A restaurant with no view

We dressed in thirty seconds. Don't ask me how. The blouse went back over her head in one motion, inside out, corrected with a yank. Shorts dragged up her thighs with a hop. The tie she left on the felt. I got my trousers fastened, but my shirt was tucked wrong. Sofia was already at the window, both palms flat on the frame, shoving it as wide as it went.

It didn't help. That room smelled of us. Warm green felt, chalk, spilled wine, sweat, the salt of her, and the coconut of the sunscreen cooked into the air. You could have walked in blind, known.

Then the bell rang. Not the door—the phone, shrilling somewhere in the living room, muffled, insistent.

"Sofia!"

Magnus's voice, cheerful, was coming down the hall toward the ringing, away from us.

I got my mouth to her ear. "You go up first. I stay. I play alone."

She nodded fast, twice. Then stood still a second. Hair wild, cheeks flushed to the ears, blouse gaping where she'd missed a button.

She fixed the hair with a rubber band off her wrist, dragged it back hard, and took two deep breaths with her shoulders going up and down. Walked out into the hall without looking at me.

Her footsteps climbed. The phone stopped ringing. Voices. His laugh.

I gathered the balls off the floor, scattered them across the green anyway they fell, dropped the rack back under the rail, and took a cue off the wall. Leaned over, started knocking them around. My hands were still not entirely mine.

Quarter of an hour. Their voices drifted down through the ceiling, low, unhurried, no sharp edges in it. Not fighting. Good.

Then the stairs creaked.

Magnus came down, hand on the rail, in shorts, a linen shirt, and wet-combed hair. He spotted me over the last steps.

"Hey, you!"

"Hej hej," I said, grinning back at him. His grin was as wide, as stupid, and as warm as ever.

"Playing all alone?" He wandered over, hands in his pockets.

"Yeah. It's okay."

"Your fly is open."

I looked down. It was. Zipped it, and felt the heat come up my neck.

"Brunch," he said, like the thought had just landed, pleased him. "Come on, yacht club. We'll take my car."

"Cool. Yeah."

He turned toward the kitchen. "Honey—can you call the tapas place, get us a table?"

Sofia came down the last steps with her bag already on her shoulder and phone already in her hand, gave him a bright little nod, then looked at me. As if she was not done with me.

The drive took twelve minutes. Magnus drove with one wrist on the wheel, talking about a regatta, a client, and someone's new engine. Sofia sat in the back with her elbows on the open window, wearing sunglasses, while the wind pulled strands of hair loose from her rubber band. Once she caught my eye in the mirror, she did nothing with it at all.

The restaurant sat at the end of the quay, with white stucco, blue shutters, and a terrace on the water side under a striped awning. Sun on the boards. Gulls.

Somehow, she had talked the last table for four out of them—big, old, scarred wood, shoved into the far corner of the terrace, four chairs empty, nobody near it.

"That's okay," Magnus said, waving off the fourth chair. "We know the view, right?"

Sofia sat first, back to the big restaurant window. Magnus dropped into the chair beside her. I took the one across from him. Sat down.

A banana plant in a giant pot stood square in my line of sight, three leaves hanging dead center. I shifted. It followed.

Magnus noticed. "Why don't you take the other seat?"

So I moved to the chair opposite his girlfriend. Sat. The fourth chair stayed empty.

Under the table, something warm slid up my ankle, over the sock, and into my crotch, pressed.

I nearly came off the seat. Stocking—fine, sheer, and cool against the heat of me. Her toes found the shape of me through the trousers, worked along it, and stayed.

I gave her a look. She widened her eyes, all innocence, and made a small obscene motion with her tongue inside her mouth, cheeks hollowed for a second.

The waiter came. Magnus ordered for the table without asking, in Swedish, easy, generous: anchovies, padron peppers, a plate of jamón, prawns in garlic, bread, and a bottle of Albariño.

Then the waiter turned to Sofia. She lowered her sunglasses.

"And for you?"

"I want the balls," she said, letting her eyes come to me. "The bull's ones. Big as they come. "A beat. "I hear they are very filling."

"Two orders," Magnus said, not catching a thing.

Her foot pressed harder. I set my hands flat on the table and behaved.

We ate. We talked. Magnus told the story about the engine again, better this time, with a boat owner's outrage in it. Sofia told one about Recife, a cousin, a wedding, and a cake that collapsed in the heat and had us both laughing. I told one about a landlord and a flooded cellar. It went down fine.

Under the wood, her toes worked me the whole time. Slow. Then slower. Small circles at the seam. My cock was a rod against my thigh, aching, the head pressed up under the waistband. She watched me talk, sipped her wine, and smiled with her eyes at exactly the right wrong moments.

Mojitos came. Then the flan, caramel dark and glossy, and she ate hers off the spoon with her eyes on mine, her heel digging in.

It got late. The terrace emptied. Chairs stacked, umbrellas furled, the waiter wiping tables around us.

"Kitchen's closing at three," he said, apologetic. "But stay outside as long as you like."

"Last round," Magnus said. "Six mojitos."

They came. We paid. Magnus lifted his glass and said something about the summer, the sun, and the good life. His phone went off in his pocket.

He read it. His face changed.

"Shit. The boat. It's taking water—serious, they say." He was up already, keys out. "Stay here. Stay, stay. My boat is sinking." He pointed at us, then at the harbor master's office down the quay, and ran.

The terrace was empty. Six mojitos. Nobody. No staff inside either—dark windows, chairs on tables.

"Come sit next to me, honey," Sofia cooed, unmoved by a sinking boat.

I moved. Didn't bother to hide the outline when I stood. She watched it travel.

I sat. Her hand went straight down, closing around it through the cloth.

