Chapter 7: Bad timing
The compulsion was a live wire, frayed and sparking in the stale warehouse air. It had been building since the moment Hannah walked in, wearing those black leggings that hugged every curve, every dip, the memory of her splayed in the backseat of her car a constant, throbbing echo in Matt’s blood. They’d exchanged glances over inventory sheets, their fingers brushing as they passed a box cutter, each touch a jolt that traveled straight to his groin.
He caught her wrist in Aisle 14, deep in the canyon of high-stacked pallets, a temporary wall of shrink-wrapped merchandise that created a secluded, dusty hollow. The hum of distant forklifts was a dull drone.
“Matt,” she breathed, a warning that wasn’t a warning at all. Her eyes were wide, pupils swallowing the gray.
He didn’t speak. His mouth crashed down on hers, a hard, claiming kiss that tasted of coffee and desperate need. Her back met the rough wood of a crate labeled “Fragile.” His hands slid from her waist to her hips, gripping hard, then lower, cupping the full curve of her ass through the thin, stretchy fabric. He groaned into her mouth.
“These fucking leggings,” he rasped, nipping at her lower lip. “Been driving me insane all morning. Can see every goddamn thing.”
She arched into him, a silent plea. His fingers hooked into the waistband of both her leggings and the flimsy lace beneath, yanking them down to her knees in one fierce tug. The cool, dusty air hit her exposed skin. He turned her roughly, pressing her forward over the crate, her palms flat on the splintering wood. She offered no resistance, just a sharp, eager gasp.
He fumbled with his belt, his jeans, shoving them down past his thighs. He was already painfully hard, his cock jutting out, thick and dark against his stomach. He spat into his palm, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself once, twice. He guided the blunt head through her folds, finding her hot and impossibly wet already.
“Fuck, Hannah,” he gritted out, and then he pushed.
He entered her in one deep, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, truncated sound swallowed by the cardboard and plastic around them. She was so tight, a silken, clutching heat that made his vision speckle. He held there for a second, shuddering, then withdrew almost completely before slamming back in.
He set a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust a raw, slick drive that shoved the crate an inch across the concrete floor with a grinding screech. One hand anchored on her hip, fingers digging into soft flesh, the other fisted in the back of her shirt. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic slap of their joining, and the distant, oblivious machinery.
“Yes,” she hissed, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
He leaned over her, his chest pressed to her back, his mouth at her ear. “You feel that? Take it. Take all of me.” His pace grew more frantic, less controlled. She was moaning steadily now, a low, desperate chant that tightened the coil in his gut. He snaked a hand around her front, down into the thatch of curls, finding her swollen clit. He rubbed rough, tight circles.
“I’m gonna… Matt, I’m gonna…” Her words dissolved into a choked gasp.
Her inner muscles clenched around him in violent, rippling waves. She came with a force that bowed her back, her entire body seizing, a raw, muffled scream tearing from her throat as she bit down on her own arm. The intense pressure of her climax tipped him over the edge. With a guttural groan, he drove into her one last, deep time and emptied himself, pulse after hot, liquid pulse flooding her core, his body jerking with the force of it.
He slumped over her, spent, his breath heaving. The world slowly filtered back in: the grit on the crate under her cheek, the ache in his knees from the hard floor, the sharp smell of their sex mixing with dust and pinewood.
As his breathing steadied, a primal, subtle shift in the air raised the hairs on the back of his sweat-damp neck. A presence. He froze.
Slowly, he turned his head.
At the far end of the aisle, partially obscured by the tiered shelves, stood Brenda Davies. Her arms were crossed over her chest, a clipboard dangling from one hand. Her expression was unreadable, a stone mask, but her eyes were lasers, burning through the dim space straight at them. She didn’t move. She just watched.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He pulled out of Hannah with a soft, wet sound. His spent cock, now softening, was slick with their combined fluids. Hannah, still shuddering with aftershocks, whimpered at the sudden emptiness.
“What?” she mumbled, dazed.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, his voice strangled. He yanked his jeans up, fumbling with the button. He glanced back down the aisle.
Bren was gone. As silently as she’d appeared.
“Matt?” Hannah’s voice was small, fearful now. She straightened, pulling her leggings up with trembling hands, the fabric sticking to her damp thighs.
“I think… I think Bren saw us.” The words felt like ash in his mouth.
Hannah’s face went pale. “Oh, God. Are you sure?”
“She was right there. At the end of the row.” He ran a hand over his face. “She just stood there. Watching.”
The afterglow was utterly, irrevocably shattered. They cleaned up as best they could with shop towels from a nearby cart, the rough paper scratchy and inadequate. The evidence was on her skin, on her clothes, a secret now possibly laid bare. They worked in frantic, silent sync, avoiding each other’s eyes.
The rest of the shift was an exercise in exquisite torture. Every footstep made them jump. Every page over the loudspeaker seemed to carry their names. They worked on opposite sides of the warehouse, the distance feeling like a chasm.
Matt was loading a pallet when he felt her gaze again. He turned. Bren was on the metal mezzanine overlooking the floor, her posture erect, her eyes tracking him like a bird of prey. She held his stare for a long, heavy moment. Then, deliberately, she shook her head. A single, slow, profoundly disappointed arc from side to side. Not angry. Not threatening. Just… weary. And final.
She turned and walked away, her sturdy shoes clicking on the grated steps.
At the end of the day, Hannah approached his truck, her face drawn. “What do we do?”
He didn’t know. The easy freedom of the parking lot, the backseat, felt like a lifetime ago. “We go home. We act normal. We see what happens tomorrow.”
“She didn’t say anything.”
“That’s what scares me,” Matt said.
He watched Hannah drive away, her taillights swallowed by the evening traffic. In his rearview mirror, he saw Bren exit the building, locking the main office door. She stood for a moment under the buzzing security light, a solitary figure. She lit a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating her tired, lined face. She took a long drag, exhaled a plume of smoke into the twilight, and watched Hannah’s car disappear. Then she dropped the cigarette, crushed it under her heel with a twist, and walked to her own car, her decision a quiet weight in the cooling dark.