Chapter 6: Bareback Bargain
Stevie leaned against the cold cinderblock wall of the staff hallway, just outside the laundry room. The metal of the gumball machine dug into her shoulder blade. Her hands trembled slightly. She tucked them into the pockets of her hoodie, willing the tremor to stop. From behind the closed door, she heard the soft rustle of fabric. He was getting dressed. The unsaid thing between them had shifted again, becoming something dense and undeniable. Real, he’d called it.
The door opened. David stepped out, his movements careful, precise. He’d straightened his sweater, re-knotted his scarf. He looked like himself again, except for the pallor beneath his olive skin and the faint, bruised look around his eyes. He closed the door softly, the click of the latch loud in the silent hallway.
They stood a few feet apart, not looking at each other. The cheap clock above them ticked.
“So,” he said finally, his voice devoid of its usual melodic lilt. It was flat.
“So,” she echoed.
“That was…”
“Don’t.” She cut him off, pushing off the wall. She couldn’t stand here while he performed linguistic archaeology on what she’d done. “It happened. Let’s not curate it.”
He fell into step beside her as she walked towards the lobby. “I’m not curating. I’m…” He trailed off, lacking the word. They passed the darkened, empty breakfast nook.
In the lobby, the sun had shifted, casting long, dusty rectangles of light across the worn carpet. The air was still, smelling of pine cleaner and old coffee. It was their sanctuary, normally. Now it felt like a stage.
David walked behind the reception desk and slumped into the creaking swivel chair, spinning it slowly to face her. He picked up a pen, tapped it twice on the reservation book. “I have needs, Stevie.”
The statement was so bald, so un-David-like, it stunned her. She stopped by the rack of tourist brochures for alpaca farms and cavern tours. “What?”
“Needs.” He said it again, as if testing the word. “Aesthetic needs. Comfort needs. Romantic needs. Somatic needs.” He listed them like items on a shopping list, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the pen. “What we are doing… it’s violently addressing one subset. While comprehensively ignoring all the others.”
“Somatic,” she repeated, the clinical word sour in her mouth. “You mean fucking.”
“I mean the whole body experience!” He flung his hands up, the pen clattering onto the desk. “It’s not just a series of… of hostile gymnasium events in utility closets! It’s supposed to have a… a connective tissue!”
She walked around the desk and leaned against it, facing him. His eyes were dark, pleading. He was trying to build a framework around a wildfire, and it was the most vulnerable she’d ever seen him. It was annoying. It was fascinating.
“What do you want, David? Candles? Marvin Gaye?” She kept her voice low, teasing, but not unkind.
“I want…” He stopped, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then flicking away. “I want to take you to dinner.”
She blinked. Of all the things she’d expected—a fuck-buddy contract, a dramatic severance, another round of confused, angry sex—this wasn’t on the list. “Dinner.”
“Yes. At the cafe. A table. With menus that are laminated, and a bottle of that Pinot Noir they keep for special occasions, which is probably just the one that’s less vinegar than the others.” He spoke quickly, the plan solidifying as he voiced it. “We will order the chicken. We will make small talk that is not about plumbing supplies or my mother’s wigs. We will not touch each other under the table.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a date.”
The word hung in the air. It was terrifying. It was simple. It was a dare.
Stevie crossed her arms. “You think a basket of stale breadsticks is gonna fix… what happened back there?” She jerked her head towards the laundry room.
“Nothing is going to fix it,” he said, his own frustration boiling over. “It happened! You swallowed my come after making me feel like a human fucking plunger, Stevie! That’s part of our story now! I just want…” He deflated, his shoulders slumping. “… another chapter that isn’t written on a pile of dirty sheets.”
The honesty was disarming. She saw it then, not as a negotiation of needs, but as a desperate plea for normalcy. A mutual one. She was so tired of the anger, the confusion, the sharp edges. Maybe he was right. Maybe they needed to try and be two people who liked each other, before they became two people who only knew how to hurt each other with their bodies.
“Okay,” she said.
His head snapped up. “Okay?”
“Okay. Dinner. At the cafe.” She pushed off the desk. “But we split the bill. And I’m not wearing a dress.”
