Chapter 3: The Aftermath
The grease wouldn’t wash off.
Damon scrubbed his hands under scalding water at his kitchen sink, the soap bubbling over his knuckles. He could still smell the garage, the office, the cheap perfume Lexi wore underneath the oil. It was in his pores. The memory of her cold, efficient hands on him made his skin crawl even as, traitorously, his body recalled the sheer physical relief of release. He dried off, the towel rough against his palms, and stared at his reflection in the dark window. The obedient giant. The useful idiot.
His phone glowed on the counter. Katrina’s name. A lifeline.
Meet me at Overton Park. The big oak by the pond. Now. I have wine.
He went. The evening was cool, the sky streaked with orange and purple. The park was mostly empty—a couple walking a dog in the distance, the lights of the city beginning to twinkle beyond the trees. He found her sitting on a thick, worn quilt under the sprawling branches of an ancient oak. She wore a soft-looking sweatshirt and jeans, her hair down. Two plastic cups and a bottle of red wine sat between her.
She looked up as he approached, her smile fading as she saw his face. “Who died?”
“No one,” he said, lowering himself onto the quilt. The ground was hard beneath it.
“Bullshit.” She poured wine into a cup and handed it to him. “You look like you lost a fight with a philosophy textbook. Talk.”
He took a gulp. It was cheap and sweet. “Just… Frankie. Had me do a job today.”
“The talking one?” she asked, sipping her wine.
“A different one.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “It wasn’t talking.”
Katrina was quiet for a long moment, watching him. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a sharp, protective focus. “He used you.”
It wasn’t a question. The simplicity of the statement, its bald accuracy, cracked something open in Damon’s chest. He nodded, staring into his cup.
“That greasy fuck,” she whispered, her voice venomous. Then she sighed, the anger melting into something softer. She reached over and placed her hand on his forearm. His muscles were corded tight under her touch. “You’re too good for that, Damon. Your heart’s too big. He sees it and he treats it like a handle.”
“I said I’d help,” Damon mumbled, the justification feeling pathetic even to him.
“Helping is fixing a porch. Helping is carrying a sofa. What he does… that’s not help. That’s consumption.” She moved her hand, her fingers lacing with his. Her touch was warm, real. “Forget him tonight. Be here. With me.”
She leaned in and kissed him. It was nothing like the frantic, hungry kisses from the bar. This was slow, deep, a deliberate reclamation. Her tongue traced his lips, and the taste of her—wine and mint gum—chased away the phantom taste of dust and degradation. He groaned into her mouth, his free hand coming up to cup her jaw.
When they broke apart, she was smiling, but her eyes were serious. “You’re all wound up. Let me.”
She shifted, pushing him gently until he was lying back on the quilt. She straddled his hips, her weight a comforting pressure. Then she leaned down and kissed him again, her hands sliding under his shirt, roaming over the rigid planes of his stomach and chest. Her touch was exploratory, appreciative, worshipful. It unraveled the knots one by one.
“Everyone can see us,” he murmured, glancing toward the path where the couple with the dog had passed minutes before.
“So?” she breathed against his neck, nipping the skin. “Let them see. Let them see what a real man looks like. What he feels like.” Her hand slid down, palming the heavy erection straining against his jeans. “Let them be jealous.”
Her audacity, her sheer ownership of the moment, ignited him. The shame from the afternoon burned away, replaced by a hotter, cleaner fire. He sat up, crushing her to him in a fierce kiss, his hands finding the hem of her sweatshirt and pulling it up and over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits spilled into his hands, full and heavy, her nipples pebbled tight in the cool air. He bent his head, taking one into his mouth, suckling hard.
“Yeah,” she hissed, arching her back, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Just like that.”
He laid her back on the quilt, following her down. He yanked her jeans and panties down her thighs in one rough movement. She kicked them off, bare and exposed to the dusk. The blanket was scratchy against her skin. He loomed over her, devouring her with his eyes—the curve of her hips, the thatch of dark hair between her legs, the way her chest rose and fell with quick breaths.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growled, the words raw and unfiltered.
