Chapter 3: Goal Line, Bent Over the Desk
The Packers were on the three-yard line, first and goal, and Jordan couldn't breathe.
He sat on the edge of the futon with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together so tight his knuckles had gone white, the laptop screen balanced on the milk crate in front of him. The crowd noise crackled through the tinny speakers—a distant roar that didn't come close to the real thing but was enough to make his pulse spike. Aaron Rodgers was under center. The Vikings' defensive line was digging in. The linebackers were creeping toward the gaps.
"Play action," Jordan muttered. "It's gotta be play action. They're gonna bite on the run fake and—"
"He's gonna throw it to the tight end."
Maria's voice came from somewhere behind him—from the bed, where she was sprawled on her stomach with his gray Packers sweatshirt bunched around her waist and absolutely nothing else. He could feel her watching him. Could feel the weight of her gaze on the back of his neck.
"Nobody asked you," he said.
"I'm just saying. The Vikings always bite on play action in goal-line situations. Their safeties cheat up. It's a weakness."
"I know it's a weakness. I've been saying it's a weakness all season."
"Then why are you arguing with me?"
"I'm not arguing. I'm—" The ball snapped. Jordan's entire body went rigid. "Shit, here we go."
Rodgers took the snap, faked the handoff to the running back, and rolled to his right. The Vikings' linebackers crashed toward the line, exactly like Maria had predicted, and for a split second the middle of the field opened up like a wound.
Then Rodgers threw it. Tight spiral, perfect placement, right into the hands of the tight end in the back of the end zone.
Touchdown.
"Yes!" Jordan shot off the futon, both fists in the air, his voice cracking on the word. "Yes! Fuck yes! That's what I'm talking about!"
The crowd on the laptop went insane. The scoreboard flickered: Packers 21, Vikings 14. The extra point was coming. Jordan didn't care. He was too busy pacing the length of his cramped dorm room, running his hands through his hair, grinning like an idiot.
"Did you see that?" He spun toward Maria, who was still on the bed, watching him with an expression that was half amusement and half something else. Something darker. "Did you see the way their safety bit? I called that. I literally called that."
"You called it after I called it."
"Semantics."
"You're insufferable."
"I'm right. There's a difference."
She pushed herself up on her elbows, and the sweatshirt slipped off her shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone, the smooth skin of her upper chest. Jordan's brain stuttered for a second. The game was still playing—extra point, commercial break—but suddenly he couldn't remember why it mattered.
"Come here," Maria said.
"I'm watching the game."
"You're pacing. The game's in a commercial."
"I'm not pacing. I'm—" He looked down at his feet, which were indeed mid-stride. "Okay, I'm pacing. It's a nervous habit."
"I know it's a nervous habit. You do it every Sunday."
"You've noticed?"
"I've noticed a lot of things about you, Jordan." Her voice had gone low. Rough. The kind of voice that made his stomach drop and his cock twitch. "Come here."
He went.
The futon creaked when he sat down next to her, and she immediately shifted, swinging her legs off the bed and standing up. The sweatshirt hung down to her thighs, barely covering anything, and Jordan's mouth went dry.
"I have a better idea," she said.
"Better than watching the Packers score?"
"Better than watching anything."
She walked past him—slow, deliberate, her bare feet silent on the carpet—and stopped in front of his desk. It was a disaster zone. Sports journalism notebooks stacked haphazardly on one side, a half-finished term paper spilling across the keyboard, a bag of Cheez-Its that had been open for so long the cheese dust had gone stale. The laptop was still playing commercials on the milk crate, but Maria wasn't looking at it.
She was looking at him.
"Stand up," she said.
He stood.
"Come here."
He came.
She turned around and planted her palms flat on the desk, right on top of his notes from Sports Reporting 301. Her back arched, the sweatshirt riding up to expose the smooth curve of her spine, the dimples at the base of her back. She looked over her shoulder at him with those dark eyes.
"Fuck me," she said.
Jordan's brain short-circuited.
"What?"
"Right here. Right now. Bend me over this desk and fuck me."
"Maria, the game—"
"The game will still be there when we're done." She reached back, grabbed the hem of the sweatshirt, and yanked it over her head. It landed somewhere on the floor, and suddenly she was completely naked, bent over his desk, her ass on display and her hair spilling across his notebooks. "Unless you'd rather watch commercials."
He'd rather do a lot of things.
