I didn’t care. The house was dead silent except for us—wet skin, harsh breath, the low grunt I couldn’t stop making every time I drove my weight down into her and held it there.

She started to tighten again. I felt it before she did, the deep flutter starting low and climbing, and I bore down harder, rolled slower, gave her clit nothing but constant crushing pressure until her heels slipped on the wood and her thighs came up and clamped around my ribs and she was making a sound in her throat like something being pulled apart very carefully.

I dropped my forehead to hers for one breath. Then I pulled back. I needed to see it.

I got a hand on her jaw. Turned her face up to mine. Held it there.

Her eyes were wide and glassy in the light coming up through the balusters, pupils gone huge and dark, and the second mine locked on them she flinched. Tried to turn her head. Tried to let her lids drop. I tightened my grip on her jaw and ground down harder and her eyes snapped back open and onto mine.

“No,” I growled. “Look at me.”

She looked.

Unblinking. Neither of us. My hips rolling deep and slow and merciless, her clit crushed under my pubic bone, and her staring up at me like I’d insulted her. There was fury in it. Defiance. Her lids fluttered again, involuntary, the pleasure trying to shut her down, and she fought it and held my gaze and then, somehow, stared back harder. Her chin lifted in my hand. Her nails dug into my bare shoulders until they broke skin. She was daring me now. Daring me to be the one who looked away.

The ache came up through me from the root, heavy, gathering. My balls drew up tight against her. My hips jolted once without my permission, a hard involuntary stutter that knocked a grunt out of both of us. My eyes wanted to roll back. I refused. I stared into her and kept staring and felt her cunt begin to seize around me in the first hard pulse of her second orgasm, her face twisting like it hurt, eyes wide and wet and furious with it, and still—still—she didn’t blink.

Neither did I.

I came like that. Staring her down while she stared me down, my cock swelling and kicking and pumping into her in thick, hot pulses while her cunt clamped and milked and dragged every one of them out of me. Sweat ran off my jaw and dripped onto her bare chest. A raw, broken growl tore out of my throat, low, nothing in it but sound. My hips jerked. Jerked again. Neither of us looked away. It felt like losing. It felt like winning. It felt like both of us going over the same edge with our teeth bared at each other and nobody willing to be the first to fall.

We stayed like that. Locked. Trembling. My cock still twitching inside her, her thighs shaking around my ribs, the hardwood cold and hard under her spine and the sweat cooling on my back. Breath sawed in and out of both of us. Her eyes were still on mine. Mine were still on hers. Neither of us gave an inch even as the aftershocks rolled through her and I felt each one squeeze another weak pulse out of me.

I came down onto my elbows, still inside her, still staring. Her hand was fisted in the hair at the back of my head and it didn’t loosen. When I finally shifted my hips a fraction I felt it—the slow, thick slide of what I’d put in her working its way out around my cock, running down between her ass and the boards, spreading warm across the hardwood floor I paid her to keep clean.

A few feet away, at the base of the railing where it had landed, the monitor receiver crackled. A rustle. A small sigh from three doors down. Then the green light steadied and the static went quiet again.

Neither of us moved to pick it up. Neither of us moved to fix anything. She was still looking at me, and I was still looking at her, and the mess of us was still spreading under her on the floor.