That was fucking hot

Each time my eyelids grew heavy, I would catch them—the shadowy stammer and lurch of the guest bedroom door, the reverberation of the bed springs, Sarah’s muffled gasps, Wiley’s unmistakable wheeze. There was no defense against it. I squeezed my cock until it hurt, until it was red and scabby, but the fascination was too strong, the images too rich, and they only sharpened with each attempt at oblivion. Eventually I gave up on sleep altogether and exiled myself into the kitchen, where I sat at the table shoveling spoonfuls of dry cereal into my mouth with the mechanical regularity of a machine, the space between each clatter of the spoon echoing the rhythmic thumping that haunted my memory.

The house was silent except for the periodic creaks of the old hand-me-down refrigerator. I counted down the minutes, hyperaware that at some point they would emerge, and the drama of whatever had happened in there would resume in the fluorescent morning luster. I imagined Sarah tiptoeing down the hallway wrapped in a bedsheet, hiding the aftermath, but when she finally appeared, it was not with shame but with the worn bravado of a parade queen. She wore one of Wiley’s gnomic t-shirts—some collegiate insignia, now flecked with old grease and new sweat—and the way the oversize double xl shirt hung oversized on her frame gave the impression that she had absorbed every particle of Wiley’s existence. She didn’t look at me right away. For a moment she hovered in the kitchen archway, studying the fridge like an astronomer interpreting a star chart.

I tried to raise my eyes to meet hers, to **** some acknowledgement of what we both knew, but she was practicing a careful avoidance. Instead, she poured a glass of milk with elaborate, almost theatrical concentration, and sat opposite me at the table, so close that her bare thigh was nearly touching my knee. I could smell them both—the sour tang of unwashed bodies, the sharp note of last night’s liquor, and underneath it all, the unmistakable scent of sex. As if on cue, my cock twitched in protest; it was still swollen, angry, insistent.

Wiley was next. He crept into the kitchen as if by accident, still rearranging his glasses and blinking in the sudden light, his face an unconvincing mask of innocence. He tried to hide as he slips out the front door, but nothing could obscure the triumphant swagger in so much as the arch of his eyebrows, or the way he stole fleeting glances at Sarah. There was a current between them, thick and visible, and I felt like the only person in the room who could read its charge.

For a long minute, the Sarah and I sat in a kind of deadlock, spoon and fork and mug suspended, the table bearing the invisible weight of everything unsaid, as Wiley drove way. Sarah picked at a bruise on her collarbone, her fingernail tracing the outline. My hands were clenched on my own thigh, fighting the urge to either throttle him or pull Sarah onto my lap in full view. The air was so charged it almost buzzed.

Finally, Sarah broke. She exhaled, a soft shudder, and risked a look at me over the rim of her glass. Her voice was small, almost polite.

“Sorry. When you… I just…”

But I was already shaking my head, words erupting from somewhere beyond my control.

“Don’t be sorry. That was fucking hot!”

She flashed me a look “Like how hot?”

“Like I masturbated all night until I was raw and I still want to fuck you right here on the table.”

Her face turned form worry to excitement as she said “Fine… But you better not think about calling me a nickname again. You just turn me the fuck on… And Wiley’s is too busy to come back and finish me off if you ruin it again.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

I couldn't believe what was happening. Just hours ago, she was fucking another man, and she still smelled of his rut, but now here we were, about to have sex on the kitchen table, and she was talking about Wiley like that. I should've been furious, but instead, I was rock hard, my jeans becoming uncomfortably tight. I wanted her more than ever.

I stood so abruptly my chair screeched on the grout, as I shouted “Fine, let’s pick up where we left off then.” but Sarah didn’t flinch. Her attention locked on mine, pupils blown wide, the faintest tremor in her lips as if she was daring me to make the next move. My fingers shook as I reached for her, not from nerves but a kind of primitive adrenaline, as if my body was still stuck in the hunt and couldn’t quite believe I’d actually caught her. I grabbed her wrist and felt the fine, shivering pulse beneath her skin, and for a second I actually considered letting go—wondering if the Sarah who sat before me was the same girl I’d kissed in the backyard hammock or the stranger who’d let Wiley inside her not even twelve hours ago.

It didn’t matter. None of it did. I didn’t want to pause and think, or second-guess, or fumble the rules of what was allowed or who belonged to whom. I wanted her. It was just need. So I pulled her up, hard enough that our knees banged, and pushed her onto the table with a clatter. The milk sloshed in the glass and left a white trail down the wood, and I kicked at the cereal box until it tumbled. She landed on her ass, legs spread, and the sound she made was a mixture of pain and delight, a quick staccato giggle muffled by surprise.