The sweatpants came off in a hurry—so fast he nearly tripped over them—and his boxers followed. His cock was already hard, already aching, and when he stepped up behind her and pressed against her ass, she made a low sound of approval.
"That's what I thought," she said.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
He grabbed her hips with both hands, positioned himself at her entrance, and pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust.
She was wet. Soaked, actually—he could feel it, the slick heat of her gripping him from the first inch—and the sensation made his eyes roll back in his head. No condom. Again. He still wasn't used to it. Still couldn't believe she wanted it this way.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Harder."
He pulled back and slammed into her. The desk lurched forward, the laptop wobbled on the milk crate, and Maria moaned loud enough to wake the entire floor.
"That's it," she gasped. "That's fucking it. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
He fucked her hard and fast, one hand fisted in her dark curls and the other flat on the desk beside hers, his hips slamming against her ass with every thrust. The desk creaked. The notebooks scattered. A pen rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor, and neither of them cared.
"You're such a pervert," Maria said, her voice muffled by the wood. "I'm trying to watch the game and you just—"
"I'm not the one who—"
"Shut up and fuck me."
He yanked her hair, just a little, and she moaned again. The sound went straight to his cock, made him harder, made him fuck her faster. The laptop crowd was roaring—something was happening on the screen, a big play, a turnover, he didn't know—but it all felt distant. Background noise. The only thing that mattered was the tight, wet heat of her around him and the way she kept pushing back to meet every thrust.
"How's my stamina now?" he asked.
"Mediocre."
"Mediocre?"
"You heard me."
He angled his hips, hit that spot deep inside her, and she cried out. Her fingers scrabbled at the desk, knocking over the Cheez-Its, sending stale cheese crackers cascading onto the floor.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Okay. Okay, that's—"
"That's what?"
"That's better than mediocre."
"I'll take it."
The crowd roared again. Jordan glanced at the laptop—just a glance, just a split second—and saw the Packers lined up at the Vikings' ten-yard line. First and goal. The score was still 21-14. They were driving.
"Pay attention," Maria said.
"I am paying attention."
"To me."
"I'm literally inside you."
"Then act like it."
He grabbed her hips with both hands and fucked her harder, deeper, the way she wanted. The desk was sliding across the floor now, inch by inch, and the laptop was wobbling precariously on its milk crate throne. Any second now it was going to fall. Any second now the whole thing was going to collapse.
He didn't care.
"I'm close," he said.
"Don't you dare come before me."
"I'm not—"
"Don't. You. Dare."
He gritted his teeth and held on. His entire body was screaming at him to let go, to spill inside her and collapse, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. Not this time. Not when she was talking trash and moaning his name and looking like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen bent over his desk.
"I'm gonna—" She broke off, gasping. "Fuck, Jordan, I'm gonna come."
"Good."
"Don't stop."
"Not stopping."
"Don't you fucking stop—"
He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, through the flutter and clench and the way her whole body shuddered beneath him, through the broken moan that escaped her lips and the way her fingers clawed at the desk. She came harder than he'd ever seen her come, and the sight of it—the sight of her coming apart on his cock, in his room, surrounded by his stuff—was almost enough to push him over the edge.
Almost.
Then the crowd on the laptop erupted. Jordan's eyes snapped to the screen just in time to see the Packers' running back punch it in from the one-yard line. Touchdown. The score flickered: Packers 28, Vikings 14.
And Jordan buried himself to the hilt and came.
It hit him like a freight train—the release, the relief, the way his whole body seized up and then shuddered apart. He emptied himself into her with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest, his hips stuttering, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
Maria moaned his name into the desk.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The laptop crowd was still cheering. The announcers were saying something about momentum and playoff implications. The extra point was coming. The Vikings were down by fourteen with time running out.
Jordan didn't care.
He pulled out slowly, watching his come drip down her thigh, and had to resist the urge to push it back in with his fingers. That would be weird. Probably. Maybe not. He didn't know anymore.
"Jesus," Maria said.
"Yeah."
"That was—"
"Yeah."
She pushed herself up off the desk, her hair a disaster, her cheeks flushed, and turned to face him. There was a red mark on her forehead from where she'd been pressed against his notebook. A smear of something on her stomach. A look in her eyes that he couldn't quite read.
"We missed the touchdown," she said.
"We didn't miss it. We were here for it."
"We weren't watching."
"We were... celebrating."
She laughed. Actually laughed, loud and genuine, and Jordan felt something warm bloom in his chest.
