Chapter 43: The Slow Fuck
The hold lasted until their muscles trembled. Eli’s grip was crushing, as if he could fuse them together through pressure alone. Simone’s face was wet against his shirt, tears she hadn’t allowed herself to release now soaking into the cotton. He didn’t ask. He just held.
When he finally loosened his arms, it was only to slide his hands up to cradle her face. He tilted it up. His thumbs smoothed over the damp trails on her cheeks. His own eyes were red-rimmed, raw.
“I’m so fucking tired,” he whispered, the confession breathed against her lips.
“Me too.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore tonight.”
“Then don’t.”
He searched her face, looking for the trap, the next twist of the knife. Finding none, he bent and kissed her forehead. It was a chaste, closed-mouth press of warmth. Then he released her, turning away, running both hands over his afro. “I’m gonna shower. This sand… and the stickiness…”
He trailed off, already walking toward the bathroom, stripping his t-shirt over his head as he went. She watched the familiar landscape of his back, the shift of shoulder blades, the dip of his spine. The door clicked shut. A moment later, the pipes groaned and the spray hissed.
Simone stood in the quiet. The ghost of his embrace still warmed her skin. She moved through the loft, turning off lights, straightening a blanket. The normalcy was a performance, a calming ritual. She stopped by Micah’s door, listening to his even, sleepy breaths. Their one perfect thing, asleep.
In her bedroom, the fairy lights cast a soft, starry glow. She peeled off her hoodie and leggings, leaving them in a pile on the floor. She stood in just her panties, feeling the evening air on her skin. The shower ran on.
When the water stopped, she didn’t move. She sat on the edge of her bed, waiting. The bathroom door opened. Steam curled into the hallway, carrying the scent of his soap. He appeared in her doorway, a towel slung low around his hips, water beading on his chest and shoulders. He’d trimmed his beard. The simple act of grooming, of caring, hit her with a surge of tenderness so acute it felt like grief.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “You okay?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He came into the room, letting the towel drop. He didn’t strut. It was just a fact, his nakedness. He was hard. Thick and already flushed at the tip. It wasn’t an aggressive presentation, just an honest, physical reality. The sight of him, clean and wanting, sent a direct, liquid pulse between her legs.
He came to stand before her. She didn’t look up at his face. She looked at his cock, at the jump of it as he drew near. She reached out, her fingers circling the base. He hissed, his stomach muscles clenching. Her thumb smeared the bead of moisture at the slit. His skin was hot, silken over the rigid core of him.
“Simone,” he said, a warning or a plea.
She leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
He groaned, one hand coming to rest on the back of her head, not forcing, just anchoring. She worked him slowly, her tongue pressing along the sensitive vein underneath, her lips tight. She tasted salt and soap and him. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, until her nose pressed against the wiry hair at his base. His thighs trembled.
“Fuck, baby,” he choked out. “Just like that.”
But she pulled off, with a wet, soft pop. She looked up, meeting his blazing eyes. “I don’t want to just suck your dick, Eli.”
“What do you want?” His voice was gravel.
“I want you to fuck me. Not like this morning. Not like a punishment.” She lay back on the bed, scooting up to the pillows. She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her panties and drew them down her legs, dropping them over the side. She opened her legs for him. “I want you to fuck me like you missed me.”
For a second, he just stared at her, at her glistening folds, at the invitation. Then he was on her, his body covering hers, not with violence but with a devastating weight. He kissed her, deep and searching, his tongue mapping the inside of her mouth. He tasted like mint and himself. His hands slid under her, gripping her ass, lifting her hips to meet his.
The head of his cock nudged at her entrance. He was dripping, she was soaked. He pushed in, not with a single thrust, but with an inexorable, slow press that stretched her inch by perfect inch. They both groaned into the kiss, a shared, relieved sound. He filled her completely, a homecoming that ached in its rightness.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, his breath coming in harsh pants. “I did miss you,” he whispered, the words raw. “Even when you were right here. I missed you.”
He began to move. Slow.Deep. Each withdrawal an agony, each return a solace. His hips rolled in a rhythm that was ancient and brand new. He fucked her with a focused, almost reverent intensity, his eyes locked on hers. The slap of skin was a soft, wet counter-rhythm in the quiet room.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded softly, his voice thick. “I wanna feel you come around me. Show me what he didn’t get.”
The mention of Marcus should have shattered the moment. Instead, it electrified it. It was an acknowledgement, not a weapon. She was here, with him. She slid a hand between their bodies, her fingers finding her clit, already swollen and throbbing. The added pressure was immediate, a bright spark that raced up her spine.
“Yeah, just like that,” he murmured, watching her face. His pace stayed steady, each deep drive grinding his pelvis against her busy fingers. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. So mine. This pussy is mine. Say it.”
