Chapter 2: The Bedroom
The latch clicked into place, sealing them in a silence so profound the distant bass felt like a memory. Gavin’s hands were on her, pushing her back against the door, the hard edge of the knob digging into her spine as his mouth found hers again, hotter and more urgent than in the hall. His fingers slid under her jacket, gripping the thin cotton of her shirt at her waist, and she gasped into his mouth, her own hands fisting in the soft fabric of his tee. He broke the kiss, his breath ragged against her neck, and whispered, "Is this okay?" before lowering her onto the narrow bed, its springs groaning in protest under their combined weight.
She nodded, not trusting her voice. His fingers fumbled at the button of her jeans, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room, before he gripped the denim at her hip and pulled, struggling past her waist. “Sorry,” he breathed against her collarbone, not sounding sorry at all. The cool air hit her thigh, a shocking contrast to the heat of his hand sliding up her bare skin. Veronica flinched, a full-body tremor, her mind short-circuiting on the whole affair.
Veronica tossed her jacket to the floor, the leather landing with a dull slap. She lifted her shirt, the cotton dragging over her head, and a silent thought echoed, This is happening. Gavin kicked off his sneakers, one after the other, and pulled his shirt off in a swift, practiced motion. The cool, stale air prickled her skin. He reached for her again, his hands finding her waist, and the distant bass throbbed through the floorboards.
His fingers hooked into the lace of her underwear and pulled them down, the fabric dragging over her hips and thighs before falling away. She arched her back, undid her bra, and let it drop, then kicked her shoes towards the corner with a dull scrape. As she did, he peeled her socks off, his hands rough and hurried, then he froze. "Christ," he breathed, his gaze dropping to her pussy with a stunned, voracious intensity that made her throat tighten. "You're... fuck..."
He unbuttoned his jeans, the metal button pinging loose against the floorboards. She peered down at his cock, uncircumcised, average sized, surrounded by a patch of brown hair. It's so fucking perfect. Fuck me. Hard. Ugh, stop it, her internal thoughts screamed in a cascading loop as her heart hammered against her ribs.
He watched her watching him, his expression tightening. “You alright?” he asked, his voice lower now, edged with a hesitation that hadn’t been there before.
"Yeah," she nodded, sitting upright on the groaning springs, the torn seam of her jeans a cold whisper against her thigh. What the hell am I doing? She bent forward, her mouth meeting the smooth, salty skin of his cock. He made a sharp, choked sound above her, his hands fluttering near her hair. The taste was bitter, procedural, a fact in the dim room's silence.
She sucked him slowly, her mouth a controlled, wet pressure, actively working to salivate around his length. “Fuck, Ronnie,” he gasped, his hips giving a shallow, involuntary jerk. His hand settled roughly in her hair, not pushing, just holding. The deliberate, slick noise in the quiet room felt louder than the music downstairs.
She continued to suck, heart hammering in her chest, a frantic drumbeat beneath the wet, deliberate sounds. "Wait, wait," Gavin breathed, his fingers tensing in her hair, "stop." She pulled away, wiping away the saliva stringing between her mouth and his cock, and met his gaze. His expression was raw, stripped of charm, just need. He leaned in. "I wanna be inside you," he said, pushing her back into the pillows.
His hands fumbled at her hips, his breathing ragged and uneven against her neck, his focus entirely on the heat between her legs. He slid into her, a blunt, burning pressure that made her gasp, the stretch an immediate, shocking fullness. Fuck, fuck, no condom, her mind chattered, a frantic counterpoint to the solid, unforgiving weight of him inside her.
“Jesus,” he choked out, his hips pushing forward once, then again, burying himself completely. He began to move then, a slow, tentative withdrawal followed by a deeper, more deliberate thrust, his body adjusting to the hot, tight clasp of her.
Veronica watched his face intently, the strain in his neck, the flutter of his eyelids, the way his bottom lip caught under his teeth. A low, choked moan escaped her, the words forming clumsily. "Yeah... just like that," she heard herself say, the phrase sounding hollow and performative even to her own ears.