"You're ridiculous," she said.
"I'm right. There's a difference."
She shook her head and walked past him, heading for the bed. Jordan watched her go—watched the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass, the way his come was still glistening on her skin—and felt his cock twitch with interest.
Again?
Jesus. What was wrong with him?
"The game's almost over," he said.
"I know."
"We should watch the end."
"We should."
Neither of them moved toward the laptop.
Maria climbed onto the bed and stretched out on her stomach, her chin propped on her hands. She looked like a cat. A very satisfied, very smug cat. Jordan stood in the middle of the room, still naked, still half-hard, and tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing.
"Come here," she said.
"The game—"
"The game's a blowout. We won. Come here."
He went.
The bed was too small for both of them—it was a twin, because of course it was, because the university couldn't be bothered to give its students furniture that could accommodate two normal-sized humans—but they made it work. Maria curled into his side, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his stomach. Jordan wrapped an arm around her and stared at the ceiling.
The laptop was still playing. The final seconds ticked off the clock. The Packers won, 28-14.
"Good game," Maria said.
"Yeah."
"We should do this again next week."
"Watch the game?"
"That too."
He laughed, and she laughed, and for a few minutes they just lay there, tangled up in each other, while the postgame show droned on in the background.
Then Maria's stomach growled.
"Okay," she said. "Now I need food."
"I thought we established that."
"We established it an hour ago. I'm re-establishing it."
"I'll buy you breakfast."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time."
"You didn't mean it. You just wanted to get laid."
"I can do both."
She propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him. Her hair was wild. Her lips were swollen. There was a mark on her neck from where he'd sucked too hard, and she was going to have to cover it with a scarf tomorrow, and he didn't feel bad about it at all.
"Fine," she said. "But you're paying."
"I said I'd pay."
"And I want a milkshake."
"It's ten in the morning."
"I don't care. I want a milkshake."
"Fine. Milkshake."
"And pancakes."
"Fine."
"And bacon."
"Fine."
"And maybe one of those big cinnamon rolls that are the size of your head."
"You're going to explode."
"It's a risk I'm willing to take."
He kissed her forehead and pushed himself out of bed. His legs were shaky. His brain was foggy. He felt like he'd just played in the game instead of watched it.
"Where are my pants?" he asked.
"Floor."
"Which floor?"
"Somewhere."
He found them eventually—wedged under the desk, of all places, right next to the fallen Cheez-Its and the scattered notebooks. Maria found her underwear in the bathroom and the gray sweatshirt draped over the mini-fridge. They got dressed in comfortable silence, both of them moving slow, both of them sore in ways that made them grin at each other like idiots.
"You're wearing my sweatshirt again," Jordan said.
"It's mine now."
"We literally had this discussion yesterday."
"I'm aware. My position hasn't changed."
"What's your position?"
"That it's mine now."
"That's not a position. That's theft."
"Call the cops."
"I might."
"You won't."
"I won't."
She kissed him—quick, easy, like she'd been doing it for years—and grabbed her keys off the desk.
"Come on," she said. "I'm starving."
They walked out of the dorm together, into the cold Minnesota morning, and for the first time in his life, Jordan didn't check the score on his phone. Didn't check the highlights. Didn't check anything except the way Maria's hand felt in his.
The cold hit them like a wall the moment the dorm doors swung shut behind them. Minnesota in January didn't fuck around—it punched you in the throat and dared you to breathe. Maria pulled her hood up and tucked her hands into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and Jordan shoved his own hands into the pockets of his jacket, and they walked side by side across the frozen quad without saying anything.
The campus was quiet in that hungover Sunday way. A few other students stumbled toward the dining hall, bundled up like they were preparing for arctic exploration. Someone had built a snowman near the library steps—a sad, lopsided thing with stick arms and a carrot nose that had already been stolen by a squirrel. Jordan almost pointed it out, almost made a joke about it, but then Maria's shoulder bumped against his and he forgot what he was going to say.
They didn't walk to the dining hall.
They walked past it, past the student center, past the row of coffee shops and pizza places that lined the main drag through campus. Jordan didn't ask where they were going. He just followed, hands in his pockets, breath fogging in front of his face, watching the way Maria's curls bounced under her hood as she walked.
"Where are we going?" he asked eventually.
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."
"I hate surprises."
"You hate not being in control."
"Same thing."