“Then stop looking and start fucking,” she demanded, spreading her legs wide. Her fingers dipped between her own folds, spreading her wetness. “I’m soaked for you. I’ve been thinking about this cock all day.”
He fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy with need. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock stood out, thick and veined, a brutal silhouette against the darkening sky. Katrina’s eyes locked onto it, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“God, it’s a monster,” she whispered, a mix of awe and sheer greed in her voice.
He didn’t wait. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her slick heat. He looked into her eyes, a silent question there.
“Do it,” she urged, hooking her legs around his waist. “Fill me up. I want to feel you for days.”
He pushed forward.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion. She was tight, and he was immense. Her breath hitched, her eyes fluttering shut as he stretched her, the burning fullness a palpable force between them. He sank deeper, inch by devastating inch, until his hips were flush against hers, until he was buried to the hilt inside her clutching, wet heat.
“Fuck,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh fuck, Damon… you split me open…”
He began to move.
There was no finesse. It was raw, primal pistoning. Withdrawing almost completely, then slamming back home. The slap of his flesh against hers was a damp, rhythmic beat in the quiet park air. The blanket bunched beneath them. The old oak tree bore witness.
Katrina met every thrust with a roll of her hips, taking him deeper, urging him harder. “Yes! Right there! Oh god, that’s the spot, you beautiful brute, you fucking hit it!” Her curses were loud, uninhibited. She didn’t care who heard. Her hands raked down his back, clutching at the powerful muscles of his ass, feeling them flex and drive with every punishing stroke.
Damon lost himself in the sensation, in the sounds she made. This was nothing like the silent, grim transaction in Frankie’s office. This was loud, and messy, and alive. Her cunt was a slick, tight fist milking his cock, her breasts jiggling with each impact. He dropped his head, sucking a dark mark onto the swell of her tit, claiming her.
“You gonna come?” she panted in his ear, her voice husky with strain. “You gonna pump that big load in me? Do it. Mark me. Let everyone know who I belong to.”
Her words tipped him over the edge. With a guttural roar he muffled against her neck, he drove in one last, deep time and erupted. Hot jets of cum flooded her, spurting deep inside her clenching channel. She cried out, her own climax triggered by the feel of him pulsing, her inner muscles spasming around his shaft in wave after wave of intense, shuddering release.
He collapsed on top of her, spent, his weight crushing her into the quilt. They lay there, tangled, sweating, breathing in ragged unison. The world slowly filtered back in—the chirp of crickets, distant traffic, the cool breeze on their damp skin.
After a while, he softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of their mixed fluids leaked onto the blanket. She didn’t move to cover it.
He rolled to the side, gathering her against him. She nestled her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his pounding heart.
“Frankie’s got another job for me tomorrow,” he said into the quiet, the words hanging in the air between them.
Katrina went still. She didn’t look up. “The one you originally promised? The ‘talk’?”
“Yeah.”
She was silent for a long time. Then she pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Her face was serious, all the playfulness gone. “Don’t go.”
“I said I would.”
“Un-say it.” Her grip on his arm tightened. “Damon, listen to me. That world… it’s not for you. You go there to ‘talk,’ and next time it won’t be a transmission problem in a back office. It’ll be something worse. Something that leaves a different kind of stain. You can’t wash that off.”
He looked up at the first stars piercing the twilight. He thought of Frankie’s slick smile, the cold feel of the office wall against his back. He thought of the simple, solid weight of a hammer in his hand, the clean smell of sawdust.
“I gave my word,” he said, but it sounded hollow, even to him.
Katrina sighed, a sound of profound frustration and fear. She lay back down, turning her back to him, pulling the edge of the quilt over her shoulder. The distance between them, inches on the blanket, felt like a canyon.
The evening chill settled in for real. The wine was gone. The heat of their bodies faded, leaving only the damp, sticky evidence on the fabric beneath them and a decision hanging in the dark, waiting for the sun.