Chapter 3: The Negotiation
D
The headboard of Jeff’s bed knocked a dull, syncopated rhythm against the wall. Britta rode him with a focused, athletic intensity, her hips pistoning in a steady, efficient cadence. Sweat sheened the valley between her breasts, a single bead tracing a path down her sternum to catch in the hollow of her navel. Her breath came in sharp, controlled puffs through her nose.
Jeff’s hands were on her waist, but his grip was loose, his thumbs making absent circles on her skin. His gaze had drifted past her shoulder, past the leaning tower of DVDs on his dresser, to the dark, silent screen of his phone.
“Jeff.”
He blinked, his eyes snapping back to hers. Her movement had stopped. She was perched above him, chest heaving, her brunette hair sticking in damp strands to her temple. She studied his face, her expression shifting from concentration to annoyance.
“You’re about a million miles away,” she stated, not moving. “Which is impressive, given the circumstances.”
“I’m right here,” he said, forcing his hands to tighten on her hips.
“No, you’re not.” She leaned back, bracing her hands on his thighs. The shift in angle made him gasp, a reflex his mind had been lagging behind. “Your body’s here. The rest of you is… I don’t know. Solving actuarial tables? Drafting a strongly worded letter to the editor? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s fine.” He tried to move beneath her, to restart the rhythm, but she held firm, pinning him with her weight and her stare.
“Bullshit.” She wiped her forearm across her brow. “We’ve been doing this for, like, twenty minutes. You’re not even close. This isn’t the usual ‘Jeff Winger lasting forever because he’s secretly a robot’ thing. This is different. You’re… distant. Did I use the wrong brand of ethical lube? Is it a geopolitical thing?”
A faint smile touched his lips despite himself. “Your lube is impeccably conscientious.”
“Then talk.” She lowered herself, her forearms resting on his chest, her face inches from his. The scent of her sweat, clean and sharp, filled the space between them. “I’m not getting off with a ghost.”
He looked away, at the cracked ceiling. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of his ancient refrigerator. He felt the truth, ugly and complicated, pressing against the back of his teeth. “I just… I want to finish a certain way tonight.”
Britta’s eyebrows climbed. “Okay. Enlighten me. Missionary? Doggy style? The rarely-seen ‘disappointed-in-your-parents’ position?”
He met her eyes. “I want to come on you.”
She blinked. Then she snorted, a short, dismissive puff of air. “Wow. Real original, Winger. That’s like, Porn 101. Basic bro fantasy.”
“I know it is.”
“Then why the big, distracted buildup? Just pull out and do your thing. I’ll make a face.” She made a comically exaggerated ‘O’ with her mouth.
“It’s not…” He exhaled, frustrated. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”
“It’s stupid,” he repeated, the words flattening in the stale air.
Britta watched him for a long moment, her earlier irritation softening into something more appraising. She remembered Annie’s flushed, defiant face in the cafeteria, her whispered confession about “methodological research” and “controlled variables.” It had sounded insane. And yet.
She pushed herself off him, the sudden loss of contact making him shudder. She swung her leg over and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. The single light from his bedside lamp cut her profile in sharp relief.
“Look,” she said, staring at the mountain of DVDs. “I’m not an idiot. I know when someone’s working through some… stuff.” She picked at the lint on his comforter. “It’s your basic power-reclamation fantasy. Marking territory. It’s patriarchal, retrograde, and, honestly, a little on-the-nose.”
Jeff sat up, running a hand through his hair. “You just listed why it’s stupid.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t hot.” The admission came out quietly, almost grudgingly. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes guarded. “I talked to… a friend. Recently. About… exploring preferences. It sounded clinical. Weird.” She turned to face him fully, her knees pulled up to her chest. “But she had this look. Like she’d discovered a new law of physics.”
Jeff’s breath caught. He said nothing.
Britta’s gaze was direct, challenging. “So fine. You want to… finish there.” She gestured vaguely at her own stomach. “I’m not just a canvas. It’s a transaction.”
“A transaction.”
“A transaction.” He repeated the word, his voice flat. It felt cheap, which maybe it was. But it also felt honest, a brittle clarity in the murky silence of his apartment.
Britta shrugged one shoulder, a defensive gesture. “You do your thing. Then you do mine. A fair exchange of… services.”
He looked at her, really looked. At the defiant set of her jaw, the intelligent skepticism in her eyes. She wasn’t Annie, all methodical curiosity and hidden vulnerability. Britta was all blunt edges and declared intentions, even now. Especially now.