The possessiveness, framed not by anger but by this devastating tenderness, unraveled her. “It’s yours,” she gasped, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust. “Only yours.”
“Come for me, then. Come on my dick. Let go.”
The coil inside her snapped. Her orgasm tore through her without warning, a silent, seismic convulsion that clamped her around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves. Her back arched, her mouth opened in a soundless cry. He watched it happen, his face a mask of fierce pride and desperate love.
It triggered his own. With three final, brutal plunges, he buried himself to the hilt and came. A raw, guttural sound was ripped from his chest as he emptied into her, hot and copious, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed onto her, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
They lay like that, joined, sweat-slicked, breathing in ragged sync. The fairy lights blurred above her. She could feel his heart hammering against her breast, the occasional aftershock trembling through his limbs.
Slowly, softening, he slipped out of her. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her tucked against his body. He didn’t speak. His hand stroked up and down her back, a absent, soothing motion.
Simone traced the lines of his collarbone. “That wasn’t easy,” she said quietly.
He kissed her hair. “No. It wasn’t.”
They drifted. The silence was comfortable now, a blanket over the spent remains of the day. Just as sleep began to pull at her, Eli’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. A short, sharp vibration. Then another.
He tensed. His hand stilled on her back.
“Don’t,” she murmured, pressing closer.
But he was already reaching, his arm elongating to snag the phone. The screen lit up his face in a cold, blue glow. She couldn’t see the details, but she saw his expression. Not guilt. Not excitement. A weary, resigned focus.
“It’s about the study group,” he said, his voice flat. “For Tuesday. They’re confirming the room.” He typed a quick reply with one thumb, the taps sounding unnaturally loud. He put the phone back face down.
“Aaliyah?” Simone asked into the dark.
A pause. “Yeah.”
The word hung there. It wasn’t a betrayal. He hadn’t hidden it. It was just a fact, now lying in bed with them. The temporary peace of their bodies curdled, just at the edges.
Eli pulled her tighter. “Go to sleep,” he said, a finality in his tone.
She closed her eyes, the phantom sensation of him moving inside her still echoing in her muscles. The lavender honey taste from the ice cream seemed to linger in the back of her throat, sweet and faintly medicinal. She held onto him, the man she loved, the father of her child, the person who was texting another woman about a study group while still warm inside her.
Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and fitful. In it, she was always walking toward a door, but the hallway kept getting longer.
In it, she was always walking toward a door, but the hallway kept getting longer. She woke not to peace, but to the solid heat of Eli’s body wrapped around hers, his forearm a heavy bracket across her ribs. Dawn painted the room in watery, gray light. His breath was even against her neck. For a suspended moment, the world was just this: the vanilla scent, his skin, the ache between her legs that was a testament to the night.
Her phone erupted on the nightstand, a shrill violin solo that shattered the stillness.
Eli jerked awake, his body going taut against hers. Simone scrambled, fumbling for the device, her heart hammering. The screen glowed with the name. MARCUS. She swiped to answer, her voice a sleep-roughened croak. “Hello?”
“Simone. Hey.” Marcus’s voice was smooth, crisp with morning energy. “Sorry for the early call. My client meeting got pushed. I’m in the city longer than I thought.”
Eli was perfectly still behind her. She could feel the focused intensity of his wakefulness, a silent, listening pressure.
“Oh,” she managed.
“I wanted to see you. Take you to breakfast. That place with the churro waffles you mentioned.” He sounded pleased with himself, a man used to his plans becoming reality. “I’m about twenty minutes away. Can I pick you up?”
Panic, cold and slick, shot through her veins. Twenty minutes. Eli was in her bed. His clothes were in a pile on her floor. The loft smelled of sex and him. “Uh, twenty minutes?” she repeated, stalling.
“Yeah. Traffic’s light. Is that okay?”
Eli’s arm slid off her. The mattress shifted as he sat up. She didn’t dare look at him.
“Sure. Yeah. Okay. Text me when you’re close,” she said, her words tumbling out too fast.
“Will do.” He ended the call.
The silence he left behind was suffocating. Simone lowered the phone, staring at the framed jazz poster on her wall without seeing it. The space behind her was empty. She heard the soft pad of Eli’s bare feet on the floor.
She finally turned.
He was already gathering his discarded boxers, pulling them on with quick, efficient motions. His back was to her, every muscle rigid. He didn’t speak. He located his sweatpants, stepped into them. He snatched his t-shirt from the floor.
“Eli,” she started, her voice thin.
He didn’t acknowledge her. He walked out of her bedroom, closing the door behind him with a quiet, precise click. She heard his footsteps cross the living room. The softer click of his own bedroom door.
