She finds him in the kitchen, not on purpose, he’s just there when she comes down the hall at 3.14 am for a drink of water. The last of the party’s stragglers are still out in the back, smoking, maybe, laughter muted through the walls. She stands in the kitchen doorway and the furnace kicks in and it’s snowing outside, slow flakes drifting past the kitchen window. He’s standing in front of the sink, hands on the edge of the counter, leaning into his arms a little, looking out at the front yard and the snow. His hair is mussed, bedhead-fuzzy, and he’s only wearing his briefs.
She’s wearing a pair of ugly old panties that say ‘hot bananas!!’ on them and a tank top that got shuffled to pajama duty when she spilled wine on it last summer. She stands in the doorway and looks at him, tall and almost naked and broader than he’s been since she’s known him, and her toes curl against the cold linoleum.
She must have made a noise, because he turns his head and sees her.
‘Hey,’ he says, and does that thing where he almost smiles, a twitch at one corner of his mouth.
‘I’m just,’ she says, walking across the floor, glad of the darkness, ‘water, I’m just, I’m. Thirsty.’
He moves away from the sink a little, just a little, still close enough that her shoulder brushes against his arm. She picks up a glass and doesn’t move and her eyes track over the rim of the sink, up his forearm, his waistband, the heavy jerk of his dick under his briefs. There’s a line of dark fuzz just at the top of his thighs. Unshaven, then, and for no explicable reason her nipples harden. She puts the mug down, feels a little like she’s floating.
‘Hey,’ he says, and she looks up and then, so quick she hardly knows it, his mouth is on her and her ass is up on the counter and her legs are wrapped around his waist. It’s like, she’s had, it’s like a dream, she’s had this dream before, but this time his fingers in her panties are solid and warm and his breath is a little sleep-funky and he’s real, real scruff against her lips and his cock pressed up hard between them. She lets a hand drag down his chest and feels the tip of him, wet and slippery, leaking over the elastic of his shorts.
‘Quick,’ she says, before it’s over, before the smokers stumble in, before some ghost of the past, her past, his, comes between them, ’yes,’ and his tongue does something wet and vital in her mouth.
He lifts her, hesitates, moves towards the table, and she takes one second, two, to look at his face, the thirsty curves of the way his mouth hangs a little open, the judder on the underside of his jaw when he takes a breath, the way one eye crinkles a little, almost a wink. She twists in his arms, gets the ball of one foot on the chair and a knee on the table, grips its edge with both hands. He’s as hungry as she is, is palming his cock up between her thighs almost before her knees are planted. She feels his knuckles twisting, two fingers inside her, three, maybe, and then the full-length shudder of his body against the backs of her thighs. Then he’s pushing inside her and she makes a noise, guttural-sharp, and his hand clamps over her mouth, hard.
‘No,’ he says, soft, and keeps his hand there as he grinds a little into her, settles himself, and pulls out agonisingly slow. His other hand finds her waist, strokes down over one hip. He puts one foot up onto the seat of the chair and starts to fuck into her – easy, rocking thrusts that leave her trembling, trying to get her breath. She puts her head down and his hand pulls against her lips and he slips two fingers inside her mouth, lets them flutter against her tongue. She can taste herself on his fingertips.
‘Touch yourself,’ he says, still soft, more pleading than command, and she takes a deep shuddery breath and puts a hand between her legs, lets two fingers play in little circles around her clit. His breath is getting threadier, harsher, and his thrusts a little uneven. He leans down over her back and lets his mouth graze warm over her spine, and that does it – she spasms around him, knees shaking, moaning against his palm, and he makes a noise she thinks about for a long time after and stutters against her, seizes, locks his knees as he comes inside her.
She cleans up with a paper towel and then sits for a minute on his lap, his arms wrapped around her and his head bowed into the back of her neck. Outside it’s stopped snowing. She has a drink of water, still trembling, and then there’s the stirring of someone at the other end of the house. A door creaks. One long look between them and then she’s back down the hall, in her room, paper towel still balled in one fist.
She stands there in the dark for a long, long time.