They use our marital bedroom

She stood up off the sofa in one movement, no hands, no wobble. She turned to Mike, held hers out to him — palm up, fingers loose, the way you'd ask for a dance.

"Come on," she said. "Upstairs."

He looked at her hand, then past her at me.

"Go on," I said.

She didn't wait to hear it twice. She took Mike's wrist when he stood, took it in her fist like a woman leading a horse, walked him past me toward the hall, her bare feet slapping the floorboards, her hips going, the towel left behind on the sofa, damp, balled.

At the foot of the stairs she stopped, half-turned. Her bob swung. The hall light caught the line of her jaw, the small pale shelf of her collarbone, one bare shoulder.

"You can sleep on the couch," she said.

Behind her Mike grinned. He grinned wide, slow, entirely at me. She must have felt it through his wrist, because she pulled him on up the stairs.

The door at the top closed. Not all the way. Not quite.

...

I gave it three minutes. Long enough that they'd have their backs turned, long enough that it wouldn't be obvious. Then I went up after them with my shoes in my hand like a teenager, stepped over the third stair from the top because it always creaks.

The landing was dark. The bedroom door stood ajar, a hand's width. The warm yellow of the bedside lamp poured out through the gap, laid a long thin blade of light across the carpet at my feet.

I put my eye to the gap.

Anna was climbing onto him.

She had one knee on the mattress either side of his hips, walking herself up him on her hands. The whole of her was lit warm, low, from the side. She was beautiful in a way that made my chest hurt. Pale skin gone gold in the lamplight. The shaved nape of her neck. The dip of her spine running down into the round of her ass, still faintly pink from the sofa, still marked with my best friend's fingertips. Her bob was a mess, stuck up at the back. She hadn't fixed it. It suited her better that way. Her tits hung low, heavy, swung with every movement of her hands, the nipples dark, dragging. The little mole sat high on her chest just below the hollow of her throat, the one I have kissed a thousand times without ever once looking at it properly.

Mike lay back on our pillows, his hands loose at his sides. He was hard again already, standing up off his belly, thick, flushed, slick at the head. She got her knees settled either side of it, sat back on her heels, reached behind her, took him in her fist.

She had to work to get her fingers round it. I watched her do it, watched her thumb find the head, drag it forward. Then she lifted up on her knees, set it against herself, let her weight begin to go down.

Her mouth opened before he was even in.

The head of him pushed at her. She bore down on it. For a moment nothing gave. Her brows drew together, her chin came up, she made a low straining sound in the back of her throat. Then the ring of her gave, the head of him sank, her mouth came wide, the sound turned into something else.

"Ahh — oh — oh my God —"

She went down an inch, stopped. Held. Her thighs were shaking already. Her hands came off her own body, slapped flat onto Mike's chest. She braced there with her arms locked, her head hanging, her bob falling forward, panted at the sheets between them.

"Anna," Mike said. "Easy."

"Don't tell me easy." She lifted her head. Her eyes were bright, wild, her jaw set. "Don't you dare tell me easy."

She went down another inch, groaned — a long, open, guttural groan that came up out of her belly — her nails dug into his chest, left white dents.

"God, you're thick," she said. "You're so fucking thick. It's like — it's like being split."

"Take your time."

"I don't want my time. I want all of it."

She took it. Two more inches, three, each one wrenching a hard grunt out of her, arching her back further, clamping her thighs wider around him. Her cunt fought, gripped, let go, fought again. She was shining with sweat along her collarbones, under her tits, at her temples.

Then the last of it. She set her teeth, shoved herself down the final inch, landed flush, his whole length buried in her, her ass on his thighs, his balls tucked up under her.

She cried out. It was almost a sob.

"Oh — oh, oh —"

She sat there impaled, shaking, hands on his chest, head thrown back, throat stretched long, pale. The lamp lit the underside of her jaw. She did not move for a good ten seconds. Just breathed. Just felt it.

"There," she said at last, thick, unsteady. "There. God. God."

...

She started to move.

Slow rocking first, grinding her hips forward, back, with him all the way inside her. The friction dragged a sound out of her on every pass, a soft punched-out uh, uh, uh. Her tits swayed. Her head rolled.

"Feel that," she said, to him, to the ceiling, to no one. "Feel how deep you are. You're right up against it. You're right up against the top of me."

Mike grunted. His hands came up to her hips.

"Don't hold me," she said. "Not yet. Let me do it."

He let go. His hands went back to the sheets, twisted in them.

She lifted. Came up off him until only the head of him was still in her, her cunt clinging, dragging, stretching. Then she dropped back down onto him hard. The slap of their bodies was flat, loud in the small room.

"Ah!" Her eyes flew open. "Yes. Yes, that. Do you hear that? Do you hear how wet I am? That's you. That's what you did to me."

Up, down. She found a rhythm, not a gentle one. She rode him with her hands braced on his chest, hips snapping. Every drop landed with that same wet slap, punched a moan out of her. She wasn't quiet about it. Anna has never been quiet. She talks through it, moans through it, sometimes laughs.

"God, look at you," she said. "Look at you lying there letting me. Look at your face. You love it. You love watching me take it."

"I love it," Mike said.

"Say it again."

"I love watching you take it."

"Good." She dropped harder. "Good boy."

She leaned forward then, hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, put her mouth by his ear, kept riding, started telling him.

"Harder," she said. "When I come down you push up. Meet me. Come on — meet me, Mike — that's it — oh, that's it, that's — oh —"

He got it. He timed it, drove up into her as she came down. The slaps got louder. The bedframe started to knock the wall, soft, rhythmic. Anna's instructions fell apart into moans, the moans got higher, thinner, her forehead came down against his shoulder, her eyes screwed shut.