A ghost of his old smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
The cafe was nearly empty. Ronnie from the town council was nursing a beer at the bar, and two elderly regulars shared a slice of pie in a booth. The promised Pinot Noir was, as David predicted, merely palatable. It tasted of sour cherries and dust.
They sat by the window, watching the single streetlight of Schitt’s Creek flicker on. Stevie had worn a clean black t-shirt. David had swapped his scarf for a different, slightly less dramatic one. They were trying.
“How’s the septic tank holding up?” David asked, then immediately cringed.“No. We’re not talking about that. Abort.”
Stevie took a sip of wine. “It’s fine. We pumped it last month. Your turn.”
He looked out the window. “Alexis is thinking of starting a fitness class. ‘Dance-Cardio for the Spiritually Adrift.’ I’m concerned it’s a pyramid scheme that only exists in her head.”
“Probably.” Stevie watched him play with the stem of his glass. His fingers were long, elegant. She remembered them digging into her hips. She pushed the memory down. “My aunt called. Wanted to know if I was seeing anyone.”
His gaze flicked to hers. “And you said?”
“I said seeing was a strong word.” She held his look. “That I was… navigating a complicated entanglement with a human mood ring.”
He didn’t smile. His eyes were serious. “What do you want to tell her?”
The question was heavier than it sounded. It wasn’t about her aunt. It was about them. About definitions. About the future of the shapeless, urgent thing between them.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. It was the most honest thing she’d said all day.
Their food arrived—two plates of overcooked chicken, steamed vegetables, and a mound of instant mashed potatoes. They ate in a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable. It was observational. They were two strange animals, cautiously sharing a watering hole.
Halfway through, David’s foot brushed against hers under the small table. He didn’t pull it away. He let it rest there, a solid, warm pressure. It wasn’t a proposition. It was an anchor.
When the waitress cleared their plates, David ordered two glasses of the generic-brand amaretto the cafe kept for anniversaries. It arrived, syrupy and sweet.
“This is horrible,” Stevie said after a sip.
“Reprehensible,” David agreed, and took another drink.
Outside, the night was completely dark, the sky a vast, star-pricked blackness you only saw in places with no streetlights. They walked back to the motel side-by-side, not touching, the gravel of the parking lot crunching under their feet. The air was cold, sharp with the scent of coming frost.
At the door to her room—not his, not theirs—they stopped. The moment stretched, thin and delicate.
“Thank you,” David said quietly. “For the dinner.”
“You paid,” she reminded him.
“Not for that.” He looked at her, his face half in shadow from the porch light. “For showing up.”
She nodded, a tight little motion. Her hand was on her key. His were in his pockets. The space between them felt charged, but differently. Not with the need to collide, but with the fear of what came next if they didn’t.
“Do you want to come in?” The question left her lips before she could vet it.
He stilled. “To… talk?”
“No.” She met his eyes. The anchor line of the date had steadied her. The need hadn’t vanished; it had distilled, clarified. She wasn’t angry now. She was hungry. “I don’t want to talk.”
He understood. His breath clouded in the cold air between them. “Okay.”
She unlocked the door and pushed it open. He followed her inside, closing it behind them with a soft, final click.
Her room was small, messy. A motel owner’s room, functional, not decorated. Clothes were piled on a chair. A stack of invoices sat on the nightstand. The bed was unmade.
They stood in the middle of the floor, the institutional carpet rough underfoot. The familiar tension was back, but it was slower, deeper. They had all night. There was no dryer timer, no risk of interruption.
He reached out and touched her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. It was a tender gesture, one that made her throat tighten. Then his hand slid back, fingers tangling in her hair, and he pulled her to him, his mouth meeting hers.
This kiss was nothing like the others. It wasn’t a prelude to a fight. It was deep, searching, and unbearably sweet. It tasted of cheap amaretto and unresolved want. She melted into it, her hands coming up to grip the soft wool of his sweater.
They undressed each other slowly, with a care that felt like reverence. His sweater, her t-shirt, her jeans, his trousers. Each piece folded or dropped, a slow unveiling. When they were both naked, he just looked at her, his gaze traveling over her body in the dim light from the bathroom nightlight.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.
