Chapter 5: A Tender Night
The drawing absorbed her for hours. She filled page after page with fragments of him: the curve of his ear where his hair fell, the intricate lines of his hands resting on the guitar, the stark, shadowed hollow of his collarbone. It was an excavation. When her phone buzzed again, the light was fading, and her fingers were stained charcoal black. It was a text from him, just a photo. A pallet of bourbon barrels, a dim warehouse behind it. The caption: Shit’s heavy. Back by 7.
The normalcy of it, the domestic report, sent a jolt through her. It was followed immediately by a cold, practical dread. Last night. This morning. The frantic, reckless abandon. They hadn’t used anything. Not once.
She packed her sketchbook with trembling hands. The drive to the CVS on the edge of town felt clandestine. She parked at the far end of the lot, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs. Inside, the fluorescent lights were aggressively bright. She grabbed a basket, her shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.
The family planning aisle was a gauntlet. She found the Plan B first, the small box somehow looking both innocent and accusatory. She snatched it, hiding it under a magazine. Condoms. The variety was overwhelming. She chose a simple blue box of Trojans, then, after a breath, a small bottle of silicone-based lube. It felt like a statement, a hopeful, filthy promise. She added the ingredients for a simple carbonara—eggs, pecorino, pancetta, a box of spaghetti—and marched to the checkout, avoiding the cashier’s eyes.
Back in her car, she fumbled with the pill packaging, dry-swallowing the tablet with a convulsive gulp. It stuck in her throat for a terrifying second before going down. She sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, waiting for… something. A sign, perhaps, that this was all a catastrophic mistake. None came. Only the quiet hum of the parking lot lights.
She drove to his apartment, using the key he’d grudgingly given her that morning. “In case I’m in the shower,” he’d said, not meeting her eyes. The silence inside was different now. It held her shape. She went straight to the bedroom. The bed was still a chaotic tangle of sheets from their morning. She could smell them—sex, sweat, him. Methodically, she stripped the bed, balling the linens and leaving them in a pile by the door. She remade it with clean sheets she found in a hall closet, tight hospital corners, a ritual of order.
Then, from her purse, she took the blue box and the bottle of lube. She placed them side-by-side on the clean surface of the nightstand, precisely aligned. A modern offering. A negotiation of terms for whatever this was becoming.
In the kitchen, she got to work. She diced the pancetta, grated the cheese, whisked the eggs with black pepper. The motions were calming, a familiar algorithm. She put a pot of water on to boil, then opened a bottle of the cheap red wine he kept above the fridge, pouring a glass. She sipped it, leaning against the counter, watching the steam rise from the pot. The apartment began to smell of frying pork and garlic.
At ten past seven, she heard the heavy tread on the stairs, the jingle of keys. The door opened and he filled the doorway, backlit by the hall light. He looked exhausted, his shoulders dusted with some fine, pale powder, his t-shirt stained with sweat and something darker. He stopped, sniffed the air, his eyes finding her in the kitchen.
“What’s all this?” he asked, his voice rough from disuse.
“Dinner,” she said, turning to drop the pasta into the roaring boil. “Go shower. You smell like a warehouse floor.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He dropped his keys on the small table, his eyes sweeping the room, taking in the cleaned surfaces, the set table for two. His gaze lingered on the hallway leading to the bedroom. He didn’t move.
“Kate.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He said it with a gravity that encompassed more than the food. She nodded, her back to him, stirring the pasta. “Don’t mention it.”
She heard him move down the hall, the creak of the floorboards, the click of the bathroom door. The shower hissed to life. She finished the sauce, the raw eggs and cheese emulsifying into a silky cream with the hot pasta and pancetta fat. She plated it, grated more cheese on top.
He emerged in a cloud of steam, wearing clean basketball shorts and a gray henley, his hair damp and curling at the ends. He looked younger, but the shadows under his eyes were profound. He saw the food, the wine, and something in his face softened, grew vulnerable.
They ate in near-silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of forks and the low hum of the refrigerator.
“This is incredible,” he finally said, shoveling in another mouthful.
“It’s just pasta.”
“It’s not.” He looked at her. “You drew today.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded. “At the pier.”
“Of what?”
She met his gaze. “You.”
He put his fork down carefully. The air tightened. “Can I see?”
“Later.”
He accepted that, picking his fork back up. “The drawing… and this.” He gestured with his chin around the apartment. “It’s a lot. You don’t have to… perform.”
“I’m not,” she said, a flare of defensiveness in her voice. “I wanted to cook. I needed to do something with my hands that wasn’t… thinking.”
He understood. “The store,” he said, his voice dropping. “You went?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I took care of it.” She held his stare, challenging him to look away. “I also got… supplies. For next time. They’re in the bedroom.”
His eyes darkened, the green going deep and opaque. He pushed his plate away, his appetite seemingly gone. He stood up, came around the table, and pulled her to her feet. He didn’t kiss her. He just stared down at her, his hands on her hips, his thumbs pressing into the bone. “Show me.”
She led him to the bedroom. The clean, taut sheets, the ordered room. And on the nightstand, the blatant, purposeful items. He looked from the condoms and lube to her face, his expression unreadable.
“Planning ahead,” he murmured.