"Is that all for me?" she teased, weighing it. "Is it big enough for me?"

She laughed at the challenge, thumbed the zip down in one pull, and reached in, drawing me out. There it stood in the daylight, upright, thick-veined, and absurd on a restaurant terrace.

"Yummy," she said.

Her lips came down over the head. Warm, wet, no preamble. The fat mushroom of it went into her mouth, her cheeks caved in around the shaft like she was drawing on a straw, tongue flat, purring underneath, humming so the vibration ran the whole length of me. She took a breath through her nose, sank lower, jaw working wide, hand fisted at the base to keep the angle. Her tongue lapped at the underside in slow, filthy strokes.

I put a hand in her hair. The rubber band was gone somewhere. She looked up at me, mouth full, eyes wet, pleased.

"Oh," she said, coming off with a wet sound. "I need you inside. Now."

She undid my button and dragged at the waistband. I lifted my hips, let her pull the trousers down to my ankles. A quick glance around—nobody, no Magnus, no nothing. A gull on a bollard.

Sofia did not care. She gathered her summer dress at her hips and dragged it up to her waist. There it was, bare between the black stockings, that smooth, shaven mouth of her already shining, lips drawn in tight, dusky.

She swung a leg over and lowered herself.

The head met her, parted her, and went in. Her breath cut off. Then the slow, stubborn slide—inch by inch, her brows knotting, mouth open, eyes fixed on the middle distance.

"Big," she told herself, quiet, coaching. "Oh yes. Big. Ah—c'mon, honey. You can take it."

Her thighs shook. She got halfway, stopped, and breathed.

"Ah yes—oh, so full."

"A little more," she whispered to nobody, pushed down, took me deep against her womb in one last sinking movement, and let out a long, ragged moan.

"Ah—ai, porra."

She sat there full. Impaled. Sweat was already standing on her forehead. Lips wet. Eyes black, stupid with lust.

"Tá bom," she breathed. "Okay. Tá bom."

Then she started to move. Slow rolls of her hips at first, feeling the length of it, a small, wondering sound in her throat. "Ai. Ai, que gostoso." Her head tipped back. "So good. So thick."

She found a rhythm. Her mouth hung open, eyes half shut, every downward push pulling a soft, punched grunt out of her. "Ah. Ah. Yes."

"Look at you," I said.

"Mm—yes—look at me." Her hand slapped down on my chest. "So nice. So nice and thick. Oh, fuck me. Fuck me, please."

I got a hand on her hip and drove up into her. Her groans sped up, went ragged, and went loud. "Ah! Ah! Assim—yes—"

Her first one took her by surprise, a fast, bright clench that folded her forward, that wide-open mouth going silent, then breaking into a low wail against my neck. "Oh—oh, caralho—ai—"

She rode it, greedy and grinding, and came out the other side still moving, still hungry. "More. Não para. Don't stop, don't stop—"

She was loud. Anyone could have walked out. Neither of us cared.

It built again in her, quicker than the first, meaner. Her groans turned to short yelps. The stockings rasped against my thighs. " Ah—ah—ai—tô chegando—"

Then mine turned over. Low, heavy, pulling tight at the root.

"Ah, yes," she gasped, feeling it change in me. "Yes, yes—vem, baby—vem—"

The tightness gathered at the root of me drew up hard. She felt that too, the way a woman does. Her eyes flew wide.

"Ah—é isso—give it to me, give it all to me—"

I came. The first pulse went off deep, a thick, hot slam of it against the mouth of her womb. Sofia convulsed like a wire had touched her. Mouth wide, no sound at all for half a second. Then the shriek.

"Ah! Tá quente!"

Her whole body bucked. The second pulse followed on the first, no gap, flooding her. She drove her hips down to meet it, hard, grinding, a choked sob in her throat.

"Tá quente, meu Deus—tá quente—"

Third. Fourth. She took each one like a blow, back arching, jaw slack, and started to writhe on my lap—not to escape it, but to get more. Her heels hooked the chair legs behind me; she hauled herself in, seat rolling forward, trying to screw herself down onto the very root of me to hold the head flush to the wall of her.

"Fica," she panted. "Fica aí—stay there, stay right there—"

Her cunt clamped down on me in waves, contracting, milking, and pulling the stuff out of me in long, dragging squeezes, so tight it ached. She grunted with every pull. Each one dragged another pulse out of me. She felt it. Her voice cracked into a laugh that was nearly a sob.

"Oh, you're flooding me. I can feel it—enchendo—it's running—"

I got an arm around her back, held her hips down with the other, ground her up into her, and stayed buried to the hilt while the rest went into her.

"Ai, ai, ai—" She rocked, uselessly, deliciously, chasing it. Mais. Não para. Deeper, baby, deeper—"

Her own orgasm came up through the middle of mine, detonated. The sound she made had no words in it. Her thighs clamped on my ribs, her nails raked my shoulders, her hips slammed down to keep every drop, and she sobbed against my jaw—"tô gozando, tô gozando, oh God, don't stop, don't ever stop"—while her body wrung itself out around me, milking, sucking me empty, wave after wave until the last of it was inside her, the twitching had nowhere left to go.

She tipped. I caught her before she went off my lap sideways, got both arms around her, and felt her heart slamming through the dress against my chest.

"Tá quente," she panted into my collarbone. "Meu Deus. Tá quente."

Her hips were still moving, tiny aborted circles, keeping the head pressed deep like she could lock it there.

"Feel it," she whispered, half gone. "Tell me you feel it."

"I feel it."

"Mm." A wet, wrecked little laugh. "All the way up. Até o útero. It's so hot in me." Her mouth found my neck, not quite a kiss. "Stay. Um minuto. Just one minute. Don't move."

Down the quay, a door banged open.

To be continued.