She laughed and didn't answer, and Jordan didn't push. There was something different about her this morning—something softer, maybe, or more settled. The sharp edges were still there, the trash talk and the quick tongue, but underneath it was something else. Something that made his chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
They ended up at a diner called The Copper Skillet, a greasy spoon tucked between a laundromat and a vape shop about six blocks off campus. Jordan had walked past it a hundred times and never gone in. The windows were fogged up, the neon sign was half-burned out, and the parking lot was empty except for a single rusted-out pickup truck.
"This place looks like a health code violation," he said.
"That's how you know it's good."
"That's not how anything works."
"Trust me."
She pushed through the door and a bell jingled overhead, and Jordan followed her into a wall of heat and the smell of bacon grease and burnt coffee. The diner was small—maybe ten booths, a counter with spinning stools, a jukebox in the corner that was probably older than both of them combined. An old man in a flannel shirt sat at the counter nursing a cup of coffee. A waitress with gray hair and a name tag that said "Dot" looked up from behind the register and grinned.
"Maria!" Dot's voice was raspy, warm, like she'd been smoking for fifty years and didn't plan on stopping. "Haven't seen you in a minute. Thought you finally came to your senses and moved back to Wisconsin."
"Not yet, Dot. Still slumming it in Vikings territory."
"Shame. You bring a boy this time?"
Maria glanced at Jordan, and something flickered in her eyes. Something that looked almost like embarrassment. Almost like pride.
"Yeah," she said. "I brought a boy."
Dot looked him up and down, taking in the rumpled jacket and the five o'clock shadow and the way his hair was still wet from the shower. She didn't look impressed. She looked like she was assessing him, cataloging his flaws, deciding whether he was worth her time.
"He's a Packers fan," Maria added.
Dot's expression softened slightly. "Well, that's something. Sit wherever you want, honey. I'll bring coffee."
They slid into a booth near the window—fake leather seats, cracked vinyl, a table that wobbled unless you wedged a sugar packet under one leg. Maria did it automatically, without looking, like she'd done it a hundred times before. Jordan watched her hands, the quick efficiency of the motion, and felt something shift in his chest.
"You come here a lot," he said.
"When I need to think."
"About what?"
"Things."
"Specific things?"
"Depends on the day." She pulled her hood down and shook out her curls, and Jordan had to resist the urge to reach across the table and touch them. "Sometimes it's design stuff. Sometimes it's family stuff. Sometimes it's—" She stopped. Looked at him. "Sometimes it's you."
Jordan's throat went dry.
"Me?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. That small, private smile that she only ever seemed to give him. The one that made him feel like he'd won something, even when he hadn't.
Dot arrived with two cups of coffee and a menu that looked like it had been laminated sometime during the Reagan administration. She poured without asking, filled both cups to the brim, and vanished back behind the counter without a word.
"So," Maria said, wrapping her hands around her mug. "About last night."
"What about it?"
"Was it weird?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" She hesitated. Bit her lip. "We've been watching games together for months. And then suddenly we're—" She gestured vaguely with one hand. "Doing that. Was it weird for you?"
Jordan thought about it. Really thought about it, the way he thought about stats and matchups and playoff scenarios. Weird wasn't the right word. Strange wasn't right either. It felt like something that had been building for a long time, something that had been inevitable, something that he should have seen coming weeks ago.
"No," he said finally. "It wasn't weird."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Because if it was weird, we can just—"
"Maria."
She stopped.
"It wasn't weird," he said again. "It was—" He searched for the right word. "It was right. Does that make sense?"
She looked at him for a long moment. Her brown eyes were warm, softer than he'd ever seen them. Then she nodded, just once, and took a sip of her coffee.
"Yeah," she said. "It makes sense."
Dot came back to take their order—pancakes and bacon for Maria, eggs and hash browns for Jordan, a cinnamon roll the size of his head to split. They ate in comfortable silence, passing syrup and butter back and forth, stealing bites off each other's plates. Jordan watched Maria dunk a strip of bacon in maple syrup and decided he wasn't going to question it.
"You're staring again," she said.
"You're eating bacon in syrup."
"It's good."
"It's a crime against nature."
"Your face is a crime against nature."
"That's the best you've got?"
"I'm tired. Give me a break."
He laughed and stole a bite of her pancake, and she smacked his hand with her fork, and the old man at the counter glanced over and smiled like he remembered being young once. The jukebox in the corner switched to something slow, something old, something Jordan didn't recognize but felt in his bones anyway.
"You never told me," Maria said, "why you're a Packers fan."