Simone threw the covers back. She moved on a frantic, automated rhythm. She stripped the bed, wincing at the dried, damp spots on the sheets, the smell of their bodies rising from the fabric. She bundled them into the hamper. She opened the window, letting in the chill morning air to scour the room. She flew to the bathroom, brushing her teeth violently, scrubbing at her face.
She could hear other sounds now. The low rumble of Eli’s voice in Micah’s room. The boy’s delighted squeal. The familiar creak of floorboards heading toward the kitchen. Then, the unmistakable sounds of breakfast: the clatter of a pan, the crack of an egg, the hiss of butter meeting heat.
He was cooking.
She stood in the center of her room, clutching a clean sweater, listening to the domestic soundtrack of her own life continuing without her. He was making breakfast for himself and their son. As if it were any other Saturday. As if she weren’t scrambling to erase the evidence of him from her skin, from her room, to meet another man for churro waffles.
The momentum of the lie propelled her. She dressed quickly in jeans and the sweater, braiding her hair with hurried, practiced fingers. She gave the room one last, desperate scan. It looked sterile. It felt like a crime scene.
She crept out. In the kitchen, Eli stood at the stove. He had Micah perched on his hip, the boy clutching a wooden spoon. Eli was focused on the scrambled eggs in the pan, his face a mask of calm concentration. Two plates sat waiting on the counter. The rich smell of cooking eggs and toast filled the space. It was a picture of pure, simple nurture.
He didn’t look at her. “Your phone’s buzzing,” he said, his voice neutral, conversational. “On the coffee table.”
It was a text. Marcus: Turning onto your street.
“Thanks,” she whispered, grabbing her purse and keys.
Micah reached a chubby hand toward her. “Mama!”
Her heart fractured. “Hey, baby. Mama’s going out for a little bit.” She kissed his curls, avoiding Eli’s space.
“Bye,” Eli said, still not turning from the stove. He said it like you’d say it to a cashier. A polite, empty syllable. He lifted a forkful of eggs to Micah’s mouth. “Here, man. Blow on it.”
Simone stood there for one more second, invisible in her own home. Then she turned and walked out the door, into the bright, waiting morning.
Then she turned and walked out the door, into the bright, waiting morning. The sunshine felt accusatory. She stood on the sidewalk, the concrete cold through her thin soles, and watched a sleek, silver sedan glide to the curb. The passenger window descended silently.
Marcus smiled up at her, his teeth perfectly white against his sun-browned skin. “You look incredible,” he said, as if her hurried braid and the faint shadows under her eyes were a chosen aesthetic. The car smelled of leather and expensive coffee.
She slid in, the door closing with a weighty thud that sealed her in. “Thanks. You’re… early.”
“Eager,” he corrected, reaching across the console to squeeze her knee. His hand was warm, his touch proprietary. He pulled back into the flow of traffic, one hand resting casually on the gear shift. “I thought about you all night. That dress you wore. The way you taste.”
His words were direct, a confident arrow aiming for arousal. They landed with a dull, flat feeling in her gut. She saw Eli’s back at the stove, the deliberate calm of his shoulders. “The waffle place is on Grand,” she said, looking out the window.
“I know.” He glanced at her, a flicker of assessment in his eyes. “Everything okay? You seem quiet.”
“Just tired. Micah was up early.” The lie was automatic, a shield made of motherhood.
“Ah.” He nodded, as if that explained everything. “Kids. Can’t imagine.” He said it without judgment, a simple statement of fact from a life unburdened. The silence that followed was filled by the purr of the engine.
The restaurant was all distressed brick and hanging ferns. They were seated immediately at a corner table, Marcus’s hand a gentle press on the small of her back as they walked. He ordered for them both: churro waffles, fresh fruit, a carafe of mimosa. “Celebrating,” he said, pouring the bubbling orange liquid into her flute.
“What are we celebrating?” Simone asked, tracing the condensation on her glass.
“A successful opening. A beautiful morning. The fact that you said yes.” He clinked his flute against hers. His confidence was a polished surface, reflecting light but offering no depth to grasp.
The food arrived, a towering, sugar-dusted spectacle. It was delicious. The waffle was crisp, the cinnamon sugar melting on her tongue. She ate, answering his questions about her semester, her paintings, with practiced, polite efficiency. He listened intently, his gaze focused, but she felt like a fascinating specimen he was studying, not a person he was understanding.
“And Eli?” he asked, casually spearing a strawberry. “How’s he handling the pre-med grind? Must be tough, playing second fiddle.”
The question was a surgeon’s scalpel, precise and cool. It laid something open. “He’s not playing second fiddle,” she said, too quickly.