She didn’t scoff. She believed him.
He guided her back onto the bed, the sheets cool against her skin. He followed her down, covering her body with his, but instead of an immediate, frantic joining, he kissed her again. He kissed her mouth, her neck, the hollow of her throat. He moved down, his lips tracing a slow path over her collarbone, then lower, taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucked gently, then harder, his tongue circling the peak until she arched off the bed with a soft cry.
He continued south, his hands smoothing over her ribs, her stomach. He hooked his arms under her thighs, spreading her, lowering his head between her legs.
She tensed for a second—this felt more intimate than anything they’d done. It was a gift, not a transaction.
“David…”
“Shhh.” His breath was hot against her. “Let me.”
His tongue found her, not a frantic licking, but a deliberate, thorough exploration. He learned her shape, her rhythm. He circled her clit with a soft, insistent pressure, then dipped lower, tasting her entrance, before returning to focus on the swollen bud. He teased it with the very tip of his tongue, flicking fast and light, then flattened his tongue, applying a broad, steady pressure that made her hips jerk.
She writhed, her hands fisting in the sheets. Pleasure coiled low in her belly, hot and tight. He was meticulous, relentless. He slid a finger inside her, curling it, finding a spot that made her gasp. He added a second, stretching her gently, his mouth never leaving her clit. The dual sensation—the rhythmic penetration of his fingers, the exquisite focus of his tongue—built the tension to a breaking point.
“Fuck… don’t stop… right there…” Her words were slurred, moans punctuating each breath.
He hummed against her, the vibration shooting through her like an electric current. Her climax crested, then crashed over her. It wasn’t the sharp, angry release of the laundry room. It was a deep, rolling wave that tore a long, trembling cry from her throat. She pulsed around his fingers, her body shuddering uncontrollably.
He didn’t stop until the last tremor subsided, gentling his touch, planting soft kisses on her inner thigh as she came down.
She was boneless, floating. He moved up her body, his own erection hot and heavy against her thigh. His skin was flushed, his eyes dark with desire, but there was a calm in them.A certainty.
She reached between them, wrapping her hand around his cock. It was slick with her wetness and his own pre-come. She guided him to her entrance.
He paused, looking into her eyes. “Condom?” he whispered.
“The drawer,” she breathed. “Top drawer."
He moved to the nightstand, the drawer screeching open in the quiet room. She watched his profile in the dim light as he fumbled inside. His confident assurance faltered, replaced by a searching urgency. His hands moved from the front to the back of the drawer, pushing aside stray packets of motel notepaper and a handful of loose pens.
His movements slowed, then stopped. He stared into the drawer.
“What?” Stevie asked, propping herself up on her elbows.
“There aren’t any,” David said, his voice flat. He held up the empty cardboard box as proof, then let it drop back into the drawer. The reality of the situation settled over them, thick and immediate. The only sound was the distant rattle of the ice machine outside.
He turned to look at her, his face a mask of conflicted want. The momentum they’d built was now wedged against this practical wall. “I… we shouldn’t,” he stated, though he made no move to pull away from where he knelt between her legs.
“Why?” Stevie’s question was a challenge. The pleasant haze from her orgasm was sharpening into a renewed, more focused hunger.
“Because it’s irresponsible? Because you’re my best friend? Take your pick.” He dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture frustrated. “I could… pull out. It’s not ideal, but…”
“You think you’ll remember?” she asked, her tone dry. She sat up fully, the sheet pooling around her waist. “In the moment? You’ll be thinking with the right head?”
He flushed. “I have some control, Stevie.”
“Or,” she said, her voice dropping lower. She shifted on the bed, turning slightly onto her side. Her eyes held his, unflinching. “You could take my ass instead.”
The air left the room. David stared at her. His expression cycled through surprise, a flicker of sharp interest, and then immediate, verbose anxiety. “That’s… that’s a significant pivot. The… logistics. The preparation. I don’t have any—”
“Lube?” she finished for him. She leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing her discarded hoodie from the floor. From the pocket, she pulled out a small, half-used bottle of personal lubricant. She placed it on the nightstand with a definitive click.
