She grinds down on me, her clit rubbing against me with every stroke, and I can feel her getting close. Her movements are getting erratic, desperate, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"I'm going to?—"
"Do it. Come on my cock."
She falls apart.
She clamps down on me so hard I see stars, her whole body shaking, my name torn from her throat. And the feel of her pulsing around me, the sounds she's making, the way she's completely lost in it — that's what drags me over the edge.
I bury myself deep and let go, groaning into her neck as I spill inside her.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We're both breathing hard, slick with sweat, wrapped around each other on the edge of her bed.
Eventually, she pulls back to look at me. Her hair's a mess, her cheeks are flushed, and she's smiling in a way I've never seen before. Satisfied. Almost smug.
"I needed that," she says.
"I could tell."
She laughs — a real laugh, loose and happy — and I realize I'd do just about anything to hear that sound again.
We untangle ourselves and collapse back onto the bed properly, her curling against my side, her head on my chest.
"I didn't know it could be like that," she says quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like I actually mattered." She's quiet for a moment, her fingers drawing absent shapes on my stomach. "With Ryan, it was always... mechanical. Like he was checking a box. Get her off if there's time, but don't worry too much about it. His orgasm was the finish line. Mine was optional."
I tighten my arm around her. "How long were you married?"
"Seven years. Together for eight." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I think I came with him maybe... ten times? In eight years. And half of those were because I did the work myself."
The rage that pulses through me is white-hot. Eight years of being treated like her pleasure didn't matter. Eight years of a man who was supposed to love her treating sex like something he did to her instead of with her.
"He was a fucking idiot," I say.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." I press a kiss to the top of her head. "That's never going to be a problem with me. You understand? Your pleasure isn't optional. It's the whole point."
She tilts her head up to look at me, and there's something in her eyes that makes my chest ache. Wonder, maybe. Like she's not sure she believes me but she wants to.
"Why?" she asks.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care? You barely know me."
I think about that for a moment. About the woman I've been watching for two weeks, the one who checks her rearview mirror like she's always expecting someone to be following her. The one who smiled at me over broken eggs and didn't run when her kid outed her for watching me through the window.
"I know enough," I say. "I know you're stronger than you think you are. I know you uprooted your whole life to protect your kid. I know you deserve a hell of a lot better than what you've been getting." I brush a strand of hair off her face. "And I know I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the day you moved in."
She doesn't say anything. Just stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she leansup and kisses me — soft, slow, nothing like the desperate hunger from earlier. This is something else. Something that feels like a beginning.
When she pulls back, she's smiling. "Stay. Tonight. I have to pick Amelia up at nine, but..."
"I'll be gone before then."