"I've told you a hundred times."
"Tell me again."
He set down his fork and leaned back in the booth. The vinyl creaked beneath him.
"My grandpa," he said. "He grew up in Green Bay. Season ticket holder for forty years. When I was a kid, he used to send me VHS tapes of old games—Starr, Favre, all the classics. I'd watch them on loop in my bedroom and pretend I was at Lambeau."
"Did you ever go?"
"Once. Before he died. He took me to a game against the Bears—" Jordan smiled, remembering. "We lost. But he didn't care. He just sat there in the cold, drinking hot chocolate, telling me stories about every player on the field. Best day of my life."
Maria reached across the table and took his hand. Her fingers were warm from the coffee mug.
"I never met my dad's dad," she said. "He died before I was born. But he was from Wisconsin too. Milwaukee. My dad grew up watching the Packers every Sunday, and he passed it down to me. It's the only thing we ever really agreed on."
"You don't agree on other stuff?"
"We agree on football. That's enough."
Jordan squeezed her hand. The diner hummed around them—the sizzle of the grill, the murmur of the old man talking to Dot, the crackle of the jukebox switching records. Sunday morning light filtered through the fogged-up windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air.
"We should do this more," he said.
"What, eat breakfast?"
"That. And the other stuff."
"You're going to have to be more specific."
"I mean—" He hesitated. This was the part where he was supposed to be smooth, supposed to say something clever, supposed to play it cool. But he was tired of playing it cool. "I mean I like you, Maria. Not just the game-watching. Not just the—" He gestured vaguely, the same way she had. "I like you. All of it."
She didn't say anything for a long moment. Just looked at him with those warm brown eyes, her fingers still tangled with his.
"I like you too," she said finally. "I've liked you for a while."
"How long?"
"Does it matter?"
"I want to know."
She sighed. Took a sip of coffee. Set the mug down with a clink.
"Remember that game back in October? The one where the Packers came back in the fourth quarter and you literally ran around your room screaming?"
"I remember."
"I knew then. When you were running around like an idiot, screaming at the TV, wearing that stupid cheesehead." She smiled, small and private. "I knew I was in trouble."
"You never said anything."
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, Jordan, I know we're just football friends, but I'm actually completely obsessed with you and I think about you all the time'?"
"I would've said yes."
"I know that now."
He leaned across the table and kissed her. It was awkward—the table was too wide, and the syrup was in the way, and Dot wolf-whistled from behind the counter—but Jordan didn't care. Maria's lips tasted like coffee and maple syrup, and her hand came up to cup his jaw, and for a few seconds the rest of the world just faded away.
"Get a room!" the old man at the counter yelled.
"We have one," Maria yelled back.
Dot laughed so hard she had to set down the coffee pot.
They paid the bill—Jordan insisted, even though Maria tried to fight him on it—and walked back to campus through the snow. It had started falling while they were eating, big fat flakes that stuck to Maria's curls and Jordan's shoulders. The campus was starting to wake up, students emerging from their dorms like bears coming out of hibernation.
"I have homework," Maria said.
"So do I."
"Term papers. A design project. Reading I haven't done."
"Same."
They stopped in front of her building. The snow was falling harder now, blurring the edges of everything, making the world feel small and quiet and private.
"You want to come up?" she asked.
"I thought you had homework."
"I do." She stepped closer. Pressed her palm flat against his chest. "But I also have a bed. And a door that locks."
Jordan's heart hammered against her hand.
"I have a bed too," he said.
"Yours is smaller."
"Yours is farther from the dining hall."
"Yours has that weird stain on the ceiling."
"That's water damage. It's character."
She laughed and grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him toward the door. The lobby was warm, overheated, smelled like laundry detergent and old carpet. They didn't make it past the first floor stairwell.
The stairwell was empty. Concrete walls, flickering fluorescent light, a handrail that had been tagged with graffiti so old it had faded to pastel. Jordan pressed Maria against the wall and kissed her, hard, and she kissed him back with the same desperate energy. Her hands were under his jacket, under his shirt, nails raking down his spine. His hands were on her ass, pulling her closer, grinding against her through their jeans.
"Here?" he asked.
"Here."
He fumbled with the button on her jeans, yanked them down her thighs along with her underwear. She kicked them off—one leg, then the other—and then she was bare from the waist down, standing in a stairwell with snow melting in her hair. Jordan dropped to his knees.
"What are you—"
"Shut up."