“Deal,” he said, the word final.
Something shifted in the room. The stale popcorn air seemed to stir, charged with a new, specific energy. Britta lay back on the comforter, the movement purposeful. She didn’t pose or open herself to him. She just got comfortable, watching him, her arms at her sides. An invite. A challenge.
Jeff moved over her, his shadow swallowing the light from the lamp. He braced his weight on his forearms, caging her in. For a long moment, they just breathed, faces close. Her eyes searched his, looking for the ghost of someone else, finding only the stark reflection of the here and now.
Then he entered her in one smooth, deep stroke. It was different. Immediate. A direct circuit completed. She gasped, her hips lifting to meet him, her earlier clinical detachment incinerated in the sudden, undeniable heat of it.
This wasn't distant. This was present, fiercely so. He fucked her with a raw, focused intent that had been absent before. Each thrust was a claim, a punctuation mark in their silent agreement. The bedframe resumed its rhythmic complaint against the wall, faster now, more urgent.
Britta’s nails dug into his biceps, her head tipping back into the pillow. “Yeah,” she hissed, the word torn from her. “Just like that.” Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him to her, heels pressing into the small of his back. The synchronicity was instant, an unspoken pact of pure physical need.
She chanted a string of fragmented curses and affirmations, her political vocabulary abandoned for something more primal. He watched a drop of sweat trail from his temple and fall onto her collarbone, watching it slide between her breasts. The sight, the sound of her, the perfect, slick friction—it coiled the tension in his gut into a white-hot spring.
“I’m close,” he growled, the warning rough against her ear.
Her eyes snapped open, locking onto his. There was no mockery now, only a sharp, gleaming anticipation. “Do it.”
He pulled out. The cool air on his wet skin was a shock. He knelt between her spread legs, his hand moving on himself with rough, urgent strokes. Britta watched, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her gaze fixed on him.
He came with a harsh groan, thick ropes striping across her toned abdomen, the first landing just below her navel, the second splashing higher. The visual was stark, visceral, a violation of her clean lines.
Her breath caught, a sharp inhale that held. She looked down, her brow furrowed not in disgust, but in genuine, stunned assessment. A slow blink. A parted mouth. “Oh,” she breathed, the sound full of surprise. “Huh.”
It was alien. It was possessive. It was, undeniably, erotic.
Without a word, Jeff lowered his head. His mouth was on her before the thought had fully formed, his hands spreading her thighs. He tasted her, focusing all his fragmented energy into this one act, this part of the bargain.
At first, it was just… fine. Competent. His tongue moved, his lips pressed, but his mind was a radio tuned to static. Britta sighed, a polite, encouraging sound. Her hand came to rest lightly on his head, fingers threading through his hair. It was nice. It was underwhelming.
Her other hand drifted absently to her stomach. Her index finger dabbed into the warm, pooling mess he’d left there. She lifted her finger, watching the strand stretch and break. She brought it to her mouth, her tongue flicking out to taste.
A jolt went through her, subtle but seismic. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against his mouth.
She did it again. This time, she gathered more, painting a slow, wet stripe across her skin from hipbone to hipbone with two fingers. She watched herself do it, mesmerized. The feel of it, warm and slick on her skin. The taboo of it. The sheer, messy reality.
A low moan vibrated in her throat, deeper, realer than before. The fingers in Jeff’s hair tightened, fisting. Her other hand continued its exploration, smearing, tracing circles. Her breathing hitched, becoming ragged and needy.
The shift was instantaneous. The distant static in Jeff’s mind cleared, tuned into the single, powerful frequency of her rising pleasure. Her taste changed, intensified. Her thighs trembled against his ears. He redoubled his efforts, his technique sharpening, becoming specific, relentless.
“Yes,” Britta choked out, the word cracking. “Right there, fuck, right there.” She wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to the sensation, to the feeling of his mouth between her legs and her own fingers sliding through the cooling spill on her stomach. The two sensations fused in her mind, one feeding the other in a dizzying loop.
Her climax rolled through her in a series of tight, convulsive waves, silent but for the desperate rush of her breath. She arched off the bed, her back bowing, her hand a tight claw in his hair.
When she finally sank back, boneless, the room was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Jeff lifted his head, his jaw aching, and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. One hand was splayed on her slick stomach, resting in the aftermath. The other had fallen away from his head.
She opened her eyes. They were clear, thoughtful, staring at the ceiling.
“Well,” she said, her voice hoarse. “That was… informative.”