“Of course not. Poor choice of words.” Marcus smiled, unoffended. “It’s just a dynamic I see. The driven partner, the… supportive one. It creates a specific tension. A pressure valve needs release sometimes.” His foot brushed against hers under the table. “I’m glad I could be that for you.”
The mimosa turned acidic in her stomach. He had framed her adultery as a necessary psychological service. It was so clean, so reasonable. It made her skin crawl.
“Last night wasn’t about tension,” she heard herself say. “It was about want.”
His eyes darkened with pleasure. “Even better.”
He paid the check without glancing at the total. Outside, the morning had warmed. He didn’t ask if she wanted to go somewhere. He simply guided her back to the car, his palm firm on her lower back. “My hotel’s close. I have a late check-out.” His voice was low, meant for her ear alone. “I need to be inside you again, Simone. I’ve been thinking about that tight little cunt all morning.”
The obscenity, delivered in his cultured tone, should have been a thrill. It felt like a script. She nodded, a numb dip of her chin. “Okay.”
The hotel room was on a high floor, overlooking the river. It was relentlessly modern, all cool grays and sharp lines. The bed was already made, pristine. It bore no history, no imprint of anyone’s life. Marcus closed the door and immediately pulled her to him, his mouth finding hers. His kiss was skillful, his tongue insistent. She kissed him back, forcing her body to respond, to melt.
He walked her backward toward the bed, his hands sliding under her sweater, pushing it up. He broke the kiss to pull it over her head. His eyes raked over her plain bra. “Beautiful,” he murmured, but he was already working on the clasp. His fingers were deft, unhurried. He removed her bra, his thumbs brushing her nipples. They hardened under his touch, a purely physiological reaction.
“On the bed,” he said, his own breathing shallower now.
She sat, then lay back. The duvet was cool and slick against her bare skin. He undressed quickly, his movements economical. His body was trim, muscular in the way of a man who used a personal trainer. He was already fully erect. He knelt on the bed, crawling over her, and kissed her again, one hand plunging into her jeans. He cupped her through her panties, his palm grinding against her. “So wet already,” he said approvingly. “For me?”
“Yes,” she breathed, closing her eyes. She saw the fairy lights in her bedroom. She pushed the image away.
He peeled her jeans and panties down her legs in one motion, tossing them aside. He spread her legs, kneeling between them. He didn’t touch her with his mouth. He simply looked, his gaze analytical. “Perfect,” he whispered. Then he reached for a condom on the nightstand, sheathing himself with a quick, practiced snap of latex.
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging her entrance. He pushed in, not with Eli’s devastating, slow conquest, but with a smooth, firm stroke that filled her in one efficient motion. He exhaled sharply, his eyes closing for a second in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel good. So fucking good.”
He set a pace immediately—deep, rhythmic, perfectly angled strokes that stimulated her body with clinical accuracy. He was an expert lover. He knew when to shift his hips, when to drive harder, when to slow and grind. He leaned down to capture her nipple in his mouth, sucking and laving it with his tongue. Pleasure signals fired along her nerves, bright and undeniable.
“Touch your clit,” he instructed, his voice thick. “Make yourself come on my dick.”
She obeyed, her fingers finding the swollen nub. The added stimulation amplified the physical sensation, building a sharp, focused heat in her core. He fucked her with unwavering, metronomic precision. The headboard tapped a light, consistent rhythm against the wall.
“That’s it, baby,” he grunted, watching her hand work. “Come for me. Squeeze that pretty pussy.”
Her orgasm built, a tight, ascending coil of pure somatic response. It was a summit reached through technical proficiency. When it broke, it was a bright, localized detonation that clenched her around him, a series of sharp, involuntary spasms. She cried out, a short, sharp sound.
It triggered his own finish. With a few final, driving thrusts, he buried himself and groaned, a low, satisfied sound. He held himself there, pulsing inside her, before collapsing to her side, his chest heaving. He disposed of the condom in a tissue from the nightstand.
He pulled her against him, her back to his front, his arm draped over her waist. He nuzzled her hair. “Incredible,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder. “You’re incredible.”
She lay there, staring at the impersonal abstract art on the opposite wall. Her body hummed with the after-effects of a competent fuck. Her skin was warm where he touched her. But inside, where the ghost of Eli’s whispered I missed you still echoed, there was a vast, hollow silence. The pleasure had been real, but it existed in a separate chamber, unable to reach the core of her that felt, inexplicably, like it was grieving.
Marcus’s breathing evened out into sleep. She carefully extracted herself from his arm. She stood naked on the cool hotel floor, looking at the man in the bed, then at the city gleaming beyond the window. She could still feel the phantom weight of Eli’s body, the scratch of his beard on her neck, the raw, complicated truth of him. This room, this man, this expertly manufactured peak—it was all a beautifully rendered shell.
And she was utterly, completely alone inside it.