He put his mouth on her.
She gasped, one hand flying to the handrail, the other tangling in his hair. He licked up the length of her cunt, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of her skin and the sweetness of the syrup still on her fingers. She was already wet—had been wet since the diner, maybe, since the kiss, since he'd told her he liked her.
"Jordan," she breathed.
He didn't answer. Just kept going, tongue circling her clit, fingers sliding inside her. She was tight and hot and slick, and every sound she made echoed off the concrete walls like a prayer.
"Don't stop," she said. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't.
He worked her with his mouth and his fingers until her thighs were shaking, until her grip on his hair was almost painful, until she came apart with a moan that she tried to muffle against her own arm. He stayed there, tongue gentle now, easing her down from the peak, until she pushed him away with a breathless laugh.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. Your turn."
She pulled him to his feet and spun him around, pressing him against the wall. Her fingers found his belt, his zipper, and then her hand was around his cock, stroking slow and firm. He was already hard—had been since the diner, maybe, since she'd said she liked him, since she'd kissed him back.
"Condom?" she asked.
"Pocket."
She found it, rolled it on with practiced efficiency, and then she was on her knees.
Maria took him in her mouth and Jordan saw stars.
Her tongue was hot and wet, sliding up the underside of his cock, swirling around the head. She took him deep, deeper than he expected, until he could feel the back of her throat. He groaned and braced himself against the wall, fingers splayed against the concrete.
"Fuck," he said.
She pulled off, looked up at him with those dark eyes, and smiled.
"You like that?"
"You know I like that."
"Say it."
"I like it."
"Say please."
"Please."
She took him back in her mouth, faster this time, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the other cupping his balls. Jordan's head fell back against the wall. The fluorescent light flickered overhead. Somewhere in the building, someone was playing music—something bass-heavy and angry—but it felt miles away.
"I'm gonna—" he started.
She pulled off again. Stood up. Turned around and braced her hands on the handrail.
"Fuck me," she said.
He didn't need to be told twice.
He grabbed her hips and pushed inside her, and she moaned loud enough to wake the dead. The stairwell amplified everything—the slap of skin, the creak of the handrail, the wet sounds of their bodies meeting. Jordan fucked her hard and fast, one hand on her hip, the other braced against the wall beside her head.
"Harder," she said.
He went harder.
"Faster."
Faster.
"Pull my hair."
He grabbed a fistful of her curls and yanked, and she cried out, and he felt her clench around him. She was close. He could feel it in the way her body was trembling, the way her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Come for me," he said.
"Make me."
He reached around and found her clit with his fingers, rubbing tight circles while he fucked her from behind. She came almost immediately—a full-body shudder that made her knees buckle, a moan that echoed off the walls. Jordan fucked her through it, chasing his own release, and when it hit him it hit him hard.
He came with a groan, buried deep inside her, his hips stuttering against her ass. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just stood there, tangled together, breathing hard.
Then Maria laughed.
"We're in a stairwell," she said.
"I know."
"Anyone could have walked by."
"I know."
"I don't care."
"Neither do I."
She turned around and kissed him, soft and slow, and Jordan tasted himself on her tongue. It should have been gross. It wasn't.
"We should probably go upstairs," she said.
"Probably."
"Before someone finds us."
"Probably."
Neither of them moved.
Then the door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and they both scrambled—pulling up pants, smoothing hair, trying to look like they hadn't just fucked in a public space. A girl with a laundry basket appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked at them. They looked at her.
"Morning," Maria said.
The girl blinked. "Morning."
She walked past them without another word, down the stairs, out the door. The moment it clicked shut, Maria burst out laughing.
"That was close," she said.
"That was terrifying."
"That was fun."
"You're insane."
"You love it."
He did.
They climbed the stairs to her apartment—a tiny studio on the third floor, cluttered with art supplies and vintage posters and a futon that looked even more broken-down than his. Maria kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the bed, and Jordan followed, pulling her close.
"So," she said. "Homework."
"Homework."
"We're not going to do it, are we?"
"Probably not."
"Good."
She kissed his chest and closed her eyes, and Jordan lay there in the morning light, listening to the radiator clank and the snow fall against the window. He didn't check his phone. Didn't check the score. Didn't check anything except the way her body felt against his.
The day stretched out ahead of them, wide and empty and full of possibility. He had no idea what was going to happen next. He didn't care.
For the first time in a long time, he was exactly where he wanted to be.