Sarah’s hair fell in front of her face as she tried to steady herself. She looked up, through the curtain of hair, and gave me a look I’d never seen before, something wild and inviting all at once. Her lips parted but no words came out. It almost made me hesitate, the **** of that invitation.

Instead I leaned over and buried my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the sweat, the salt, the unmistakable musk of Wiley layered over the skin I’d memorized. It was awful, and it was perfect. It made me want to either laugh or bite, and I did both: I laughed against her neck and then sank my teeth where her jaw met her collarbone, right over the bruise she’d been tracing earlier. She gasped, her hands scrabbling at my belt with such desperation she nearly drew blood. I almost wanted her to hurt me. To mark me the way she was marked.

Then she tugged at the shirt, Wiley’s shirt, so big the sleeves draped her arms like wet flags, and I said—“No, leave it. Leave it on.” My voice sounded gravelly, alien, but she froze at the command and raised her eyebrows.

“Why?” She looked almost offended, as if I’d stripped her of a secret power.

“Because I want to fuck you in something of his.” The words were out before I could process them, a kind of raw honesty that surprised even me. “He fucked something I have. I want to fuck you in something of his. That’s fair, right?”

She stared at me for a full second, then grinned so hard it was almost terrifying. “That’s not fair. That’s fucking savage,” she said, and I could practically see the new calculations in her head, the way her arousal sharpened into something competitive and mean. She reached behind her, propping herself on her elbows, and let her legs fall open. The shirt barely covered the tops of her thighs, and from this angle, sitting on the table’s edge, she looked simultaneously obscene and fragile, some strange work of art cast in sex and shame.

But there was nothing shy about her eyes now. She rubbed her bare heel up and down my shin, and when I tried to step closer, she dug her toes into the back of my calf until the muscle twitched. Every muscle in my body was knotted up: I wanted to rip the shirt off, ruin it, but I also wanted to **** on the stink of Wiley clinging to her. I didn’t even bother with my jeans; I just yanked the zipper down and let my cock spring out, already seeping at the tip. The hiss she made at the sight of it was pure theater, but I fell for it. I always did.

Sarah craned forward and pressed her dripping pussy again my cock head, feline and slow. She licked her lips before pulling my cock inside her warm womanly whole, never breaking eye contact. Her hands gripped the table so hard her knuckles whitened, and I realized she needed to hold onto something or she’d float away.

“Fuck, you taste like him,” I muttered, and she laughed with her mouth full, a guttural, obscene sound that vibrated all the way up my spine. It was true: I could taste the remnants of Wiley on her lips, some trace of last night lingering in the slickness that coated my cock. It should have revolted me, but it just made me fuck her harder, faster.

Regrettably I quickly found myself getting close to cumming, but it was too soon, I wanted this to last longer, I needed to do something to make it last longer. So, I pulled out of her pussy and twisted her body, so she was bent over the table, ass in the air, her face smashed against the wood. The shirt bunched up around her hips, and I yanked it higher so I could watch her expression as I slid inside her. She looked back at me over her shoulder, eyes glazed and defiant and thrilled. Her fingers clawed at the edge of the table. Her thighs quivered.

I pushed in slow, savoring the angle, the way her body tensed against me. She was so wet I could hear it, the obscene sound punctuating every thrust.

I stood up and grabbed her hand. "Fine," I said with a growl. "Let's pick up where we left off then." I pulled her to her feet and set her naked ass on the table. She didn't resist. If anything, she seemed into it.

Sarah didn’t moan, not really—she just made these sharp little gasps, almost like she was shocked at how much she wanted it. She kept glancing down at the shirt, like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

The sensation was overwhelming: the friction of denim against my thighs, the greasy cotton of the shirt under my hands, the heat of her cunt wrapping around me. I drove into her, harder with each stroke, letting all my anger and jealousy and humiliation pour out through my hips, using her body as both confession and punishment.

She arched her back and let out an animal yelp, loud enough that if Wiley had been hovering outside the door, he’d hear every second of it. Maybe that was the point.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” she said, and it came out half sob, half growl. She came first, her whole body spasming around me, and when she did, she bit the side of her wrist to muffle the sound. I followed, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her close so my mouth was right at her ear as I came inside her, flooding her with a kind of triumphant, exhausted warmth.

For a few seconds we just hung there, collapsed over the table, sweat mixing with spilled milk and breakfast crumbs. My heart hammered in my chest; Sarah’s face was buried in the crook of her elbow, her hair wild and tangled, her bare feet dangling above the linoleum.

When I finally pulled out, she stayed where she was, catching her breath. Then, slowly, she straightened up and turned to face me, one hand wiping at her mouth like she was cleaning away evidence. The shirt was wrinkled and stained, clinging to her in all the wrong places.

She smirked, that crooked, wicked grin, and said, “Now we’re even.”