Chapter 2: Dawn of the Endless Erection
Clark woke to a pressure in his groin, a tight, persistent ache that pulled him from a dreamless sleep. The soft dawn light painted the room in muted gold. He blinked, disoriented. His body felt too aware, skin buzzing with a low-grade current. And he was hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard, like he’d been that way for hours.
Donna was curled beside him, her back to him, the auburn waves of her hair fanned across her pillow. She breathed slowly, deeply. Asleep.
He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but the movement sent a fresh jolt of sensation through him. A memory surfaced from the fog of last night—the incredible, lingering feeling, her unusually fierce passion, the way she’d ridden him until his vision blurred. It had been… different. Amazing. He’d chalked it up to the anniversary wine, the good mood.
But this? This was something else.
He eased closer, pressing his erection against the curve of her hip through the thin cotton of her nightshirt. She stirred, making a soft, sleepy sound.
“Don?” he whispered, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“Hmm?” she murmured, not turning.
“I’m… I don’t know what’s going on.” He nuzzled the back of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. “I feel like I’m eighteen again. Woke up like this.”
Donna went still for a fraction of a second. Then she rolled over onto her back, her eyes half-lidded, a slow smile spreading across her face. She looked genuinely sleepy, but there was a sharp awareness in her gaze he almost missed. Her hand slid down between them, her fingers brushing against him through his boxers. She let out a low, appreciative hum.
“Wow,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “Anniversary gift that keeps on giving.”
She wasn’t surprised. That thought flickered in the back of Clark’s mind, but it was immediately washed away by the feel of her hand wrapping around him, squeezing gently. He hissed in a breath.
“Christ,” he muttered, his hips jerking involuntarily.
“Shhh,” she soothed, shifting to kiss his shoulder. “Just enjoy it.”
Her touch was confident, exploring. It felt like permission. Like an invitation he didn’t know he’d been waiting for. All the usual morning sluggishness, the ‘maybe later, honey’ routine, evaporated. A raw, uncomplicated hunger took its place.
He rolled on top of her, not with his usual careful consideration, but with a gravity that made the mattress dip and the headboard give a soft thump against the wall. She gasped, laughing into his mouth as he kissed her. It was messy, urgent.
“Wait,” she breathed, tugging at the hem of her nightshirt. He helped her pull it over her head, tossing it to the floor. The morning light gilded her skin, the slopes of her breasts, the fit curve of her waist he still loved to trace with his hands. Last night’s frantic energy was gone, replaced by something slower, more predatory. He took his time, tasting her, relearning the sounds she made when he bit gently at the soft skin of her inner thigh.
When he entered her, she arched off the bed, a sharp cry escaping her lips. He still felt impossibly, unnervingly hard. He moved inside her slowly, a deep, steady rhythm that had her fingernails digging into his shoulders. Her legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“God, Clark,” she choked out, her eyes wide, locked on his. There was a flicker in them he couldn’t name—triumph, maybe, or fear. It only spurred him on.
He fucked her with a single-minded intensity that felt both alien and deeply his own. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, their ragged breathing, the creak of the bedsprings keeping time. She came with a shattered, gasping cry, her body clamping around him in waves that seemed to go on forever. He followed, his own climax a seismic, draining release that left his ears ringing.
He collapsed onto her, sweat-slicked and panting. The world slowly swam back into focus: the pattern of light on the ceiling, the distant sound of a garbage truck, the frantic hammer of his own heart against hers.
He softened. Finally. The unbearable tension leaked away, leaving a deep, liquid fatigue in his muscles. He rolled off her, staring up at the ceiling.
“What the hell was that?” he finally said, his voice wrecked.
Donna was quiet for a long moment. He could feel the quick beat of her pulse where her thigh rested against his. “That,” she said softly, “was the best morning I’ve had in... years.”
He turned his head to look at her. She was smiling, a real, glowing smile that reached her eyes. She looked satisfied in a way he hadn’t seen in… he couldn’t remember. A tiny knot of anxiety loosened in his chest. He’d done that. He’d put that look on her face.
“Me too,” he admitted. He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I feel like I ran a marathon. In a good way.”
She squeezed his hand. “Must’ve been something in that calamari.”
He laughed, a rough, happy sound. “Must’ve been.”
They lay in silence for a while, listening to the house wake up. The furnace clicked on. A bird chirped outside the window.
“I should shower,” Clark said eventually, though every muscle protested the idea of moving.
“Go ahead,” Donna murmured, her eyes closed. “I’m just going to lie here and… recover.”
He kissed her forehead and hauled himself out of bed. His body felt heavy, pleasantly used. In the bathroom, he stripped off his boxers and turned on the shower. The steam billowed around him, and he stepped under the hot spray, letting it pound against his shoulders.
As he soaped himself, his mind replayed the morning. The intensity of it. The sheer physical joy. He looked down at himself, ordinary again, softened. A faint, almost imperceptible tingling lingered on his skin, a phantom sensation. He shook his head, dismissing it. A weird physiological fluke. A gift.
He toweled off, the faint, clean smell of the lavender soap from the guest bathroom—Donna’s good stuff—mingling with the steamy air. He wrapped the towel around his waist and padded back into the bedroom.
Donna was sitting up against the headboard, the sheet pulled to her waist, her phone in her hand. She glanced up as he entered, and for a split second, before her warm, wifely smile settled into place, he saw an expression of intense, almost clinical calculation. It was gone so fast he wondered if he’d imagined it.
“You look pleased with yourself,” he said, rubbing his hair with a second towel.
“I am,” she said, putting her phone down. “My husband just rocked my world. A girl’s allowed to bask.”
He grinned, feeling ten feet tall. “Well, don’t get too used to it. I’ll probably crash by noon.”
“We’ll see,” she said, her voice light. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
She slid out of bed, gloriously naked, and pulled on her robe. As she passed him on her way to the kitchen, she let her hand trail across his bare stomach. A simple, affectionate gesture. But her touch felt charged, like a spark jumping a gap.
Clark stood alone in the silent bedroom, the towel in his hands. The room still smelled of sex and sleep and her lavender soap. He looked at the rumpled sheets, the indentations of their bodies. Everything was the same as it always was. Yet, it wasn’t.
Downstairs, he heard the grumble of the coffee grinder. A normal Saturday morning sound. He got dressed, pulling on jeans and a worn t-shirt.
He felt good. Better than good. He felt like a version of himself he’d forgotten. The version Donna had just looked at like he’d hung the moon.