He looked from the bottle to her face. “You planned this?”
“I’m a motel manager,” she said, a smirk playing on her lips. “I’m prepared for all eventualities.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. The intellectual part of him was warring with the visceral part, the part that was still hard and aching and vividly remembering the feel of her climax around his fingers. “It can be painful,” he said, but it sounded more like a question.
“It can,” she agreed easily. She moved onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to him. The gesture was crude, deliberate. She glanced back over her shoulder. “But you won’t hurt me. You’re too careful for that.”
The words were a manipulation, and they both knew it. They framed his caution as a strength, not a weakness. They invited him in.
He let out a shaky breath, a surrender. He reached for the bottle, the cap cracking open in the silent room. He poured a slick, clear pool into his palm, the sound obscenely wet.
“You’re sure?” His voice was rough.
“David. Just fuck me.”
He smoothed the cool gel over his length with one hand, the slide of his fist making him hiss. With the other, he spread more over her, his fingers circling, then pressing gently against her tight entrance. She gasped, dropping her forehead onto her crossed arms, her back arching.
“Relax,” he murmured, his touch insistently gentle, working the lube, stretching her slowly with one finger, then two. The intrusion was unfamiliar, a burn that edged into a deep, full pressure. She pushed back against his hand, a soft groan escaping her.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word half-muffled by the sheets. “Now. Do it now.”
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her. He braced one hand on her hip, the other guiding himself. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
He pressed forward.
The initial penetration was a slow, inexorable invasion. A stunning, shocking fullness. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound swallowed by the bedding. It hurt. It burned. It stretched her impossibly, a searing line of fire that forced the air from her lungs.
He froze, buried inside her to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. “Stevie…”
“Move,” she gritted out, the word strained. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the sheets. The pain was already shifting, transforming into a staggering, overwhelming intensity. Every nerve ending was awake, screaming.
He pulled back, then pushed in again, a shallow, careful stroke. The friction was slick, tight, unbelievable. A ragged moan tore from his throat. “Fuck… you’re so tight…”
“Harder.” She demanded it, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. The burn was subsiding, eclipsed by a brutal, grinding fullness that hit a deep, hidden place inside her. Pleasure, raw and electric, began to spark along the wire of the pain.
He obeyed, his careful control shattering. His thrusts became faster, deeper, each one a punctuated slam that drove the breath from her body. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, slick sounds of their joining, filled the small room. He grabbed her hip, his fingers digging in, his other hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head back.
“You take it so well,” he growled, his voice nothing like his own. It was feral, possessive. “Taking my cock like a fucking champ.”
The filthy praise ignited something in her. She met every thrust, her own moans loud and uninhibited. The sensation was concentrated, blinding. It wasn’t the spreading warmth of being filled the other way; this was a direct, intense line to her core, hammering against a spot that made her vision blur with each drive.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice broken. “God, right there, don’t you stop…”
He was lost in it, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. The intellectual was gone, the aesthete erased. This was pure, unvarnished need. “You feel… I can’t… I’m gonna come…”
“Do it.” She screamed it, the tension in her coiling beyond bearing. “Come in my ass, David. Fill it up.”
His climax hit him like a seizure. He slammed into her one last, final time, burying himself impossibly deep, and held there. A raw, broken shout was torn from him as he pulsed inside her, a hot, relentless flood. She felt every spasm, every jet, and it tipped her over the edge.
Her own orgasm crashed through her, a different creature than before—deeper, darker, wracking her body with convulsive shudders that had nothing to do with her cunt and everything to do with the brutal, perfect violation of the act itself. She collapsed beneath him, her cries muffled.
He fell forward, his body covering hers, both of them slick with sweat and shaking. He was still inside her, softening, both of them utterly spent. The only sound was their ragged, gulping breaths mingling in the dark room.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. The aftermath was a sticky, intimate mess. He didn’t move away. He just lay beside her, his hand finding hers on the rumpled sheets. Their fingers linked, tightly.