You’re Not Sated

“My turn,” I said.

I turned, braced my hands on the edge of the heavy old piano, and arched my back so the nightgown rode up over my ass. Ben didn’t need more invitation. He stepped in behind me, still half-hard, and shoved inside in one long stroke that forced the air from my lungs. The stretch burned in the best way. He set a hard, almost punishing rhythm, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the high ceiling.

I pushed back to meet every thrust, chasing the edge Constance had already sharpened. When his hand slid around to rub my clit I came with a muffled cry, walls clamping down around him. He followed a few strokes later, burying himself deep and spilling inside me with a groan that sounded almost like relief.

We stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing hard, the house silent and satisfied around us.

Ben’s forehead dropped against the back of my neck. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“What the hell is happening to us?”

I looked at the dark windows, at our reflections ghosted there - two people already different from the ones who had moved in a week ago.

“Exactly what we needed,” I said.

And somewhere deeper in the house, something soft and wet and rhythmic started again.