Chapter 8: The Reckless Ride
The silence after the couch was a physical thing, a third presence in the dim apartment. They didn’t speak. Maria disentangled herself from his heavy limbs and the damp blanket, padding naked to the bathroom without a backward glance. The shower ran, a distant, steady hiss. Joe lay on the ruined leather, staring at the ceiling, the taste of her and his own spent release a sour film in his mouth. Just the fuck. The words echoed, a trap he’d willingly walked into. It was better than nothing. It was infinitely worse.
When she emerged, skin flushed pink, her curls damp and clinging to her temples, she was already dressed in yesterday’s clothes. She didn’t look at him as she gathered her bag from the floor by the door. The transactional nature of it was a punch to his gut.
“Same time next week?” he asked, the attempt at casualness falling grotesquely flat.
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. Her back was to him, a straight, tense line. “I’ll text you.” The door clicked shut. The lock engaged with a final, deafening snick.
The week passed in a blur of hollow work and emptier nights. Joe existed in a state of suspended agony, jumping at every buzz of his phone. Her text, when it came late on Thursday, was devoid of any punctuation.
come over now
He was out the door before his brain could process the command, the drive across town a blur of adrenaline and dread. His own apartment door was unlocked, as per his promise. She was already inside, standing in the center of the living room, wearing a simple black dress he didn’t recognize. She’d done something to her eyes—they looked darker, sharper.
“No talking,” she said, before he could form a greeting. “Follow me.”
She turned and walked toward the bedroom, the hallway he’d once carried her down after proposal dinners. He followed, a obedient shadow. The master bedroom was exactly as she’d left it weeks ago, save for a single lamp she must have turned on. The air was still, choked with the ghost of her vanilla perfume. His eyes went to the half-open closet, to the solitary black garter hanging like a forgotten question mark.
She stood by the bed, her gaze unwavering. “Take off your clothes. Lie down.”
He obeyed, shedding his jacket, his shirt, his jeans and briefs with a speed that felt like surrender. He lay back on the cool duvet, the carved initials of the headboard pressing into his scalp. She watched him, her expression unreadable, then slowly, deliberately, she began to unzip the side of her dress. It pooled at her feet, revealing sheer black stockings held by that same, familiar garter belt, and nothing else.
The sight of it—the intimate armor she’d chosen—stole his breath. This was a performance, a reclamation of a ritual that had once been theirs. She climbed onto the bed, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. She didn’t touch him. She simply looked down at his body, at his already hardening cock lying thick against his stomach.
A slow, wicked smile touched her lips. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“Look at you,” she murmured, her voice low. “So eager. Just for a fuck.”
Her words were meant to wound, and they did. But the ache was secondary to the primal thrum of need her presence, her costumed authority, ignited in him. She shifted, moving upwards until she was straddling his chest. Her scent, stronger now, engulfed him. The neat triangle of dark curls at the junction of her thighs was inches from his mouth. She placed her hands on the headboard, on either side of his head, caging him in.
“Lick your lips,” she commanded.
He did, his tongue darting out to moisten them. Her eyes tracked the movement, darkening.
Without another word, she lowered herself. The first contact was electric. The soft, heated flesh of her outer lips brushed his mouth. He instinctively tried to turn his head, to take more, but she pinned him with her weight and the force of her will.
“I didn’t say move,” she hissed. “You take what I give you. You taste what I let you taste.”
She ground down against his face, not allowing entry, just smearing her wetness across his lips and stubble. It was maddening. He could feel the swollen heat of her, could scent her arousal, but she denied him the relief of connection. His hands came up, gripping her thighs, the silk of the stockings smooth under his palms. The lace of the garter bit into his fingers.
“You want in?” she taunted, rotating her hips in a slow, torturous circle. He groaned, the sound muffled against her flesh. His tongue pushed out, trying to spear into her, but she lifted slightly, just out of reach. “Beg for it.”
“Please,” he rasped, the word swallowed by her skin. “Maria, please.”
“Please what?” She lifted herself entirely, hovering just above his desperate mouth. Her own breath was coming faster now. “Use your words, Joe. You’re so good with them when you’re lying.”
“Please let me eat your pussy,” he gritted out, humiliation and desire a combustible mix in his veins. “Let me taste you.”
She descended slowly, granting him an inch, then another. Finally, she settled fully onto his mouth, opening for him. His world narrowed to the slick, musky taste of her, the sound of her sharp inhale as his tongue finally plunged deep, licking into her with a frantic, hungry rhythm. He could feel her thighs tremble around his head. One of her hands left the headboard and fisted in his hair, holding him to her, guiding his movements.
“Yeah,” she breathed, her voice losing some of its steel, turning breathy. “Just like that. Clean it up.”
He obeyed, licking and sucking, lapping at her juices with a devotion that was both worship and penance. Her hips began to rock in time with his tongue, her quiet moans filling the room. This was her control, her orchestrated use of him, and he was utterly, completely under her command.
Her other hand left the headboard. He felt her shift her weight, then her fingers wrapped around his cock where it lay hard and leaking against his stomach. Her grip was punishing, tight and dry. She began to stroke him, a rough, fast rhythm that was more about friction than pleasure.
The dual sensation was overwhelming—the soft, wet heat of her on his mouth, the harsh, demanding pull of her hand on his cock. He bucked his hips, but her grip only tightened, her pace relentless.
“You don’t come,” she ordered, her voice strained. “Not until I say. You hold it. This is mine.”
He nodded against her, a frantic, helpless motion. His body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming. He focused on her, on driving her higher with his tongue, circling her clit with a pressure that made her cry out. Her strokes on his cock became erratic, a reflection of her own rising peak.
He felt her inner muscles begin to flutter around his tongue, a familiar, quickening pulse. Her hand on his shaft moved faster, a brutal, perfect torment. “Now,” she gasped, her body bowing as the orgasm took her. “Fuck, Joe, now! Come for me!”
Her permission shattered the last of his control. With a ragged shout that was muffled by her body, he erupted into her fist, his release hot and pulsing over his stomach and her clenched fingers. She milked him through it, shuddering through her own climax above him, until he was spent, gasping, reduced to a trembling shell.
She collapsed off of him, rolling onto her back beside him on the bed. For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint hum of the city outside. The air reeked of sex and sweat and her perfume.
Joe turned his head on the pillow to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. Her hand, sticky with his come, rested on her own stomach. The black garter was twisted, one strap dangling loose.
He reached for her, his fingers brushing her arm. “Maria…”
Her eyes snapped open. The vulnerability he’d seen in the aftermath was gone, replaced by a flat, weary distance. She sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and stood without looking at him. She walked to the ensuite bathroom. He heard the water run, the sound of her scrubbing her hands clean.
When she returned, she was already pulling her dress back over her head, zipping it up with efficient, sharp tugs. She didn’t look at the mess on the bed, or at him.
“I’ll see myself out,” she said, her voice devoid of any emotion.
“When?” The word was ripped from him, desperate.
She paused at the bedroom door, her profile outlined by the light from the hall. “When I want to.”
And then she was gone. Joe lay in the wreckage of their old bed, under the gaze of the carved initials, staring at the empty space where she’d been. The black garter still hung in the closet, a silent, mocking sentinel. He had gotten exactly what he asked for. He had never felt more utterly destroyed.