Chapter 2: The Aftermath
He pulled out of her slowly, the separation a wet, intimate sound in the quiet room. A hot trickle traced a path down her inner thigh, onto the plastic sheet below. Miko leaned back against the ruined wall, her chest heaving, the cool, damp paint a shock against her overheated skin. Her legs trembled.
Simon didn’t move away. He stared at the evidence of their coupling on his softening cock, then at the streak on her thigh. His hazel eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that hadn’t been close to sated. A low, rough sound escaped him.
“Look at that,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. He dropped to his knees on the gritty plastic.
Before she could process it, his hands were on her hips, firm, holding her in place against the wall. He pushed her trembling legs further apart. The air of the room, already thick with latex and pigment, hit her exposed, sensitive flesh. Then his mouth was on her.
He didn’t kiss. He devoured. His tongue, broad and relentless, licked a long, slow stripe through the combined wetness, gathering the salty-bitter taste of him mixed with her own arousal. He groaned against her, the vibration making her jerk.
“Simon…”
“Quiet,” he growled, his voice muffled against her skin. “Just feel it.”
He buried his face deeper, his nose nudging her clit as his tongue speared inside her, fucking her with it. It was messy, vulgar, and so intensely intimate it stole her breath. His stubble scratched the tender skin of her inner thighs. One of his big hands slid around to grip her ass, fingers digging in, holding her open for his mouth. The other hand came up, two fingers pushing into her mouth. “Suck,” he ordered, and she did, swirling her tongue around the paint-stained digits, tasting primer and salt.
He brought those wet fingers down, circling her asshole, pressing against the tight knot of muscle without entering. The dual sensation—the rough invasion of his tongue inside her pussy, the insistent pressure at her rear—unraveled her completely. Her climax built not as a wave but as a sudden, violent detonation. Her back arched off the wall, a raw, ragged cry tearing from her throat as she came against his mouth, her muscles clenching around nothing, around his tongue. He rode it out, lapping at her, drinking her in, until she was weakly pushing at his head, over-sensitized and shaking.
He stood up, his jeans still around his ankles, his cock hard again and glistening with her wetness. His mouth was wet, his chin slick. He looked utterly feral. Without a word, he turned her around, her front now facing the grotesque, beautiful pink silhouette on the wall. He bent her over, her hands slapping against the damp paint. Her spine curved, presenting herself.
He kicked the half-full roller tray closer. “Hands there,” he said, his voice gravel.
She placed her palms on the cold, rimmed edges of the tray, the dried bristles of the roller scratching her skin. He positioned himself behind her. One broad, calloused hand gripped the swell of her hip, his thumb pressing into the bruise he’d already made. The other hand fisted in her sleek black hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp and arch her back further.
He guided himself to her entrance, still swollen and slick from his mouth. He didn’t push. He notched the head there, a taunting, blunt pressure. “Tell me you want it,” he breathed, the words hot against her ear.
“I want it.”
“How?”
“I want you to fuck me. Hard.”
He drove into her with one deep, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The force knocked a choked gasp from her lungs. He was deeper this way, angled differently, hitting a place that made stars burst behind her eyelids.
He set a punishing pace immediately, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The sound was obscene—a wet, rhythmic slap of flesh, the jangle of his belt buckle, her own shaky exhales with every impact. The roller tray skidded a fraction with each thrust.
“Fuck, yes,” he grunted, his grip on her hair tightening, using it as leverage. “Take it. That’s it. Your pretty pink wall’s watching.”
The profanity, the crude ownership in his words, the sheer animal physicality of it—it was a drug. Her own noises were shameless, high-pitched whines and moans that echoed in the sterile space. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, wanting more of that delicious, brutal friction.
“You’re gonna come again,” he promised, a dark chant. “You’re gonna come on my cock while I fill you up. Make a bigger mess.”
The promise, the visual, the relentless pounding against her most sensitive spot—it coiled the tension in her belly impossibly tight. She felt the familiar, terrifying crest, but it was sharper, more electric than before.
“Simon, I’m—“
“Now,” he commanded, and his hand left her hair, snaking around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. A few rough, perfect circles were all it took.
Her second orgasm ripped through her, a seizing, blinding white fracture that shattered her thoughts into pure sensation. She cried out, her body clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses. Feeling her convulse around him was his undoing. With a guttural roar, he plunged deep and held, his own release hot and sudden inside her. He pumped into her through his climax, each jet a claiming, until he was spent, collapsing forward over her back, his weight pressing her into the edge of the paint tray.
They stayed like that, a heap of shuddering limbs and spent breath, amidst the chemical smell and the drying paint. The silence returned, but it was different now. Broken. Stained.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. Another warm trickle escaped. He righted himself, hauling his jeans up with a wince. She turned, sliding down the wall to sit on the plastic, her legs splayed. She looked at the room. The single pink wall, a monument to her rebellion. The matching pink handprint on the floor. The abandoned, paint-splattered tools. Him, this stranger, tucking himself away, his face a mask of stunned exhaustion.
He met her gaze. A long moment passed. Then, a faint, disbelieving smile touched his lips. He swiped a hand over his mouth.
“So,” he said, his voice shot to hell. “Galactic Tide, huh?”
She followed his gaze to the other paint can, the deep, serene blue she’d bought on a whim after the fuchsia, before the world tilted. She’d forgotten it entirely.
A laugh bubbled up in her chest, hysterical and raw. It escaped, echoing in the empty house. “Yeah.”
He nodded slowly, looking from the blue to the pink to her, naked and painted and utterly unraveled on the floor. “One hell of a color scheme.”
He bent, picked up his stained flannel shirt from the floor, and held it out to her. Not an apology. Not a promise. Just a practical gesture in the aftermath of the impossible. She took it, the fabric rough and smelling of him, of them, of the home improvement store. She pulled it on, the sleeves swallowing her hands.
Outside, through the pristine bay window, the first grey light of dawn began to bleed into the night.