His rhythm settled, each stroke gaining confidence, the bedframe tapping a consistent, guilty tattoo against the wall. "You're amazing."
She kissed him then, a sudden press of her mouth against his to stop the words, her tongue tasting the stale beer and her own salt on his lips. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing harsh.
"God, you feel so good," he whispered, the words a warm, rough vibration against the shell of her ear. His rhythm never faltered, a deep, insistent cadence pinning her against the sheet.
Just this, she thought, the cliché dissolving into pure sensation, don’t let this end. She shut her eyes, surrendering to the meaningless, perfect sound of his voice. "C'mon."
His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his thrusts deepening as he whispered, “You like that, don’t you?” His voice was a low, gritty rumble that vibrated through her skull.
“Yeah,” she gasped, letting the word hitch and break on the next measured drive of his hips, and she felt the satisfied shudder that ran through him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his rhythm turning punishing and deliberate.
The bed’s protesting groan synchronized with the distant, fading bass from below.
His breathing hitched, a ragged punctuation to each thrust. "Tell me something," he grunted, the words strained, "what did you think when you saw my jeans hit the floor?"
The question was so bizarrely specific, so disconnected from the slick heat between them, that a startled laugh almost escaped her. She swallowed it, opting for a husky, "I thought they looked cheap."
He groaned, long and low, his rhythm fracturing into something desperate and final.
His entire body went taut, a strung wire vibrating against her. “What about my cock?” he managed, the words gritted out between clenched teeth, his hips stuttering.
“It’s good,” she breathed, her voice flat and factual, “just the right amount.”
A ragged, punched-out sound tore from his throat and he slammed his eyes shut, his forearms locking as he braced himself above her, every muscle straining to hold back. He swallowed hard, his throat working, and drove into her again with a shallow, controlled gasp.
He swallowed hard, his throat working, and drove into her again with a shallow, controlled gasp. “Christ, you're crazy,” he muttered into her ear, the words a nonsensical, humid burst.
“Shit.” The word was a cold, sharp exhale against her cheek as the realization hit him. His rhythm, which had been measured, broke into a frantic, deep pistoning, the new pace punishing and desperate.
His rhythm, which had been measured, broke into a frantic, deep pistoning, the new pace punishing and desperate. His forehead was damp against her temple. "You on the pill?" He grunted, the words fracturing with each drive of his hips.
"Yeah," she said, the single syllable clipped and airless. She watches his face now, the tremor in his jaw, the way his eyes lose focus and fix on some point beyond her shoulder. His breath catches, a wet hitch, and she knows he’s about to come.
“Fuck,” he swore, the word a sharp crack in the quiet room, his face wincing as if in pain. He braced his weight on locked arms, his thrusts growing shallow and inconsistent, a stuttering series of movements that had no rhythm left. He spilled inside her with a choked groan, his body shuddering against hers, a warm, internal pulse that made her own stomach clench.
She watched him intently, her fingers digging into the damp skin of his lower back, pulling his collapsing weight closer until his forehead rested heavily on her shoulder. The AC/DC poster stared down, a mute witness to the wet, still heat between them. He grunted as each pulse made its release, cradling him in her arms.
The room was silent now except for their labored breathing and the faint, persistent hum of the refrigerator downstairs. He went limp, his full weight sinking into her for a long moment before he rolled off, the sudden absence of his heat making her skin prickle. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He laid an arm over his forehead to try and cool off.
“Shit,” he says, swearing in utter disbelief. He turned his head on the pillow, his mouth opening as if to speak. "Sorry," he added. "Without the condom really does it for me, sometimes..." The sound died, dissolving into a soft exhale. His gaze drifted down to her bare thighs, his hand drifting over her belly.
Her gut fluttered, a nervous cascade that raced up into her throat. She nodded, her mind a silent scream of yes it’s fine it’s done it’s perfect. "It’s fine,” she said, the words rushing out to clot the thick quiet. She pulled his mouth back to hers, a clumsy, searching kiss that tasted of salt and stale beer. His stubble scraped her chin, a blunt friction that grounded her. Stop talking, she thought, just be here, in this skin, right now. The distant hum of the fridge downstairs seeped back into the room.