Chapter 13: Don't complain
The silence in the living room was a different creature than the workshop’s industrial hum. Here, it was a vacuum, sucked clean by the expensive soundproofing and the weight of things unsaid. Glitch stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, her naked back to the room, watching the neon city bleed into the predawn gray. Her body felt like a used glove, every muscle aware of where it had been stretched and filled.
Laloz was on the pristine white sofa, tracing the rim of his whiskey glass. The ice had melted an hour ago. He watched the line of her spine, the curve of her ass, the faint glisten of dried fluids on her inner thighs. A possessive ache tightened in his chest.
“We need to talk,” Glitch said, her voice flat against the glass.
“Okay.” He didn’t move.
She turned. Her face was unreadable, a beautiful mask. “This… this is a lot, Lalo. You know? It’s every day. It’s all the time. I’ve got other people. I’ve got a life. My husband is starting to ask questions about where I go all night.” She hugged herself, a gesture that looked oddly vulnerable. “I’m sore in places I didn’t know I had. That smoothie thing? Creative. But fuck. I’m not a kitchen appliance.”
He set the glass down on the table. The clink was absurdly loud. “You don’t like it?”
“That’s not the point!” She threw her hands up. “The point is it’s becoming… I don’t know. Consuming. For you. I’m just a hole you’re trying to pour yourself into to forget that bitch who left you.”
The words landed like a physical blow. He flinched. The truth of them was a shard of glass in his gut. His loneliness, which had been a quiet background noise, roared into a deafening scream. He stood up, his movements stiff.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low.
“Don’t what? Don’t tell the truth? You bought a robot, Lalo. You bought me. But I’m not a robot. I can’t just be your on-demand fuck-puzzle you solve with fruit and protein powder.” She was on a roll now, the frustrations of weeks tumbling out. “It’s not sustainable. I need a break. We need to cool it.”
He crossed the room in three long strides. She held her ground, chin raised, but he saw the flicker in her eyes—a war between genuine concern and the base thrill of his intensity. He didn’t speak. He dropped to his knees in front of her, the hardwood punishing his joints. He pushed his face against her lower belly, his nose nuzzling the coarse hair at the base of her soft cock. He inhaled deeply, the musk of their last encounter still on her skin, underlaid by her own clean scent.
“Laloz, no. We’re talking,” she said, but her protest lacked force. Her hands came to rest on his head, not pushing him away.
He ignored her. He mouthed along the length of her flaccid shaft, feeling it twitch against his lips. He took her balls, one then the other, into his mouth, rolling them with his tongue, sucking gently. A low groan escaped her. He worked his way down, past them, to the pucker of her ass, still swollen and tender from the night before. He pressed a kiss there, a soft, apologetic thing, then dragged his tongue along the sensitive seam.
“God… damn it,” she whispered, her head falling back.
That was all the invitation he needed. His hands hooked behind her knees, lifting. She wobbled, bracing herself on his shoulders as he pulled her legs over his, spreading her wide open before his face. He dove in, his tongue a flat, wet stripe over her hole before spearing deep inside. He ate her ass with a desperate, focused hunger, not for pleasure this time, but for silence. He was speaking with his tongue, arguing with his mouth. This is us. This is what we are. Don’t take this away.
Her attempts at speech became fragmented gasps. “We… can’t just… fuck every… time… oh, fuck, right there…”
He redoubled his efforts, gripping her ass cheeks, spreading her wider, burying his face so deep his nose pressed against her perineum. He fucked her with his tongue, in and out, a rapid, insistent rhythm. He felt her body opening, responding, betraying her words. Her cock began to thicken and rise, brushing against his forehead.
She tried one last time. “Lalo, stop. I’m serious—”
He pulled his mouth away with a wet pop. He looked up, his chin slick. “Okay,” he breathed. “Talk.”
But before she could form a sentence, he leaned forward and took the head of her cock into his mouth. He sucked it hard, his tongue swirling around the corona. Her words dissolved into a shattered moan. He sank down, taking her fully into his throat in one smooth, practiced motion. She was fully hard now, the weight and heat of her on his tongue a familiar comfort. He began to bob, setting a relentless pace, his hands clutching her hips, his throat working around her.
“You bastard,” she choked out, her fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide him, but to hold on. “You fucking… selfish… bastard…”
He hummed around her, the vibration making her hips jerk. Every criticism, every valid point, was being swallowed, literally. He sucked her cock like it was the only truth that mattered, like her orgasm would erase the conversation. He gagged slightly, tears springing to his eyes, but he didn’t slow. He wanted her taste, her surrender, the proof that her body was still his.
She came with a ragged cry, her release pumping hot and bitter down his throat. He drank it all, swallowing convulsively, milking her with his lips until she shuddered and pushed him away, oversensitive.
He knelt back, gasping, her come on his lips. He looked up at her, panting. “You were saying?”
She sagged against the window, spent, a sheen of sweat on her chest. “I hate you,” she murmured, but it sounded like a endearment.
He stood up, his own erection straining against his pants. He turned her around, pressing her against the cool glass. The city lights were blurry smears beyond her reflection. He unzipped his fly, freeing himself, and spit into his palm, wetting his cock. He guided himself to her ass, still wet from his mouth.
“No,” she whimpered, but it was a token resistance. Her body arched back into his.
He pushed inside. The entry was tight, a hot, gripping resistance that made him see stars. He sheathed himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, his pelvis slapping against her ass. She cried out, her breath fogging the glass.
He fucked her against the window, a hard, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was a period at the end of her sentences. Shut. Up. This. Enough. He gripped her hips, his fingers sure to leave bruises, and pounded into her, the windowpane rattling in its frame. He was claiming more than her body; he was claiming her voice, her agency, her complaints. He was reducing everything to this simple, animal transaction.
She came again, silently this time, her inner muscles fluttering around him in a fierce, rhythmic grip. It tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep drive, he emptied himself inside her, a hot flood that seeped out around the edges of his cock almost immediately, dripping down her thighs.
He collapsed against her, both of them slick with sweat, pinned between the cold, impersonal glass and the heat of their spent bodies. The living room was silent again, save for their ragged breathing. The conversation was over. He had won, or at least, he had postponed the inevitable. In the reflection, he saw his own hollow eyes staring back, victorious and utterly empty.