My cock is trapped between my body and the wall, and the friction is almost enough, and I reach down to finish myself, but he gets there first.
His left hand.
The one that erases the board from left to right.
That hand closes around me, strokes in time with his thrusts, and the coordination is—how is he still coordinated?
I can’t think. I can’t.
I come. Hard. Against the wall, against him, clenching around him as every muscle in my body fires at once.
He follows two thrusts later, his rhythm breaking, a sound torn out of him, raw and low, his whole body pressing me into the plaster as he shakes apart.
The hallway is dark. The radiator is still ticking. He breathes against my shoulder.
We don’t speak.
He softens inside me and pulls out.
I should—clean up, readjust, make a joke, the easy exit.
My body stays anchored. He holds me there with his arms.
Both arms. Wrapped around my chest from behind, his breathing slowed. He’s trembling—the fine, total-body tremor. Relief, or need.
He doesn’t let go.
I wait for the exit. The step back.We shouldn’t have—the return to separate bodies.
He doesn’t let go.
He tightens his arms fractionally, involuntarily.
I’ve done this dozens of times. The departure is the easiest part.
This man is holding me in his hallway like I’m the last fixed point in a collapsing system.
I feel a weight under my sternum. Heavy. A variable I didn’t account for.
His heart beats against my spine, slowing, steadying.
My hands over his.
The departure is the easiest part.
Always has been.
What nobody taught me is: what happens when someone stays.
CHAPTER TEN
Light I haven’t earned.
Real morning light. Grey-gold, coming through blinds that somebody chose on purpose. Landing on a duvet that smells of detergent and skin and the salt-sweet of last night that makes my stomach drop.
The arm.
Across my waist. His wrist against the skin below my navel.
