Granny to the House, Fierce with Him
Her mouth was already open under mine when Errol’s voice scraped the other side of the pantry door, close enough that the wood shivered against the back of Lola’s head. I had two fingers buried in her, slick to the knuckle—nothing under that dress but her, she’d come to dinner bare and let me find that out with my hand—and the wet sound of it was obscene in the dark, a soft schlick, schlick every time I curled them. She bit my lip to kill the noise. Hot. Sharp. Granny to the whole damn house, no blood of mine, and right now she was dripping down my wrist.
“—tell James the good whiskey’s in the sideboard,” Errol said, lazy, right there. A floorboard creaked. I froze with my fingers spread inside her, feeling her clutch, pulse, try not to moan. Her breath hit my tongue in short, filthy little bursts, air catching in her throat and leaking out through her teeth in a hiss she couldn’t quite swallow. The heel of my hand ground her clit and she jerked, thigh jumping against my hip, the shelves at my back ticking as my shoulder knocked them.
I kissed her harder so she couldn’t make a sound. Tongue, teeth, the taste of her lipstick gone messy. She kissed back like she was furious about it—sharp-tongued even with her mouth full of me—and her hand found my cock through my trousers and squeezed until my jaw locked. Zipper down. Hot skin. I was already hard enough to ache, the head smearing wet against her wrist when she freed me. Outside, Errol laughed at something. Inside, there was only breath and slick and the tiny, helpless hitch in her throat every time my fingers fucked up into her.
Then she set a rhythm, and it was a mean one. Her grip was dry for exactly one stroke before she dragged her thumb over the head, gathered what was leaking out of me, and used it. The slide went wet and loud—a soft, sticky drag of palm on skin that sounded, in that cupboard, like a confession. Down to the root. Twist on the way up. Her knuckles brushed my stomach on each pull and her wrist didn’t shake once. She was working me the way she talked at dinner: precise, unhurried, aimed at the exact spot that would make a man forget himself. I had to put my teeth in her shoulder. Bit down through the thin strap of her dress and held on while she stroked me, because the sound trying to climb out of my chest would have gone straight through the door and into Errol’s ear. She felt me bite and her hand sped up, the wet slap-slap of her palm meeting the base of me, and I answered with my fingers, deeper, faster, until the two sounds braided together—her cunt sucking at my knuckles, her fist sliding on my cock—and neither of us could tell whose noise was louder.
She was soaked. Not polite-wet. Filthy. I could hear it, that soft greedy noise her cunt made around my knuckles, and it went straight to my balls. I mouthed her ear, not quite words, just heat, and she shook her head—don’t you dare talk—while her hips rolled down onto my hand like she hated me for making her do it quiet. Hair stuck to her cheek, pale against the flush. I licked the sweat there. She tasted like salt and the wine she’d been needling everyone with at dinner, and under that, just her. Older. Certain. So fucking wet I had to swallow a groan into her neck.
Her hand tightened. She was close to making me finish like that, standing, my back to a shelf of tinned peaches and her back to the door, and she knew it. I could feel the smug little twist of her mouth under mine. I pushed a third finger in, stretched her, felt the slick give and the clamp that followed, and her fist stuttered on me for the first time. Her forehead dropped to my collarbone. Her breath went ragged, hot, pouring into the open neck of my shirt. We stood there like that, each of us one stroke from ruining the other, Errol’s shadow blotting the light under the door.
Errol shifted his weight. The door handle twitched. Didn’t turn. My pulse slammed. I pulled my fingers out slow so the sound wouldn’t slap, and the loss of it made her bare her teeth against my jaw, a silent snarl, cunt clenching on nothing. Her hand slid off my cock. I got my hands under her thighs and lifted. She was lighter than her mouth, heavier than her pride. Her back hit the pantry door with a dull, careful thud I felt in my teeth, her dress riding up to her hips in the drag. One of her shoes slipped and dangled from her toes. Her hand went back down between us, found me, lined me up with one impatient tug—then she locked her ankles behind me and dragged me in, and the head of my cock caught on her, slid through all that slick, and sank.
Christ. Hot. Tight. She took me in one long, shaking push, and the wet give of her around me was so loud in my head I almost missed Errol on the other side.
“—no, Louis is bringing the car round, he won’t need—” A pause. Footsteps stopping dead. I held still, buried, her breath breaking against my mouth in tiny choked pants—hah, hah, hah—while her cunt fluttered like it was trying to milk me without moving. Sweat darkened the bodice of her dress between her breasts, the fabric clinging where she heaved against me. I could feel her heartbeat in the grip of her.
Then the footsteps moved off, not far, just toward the kitchen, and I fucked her.
