Chapter 4: The Aftermath
The slam of the car door outside was a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Then the engine roar, fading fast, swallowed by the drumming rain. Silence rushed in, thick and suffocating, pressing against Harry’s eardrums. He stood frozen in the center of the room, the damp patch on the carpet from the spilled beer cold beneath his socked feet. The ghost of Anne’s fury still crackled in the air, mingling sickeningly with the fading scent of her shampoo and the stale beer.
His breath hitched. Ragged. Shallow. The image slammed back into his skull, brighter, sharper than reality had been: the bathroom doorway framing her wet, naked body. Water droplets tracing paths down her neck, over the perfect swell of her breasts, the dark pink nipples tight from the cooler air. The smooth curve of her belly. Lower. The dark, wet triangle of curls plastered to her skin, the glistening pink folds he’d glimpsed for that stolen, electric second before she screamed. The memory of David’s hand possessively squeezing her ass as they left burned like acid.
A low groan escaped Harry’s lips, unbidden. His cock, which had deflated slightly in the face of David’s fury, surged back to life, iron-hard and straining against the denim of his jeans. It throbbed, a painful, insistent pulse that drowned out the frantic hammering of his heart. His hands trembled violently as they flew to his belt buckle, fumbling, fingers slick with sweat.
"Fuck," he hissed, the word ragged. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The buckle gave. The button popped. He shoved his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one frantic motion. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed dark red, already weeping pre-cum at the tip. He gripped himself, the touch sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain up his spine. His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching, desperate for an anchor to the fantasy.
They landed on the worn armchair. The one Anne had stretched out in earlier, her grey t-shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of smooth stomach. He lunged for it, stumbling, his jeans tangling around his ankles. He didn’t care. He sank onto the cushion, the rough fabric scratching his bare thighs. His gaze fixed on the spot where she’d sat.
But it wasn't enough. He needed her. Her smell. Her touch. Something tangible.
His frantic eyes scanned the room again. Near the door, half-hidden by her discarded backpack, lay a crumpled ball of grey cotton. Her t-shirt. The one she’d worn under her jacket. The one she’d peeled off before heading to the shower, tossing it casually aside. Forgotten.
Harry scrambled off the chair, nearly falling, his cock bobbing obscenely. He snatched the shirt off the floor. It was soft, worn thin in places. He crushed it to his face, inhaling deeply. Her scent flooded him – clean sweat, the faint floral hint of her deodorant, the unique, musky warmth of her. It was intoxicating. Better than the memory. Real.
He stumbled back to the armchair, collapsing onto it. He pressed the soft fabric against his nose and mouth, breathing her in, his eyes squeezed shut. The image returned, crystal clear: Anne standing there, dripping wet, shocked, exposed. For him. Only for him.
"Yeah," he moaned into the fabric, his voice muffled, thick with lust. "Yeah, you fucking bitch. You wanted me to see. Didn't you? Standing there all wet… showing