Page 74 of Slapshot Baby

My fingers find a tempo that builds without spiking. Steady, rhythmic strokes while my thumb begins circling her clit, slow and precise.

Each sound she makes teaches me something.

The high, sharp inhale when I curl my fingers means I've hit the right angle. The low moan means sustained pressure on her clit. The way her thigh shakes against my forearm means she's close but not there.

I build her the way I'd construct a play from the neutral zone, each pass calculated, each movement designed to open the space wider.

When her breathing fragments, I increase the pressure. When her hands grip the sheets, I speed up. When her back arches and her stomach muscles tremble, I give her everything I have.

"You'll beg me," I say. "When I take you the way I want to, you'll ask for it first with your own words. And you're going to mean every one of them.”

"Never." The word comes out shattered across two breaths.

I stop playing.

The two fingers buried inside her stroke faster, deep and curling. My thumb press firm, steady circles against her clit.

She comes with her thighs clamping around my arms. A cry tears from her that's half rage and half surrender.

I stay inside her while the aftershocks roll through. My forehead rests against her temple. Her breathing is wrecked.

Her hand finds my hair. Not pulling this time. Just resting there, her fingers tangled in it, trembling.

When the aftershocks fade, I withdraw slowly, press a kiss to her inner thigh and stand up.

She curls onto her side, pulling the duvet over herself. Her face is hidden.

"That didn't count," she says into the pillow.

"Okay."

"I mean it. This was physical and mutual. It doesn't change anything."

"Okay, Ava."

She's quiet for a long time.

I grab the blanket from the closet and a pillow from the bed then lay them on the hardwood floor.

The floor is cold and unforgiving. Above me, the mattress creaks once as she shifts, settling into sleep.

I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing slow from ragged to even.

My body is still humming. The taste of her skin lingers on my tongue. The scent of her still clinging to my fingers, the front of my shirt. I should wash up.

I don't.

Instead, the sound of my name in her mouth plays on a loop I can't shut off.

She said it doesn't change anything.

She's wrong.

A woman who feels nothing doesn't come apart like that. Doesn't kiss you first and then act like you're the one who crossed the line.

I close my eyes.

Something surfaces. Not quite a thought. More like a sensation rising from somewhere deep, flickering behind my eyelids like a projection on a damaged screen.