Short strokes at first, because the door had to stay quiet, because if it knocked the frame Errol would open it and see bare thigh and me up to the root in her. An inch out, an inch in, barely more than a grind. The door gave against her spine with every one of them—a soft, creaking flex of old wood I had to time between Errol’s sentences. The friction was filthy anyway. Every thrust a wet, muffled slap of skin I tried to eat with my mouth on hers. She clawed my shoulder. Her thighs clamped around my waist and then slipped, sweat-slick, so she had to grip again, higher, the loose shoe swinging from one foot while the hard shod heel of the other dug into the small of my back. I felt the weight of her in my forearms, in the burn across my shoulders, and I didn’t care if they tore.
I found the cadence and kept it: three short, shallow strokes, then one long drive. Short, short, short—deep. The short ones made her hiss through her teeth. The deep one made her whole body jolt up the door and her mouth fall open on nothing. Every time I pulled back for the long one, her cunt dragged at me, a wet suction I could hear—a soft, obscene pop of pressure—before I shoved home again and the door took the thud. My thighs started to shake. Not from her weight. From holding back the rhythm I actually wanted, the one that would have rattled the hinges off.
Her head rolled on the wood. Her hands slid in the sweat on my neck. I lifted her higher, angled her hips with my hands spread under her ass, and the next drive hit deep enough that her head tipped back against the door and a sound almost escaped—half gasp, half plea—before she bit her own wrist. I watched her do it. Teeth in her own skin to keep me a secret. I felt the tremor start in her stomach, the way she bore down, the way her breath went ragged and mean against the hand she was chewing. She was close. The door was loud. My legs were going.
Not enough room. Not enough silence. I turned with her still on me, two steps, her weight lurching in my arms, my cock dragging almost all the way out of her—she hissed at the loss, nails in my neck—and the whole way across that tiny room Errol was two walls away opening a drawer. One wrong stumble into a shelf and the tins would have gone down like an alarm. I didn’t stumble. I walked straight into the counter and brought her down onto it, her ass hitting the edge, my hips driving her lower back flat against the wood.
The impact knocked a soft grunt out of both of us. The edge bit into the backs of her thighs. Her ankles came apart behind me as she scrabbled for purchase, feet finding the lip of the counter on either side of my thighs, the dangling shoe clapping back onto her heel loud enough that we both quit breathing for a second. I didn’t care. I braced her there, one hand over her mouth, the other arm hooked under her ass to haul her hips to the very edge, and I drove in harder because the counter took the noise better than the door. Slap. Wet slap. The raw, rhythmic crack of my hips against the soft inside of her thighs, muffled by her dress bunched at her waist and by how hard I was trying not to lose it. The counter was the right height. It let me stand square and put my full weight behind every stroke, and every stroke came back to me in sound: the clap of skin, the wet squelch of her around me, the creak of the old wood under her spine.
She was panting through my fingers now, hot little bursts, pupils blown wide in the dark, that mouth trapped behind my palm. Her breath condensed on my skin. I could hear how wet she was every time I pulled back—that obscene, sucking sound—and when I slammed in again her whole body jumped and locked. Sweat ran into my eyes. My balls drew tight. She shook, thighs trembling open on either side of me, heels grinding on the counter’s lip, cunt gripping in hard, greedy pulses that made my rhythm stutter and catch. I shoved her knee wider with the elbow of the arm under her ass and went deeper, and her heel skidded and knocked a jar on the counter. We both froze on it. It rocked. Didn’t fall. I fucked her again before it had stopped moving.
She broke like that. Silent, vicious. Back arched off the counter, silver hair stuck to her throat, a broken whine dying against my hand while she came all over me, slick flooding, muscles locking so tight my knees nearly went out from under me. I kept fucking her through it, shorter, meaner, skin smacking skin, the counter creaking once under us. My own breath was a wreck. Panting. Teeth bared. Right on the edge and furious with how good she looked—flushed, ruined, mouth open under my fingers, nobody’s sweet old anything.
I dragged my hand off her mouth and put my lips to her ear, voice nothing but heat and teeth.
“Nobody else touches you,” I whispered, fierce, still buried, still moving. “Nobody else gets to make you look like this.”
She clenched at the words and I was gone—hips jerking, cock pulsing, coming deep in hot, thick spills I couldn’t have stopped if Errol had walked in. A raw sound tore out of me and died against her neck. Tremor. Sweat. The slap of skin collapsing into smaller, helpless grinds while I emptied into her and she held on, panting, shaking, nails in my back like she meant to keep every drop.
Outside, a cabinet clicked. Errol’s voice drifted, farther now, asking someone to grab the glasses. We stayed locked a second longer, my forehead against her silver hair, her cunt still fluttering around me in aftershocks. I eased out slow. The wet sound of it was filthy and quiet. She slid off the counter onto both heels, tugged her dress down over her bare hips with hands that weren’t quite steady, looked at me like she was deciding whether to forgive me, and mouthed—later. I zipped up. She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, chin high, Granny again for the house. I could still feel her on me. I opened the pantry door like I’d only been hunting whiskey, and neither of us looked back at the counter.