"Right there," she said, muffled. "Right there, don't you dare move it, right there — oh God, oh God, I'm going to — I'm — Mike —"

She came.

She sat bolt upright on him, whole body convulsing, back arching so far it bowed. She shouted — one long broken shout, chin up, hands flung out, fingers spread — her cunt clamped down on him in hard visible waves, milking, squeezing. She shook all over like something being rung.

"That's it," Mike said. "That's it, Anna. Give it up."

"Coming," she gasped. "Oh — oh, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm —"

The shout fell apart into a series of small helpless cries that got weaker, weaker. Then she slumped forward onto his chest, lay there heaving, her hips twitching through the last of it.

...

She did not stop. That was the thing about her that night. She lay on him a moment, cheek on his chest, breath sawing. Then she pushed herself back up. Her arms were trembling. She rode him again.

"Again," she said.

"Anna —"

"Again."

She took him with a determination that was almost angry. Her rhythm was ragged now; she didn't care. She went up, down on him, the sweat ran down between her tits, dripped onto his stomach, her bob came unstuck, swung, stuck to her cheek. She talked the whole way through it.

"Harder. Push. Push, Mike. Push."

He pushed. She grunted with every one.

"God, you're not even tired, are you? You're not even — ah — you're just lying there. You could do this all night. You could, couldn't you. You could do this all night."

"I could do this all night."

"Then do it. Oh — oh — right there, right there, right there —"

I watched from the doorway, my eye at the gap, my palm flat on the cool wall. What I felt more than anything was admiration. Not envy, not quite. Admiration. He had come in her twice already, was still hard, still steady, still going. She was pouring herself out on top of him. He was taking it, giving it back, not flagging. I stood there in the dark on my own landing, thought, God, look at him.

Anna's second one came up out of nowhere, took her by surprise.

She was mid-word, mid-sentence, telling him something. Her voice simply cut out. Her eyes went wide. She stopped riding, ground down hard, stiffened, then folded forward over him with a wail, came again. Both hands in the sheets either side of his head. Her forehead on his collarbone. Her hips juddering in little tight circles against his.

"Ohhh — oh, oh, oh —"

Mike got his arms round her, held her through it while she shook.

When she lifted her head her eyes were wet. There was a red print on her forehead from his collarbone. She looked down at him, breathed out shakily, said, "Two. That's two up here."

"I counted."

"Don't count." She kissed him — properly, open-mouthed, wet, both hands on his jaw. When she pulled back she was almost laughing. "One more. Give me one more and then fill me up again. I want it again, Mike. I want it in me again."

...

She got her knees back under her, started riding in earnest, set the pace fast from the beginning.

The bed knocked the wall in a steady rhythm. The headboard banged. Her tits bounced hard. She leaned back with her hands behind her on his thighs, gave him the whole front of her, fucked herself on him without any care at all for how she looked.

"That's it," she said. "That's it, that's it, that's it — God, your cock, Mike, your cock — I can feel it in my throat —"

His hands came up, found her tits, held them. She groaned, pushed them into his palms.

"Yes. Yes, squeeze them. Harder. Harder — oh, God, yes —"

He was starting to break now. I could see it even from the doorway: the tendons in his neck, the flush climbing his chest, his hips coming up off the mattress to meet her without his meaning to.

"Anna," he said. "Anna, I'm close."

"Don't you stop. Don't you dare stop." She was riding faster, wilder, her rhythm going to pieces, her voice climbing. "Come in me. Come in me, Mike, all of it, right up in me — right up in me —"

He planted his feet in the sheets, drove up into her. She screamed.

"Mike!"

She came on the third push. She came with his name still in her mouth, her whole body locked rigid, her head thrown back, her fingers clawed into his forearms. Then her eyes flew open. She looked straight down at him, cried, "Now — now, now, now —"

And he came.

I heard it. That long tearing groan out of him, the rhythm of his hips going short, brutal, then stopping dead, buried, the sound of his whole body tensing — Anna went on crying his name through it, "Mike, Mike, Mike," her voice wrecked, breaking, full of it.

She came with him. The whole way. Right down to the end, riding the last of it out on him, hips twitching, gasping, her forehead dropping to his chest, both of them shaking, his arms coming round her back, crushing her down, his heels sliding in the sheets.

Then nothing. Just the two of them breathing, loud, ragged, the lamp buzzing, the faint tick of the bedframe settling.

...

She stayed on him a long time. Long enough that his cock softened inside her; she made a small unhappy sound when she finally lifted off, when it slid out.

Then she rolled off onto the mattress beside him, on my side, lay flat on her back, arm over her eyes, chest heaving, one knee up.

"God," she said, to the ceiling.

Mike laughed. It was a tired laugh, dry. He wiped his face with the heel of his hand.

"You're going to have to go home at some point," Anna said. "You know that."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." She dropped her arm, turned her head, looked at him. The sweat was drying on her in the lamplight, her bob flat, her face flushed all the way to her ears. "The spare room's a mess. You'll have to sleep in here."

"Where's he going to sleep?"

"On the couch." She smiled slowly, turned it into something like a smirk. "He can listen through the door."

I stepped back from the gap then, quietly, went down the stairs on the outsides of my feet, lay on the couch in the dark under a throw blanket that smelled of her. I listened to the floorboards move above me, the low murmur of her voice. I did not sleep for a very long time.

To be continued.