“Being realistic,” she corrected.
A slow, wicked smile finally broke through his exhaustion. “You thought about it. While you were cooking. You thought about me using this on you.”
She felt a flush heat her chest, her neck. “Maybe.”
He picked up the bottle of lube, turning it over in his hand. The plastic made a soft clicking sound. “Tell me what you thought about.”
Kate flushed. "You coming home... pulling off my clothes and burying your face between my thighs." She breathed. "I thought of the feel of your tongue sliding in and out of me and the feel of your hand around my throat, pinning me in place until I come." Her admission made her press her thighs together and bit her lip.
Her admission hung between them, a raw, pulsating thing. Joshua’s eyes, dark and intent, tracked the movement of her thighs. A low sound escaped him, part groan, part surrender. He tossed the bottle onto the bed where it landed with a soft thump.
“Get on the bed,” he said, his voice stripped of all its earlier gentleness. “On your back. Now.”
The command, so stark after the intimacy of dinner, sent a jolt of pure heat straight to her core. She obeyed, sliding back until her head met the pillows. The clean sheets smelled faintly of laundry soap and the promise of their sweat. He stood at the foot of the bed, watching her, a predator assessing.
He pulled his henley off in one swift motion. The scars were a brutal topography in the low light. He unbuttoned his shorts, pushed them down. His cock sprang free, already thick and fully erect, the tip glistening. He didn’t touch himself. He just let her look.
“You want my mouth?” he asked, crawling onto the bed, his movements deliberate, predatory. He settled between her legs, pushing them apart with his shoulders. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh. “You want me to eat your pussy until you scream?”
“Yes,” she breathed, arching up.
“Then don’t fucking move.” His voice was a gravelly whisper against her inner thigh. “You move, I stop.”
He didn’t wait for her agreement. His tongue, hot and broad, licked a slow, torturous stripe from her entrance all the way up to her clit. She gasped, her fingers twisting in the sheets. He did it again, slower, savoring her taste. Then he closed his lips over her clit and sucked, hard.
A broken cry tore from her throat. Her hips jerked involuntarily.
He stopped immediately, lifting his head. “I said don’t move.” His eyes flashed a warning. He didn’t resume until she forced her body to go slack, a tremor of desperate effort running through her.
He rewarded her with a deep, filthy dive of his tongue into her cunt, fucking her with it in slow, rhythmic strokes. The sound was obscenely wet. He alternated between that deep penetration and ruthless, focused suction on her clit, his stubble scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs. He was relentless, an artist of sensation, mapping every fold, every secret spot that made her gasp.
“Joshua, please,” she whimpered, her resolve shattered.
“Please what?” he mumbled against her, not stopping.
“I’m going to come.”
“Then come.” He sealed his mouth over her again, his finger joining his tongue, pushing inside her, curling up to find that spongy, electric spot inside. He pressed it, unerringly, as his tongue flicked her clit.
It was too much. The orgasm detonated, a silent, blinding white-out that seized her entire body. She arched off the bed, a strangled sound caught in her throat, her cunt pulsing violently around his finger. He didn’t let up, drawing the convulsions out until they were sharp, almost painful jolts.
As the last tremor faded, he withdrew. He knelt back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his own breathing ragged. He looked wrecked, triumphant. He reached for the nightstand, snatched a condom, and ripped the foil with his teeth.
“Fuck,” he whispered, tossing the foil away. “You… taste like heaven wrapped in sin.”
“Turn over,” he ordered, his voice thick. “On your knees. I want to see that ass in the air. I want to watch myself go into you.”
Her limbs were liquid, but she managed to roll onto her stomach, then push herself up onto her hands and knees. The position felt profoundly vulnerable, offering. She heard the tear of the lube cap, the slick, squelching sound as he coated himself.
The blunt, cool head of his cock, slick with lube, pressed against her entrance from behind. He didn’t ask. He just pushed. The lube made the initial stretch a smooth, relentless invasion, a filling so complete it stole her breath. He seated himself to the hilt with a deep, guttural groan, his hands clamping on her hips.
“Fuck, Kate,” he choked out. “Look at you. Taking all of me. Good girl."
He began to move, a slow, withdrawing drag followed by a hard, driving thrust. The angle was different, deeper, each impact jolting through her. The lewd, wet slap of their bodies filled the room. He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, one hand snaking around to her front, finding her clit again, already swollen and oversensitive.
“You’re going to come again,” he growled in her ear, his breath hot. “You’re going to come on my cock while I fuck this perfect, tight cunt.”
His words, the relentless rhythm, the fullness—it built a second peak with shocking speed. It was a darker, deeper climax, a rolling wave of pleasure-pain that wrenched a raw, sobbing cry from her lungs. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in frantic, fluttering pulses.
Feeling her convulse around him shattered his control. His thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming frantic, brutal. “Yeah, take it, take my fucking come,” he grunted, his body locking, his hips slamming into her one last, final time as he emptied himself with a ragged shout.
He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in her sweat-damp hair. They stayed like that, joined, spent, the only sound their ragged, syncing breaths. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, spooning her against the damp heat of his body.
His arm tightened around her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her lower belly. The silence stretched, textured now with the smell of sex and their shared exhaustion.
“The drawings,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough.