Chapter 5: Morning Reclamation
The loft was silent, a hollowed-out kind of quiet that amplified the ringing phone. Joanna watched it vibrate on the floor, Marcus’s name a pulsating accusation. She didn’t move. The cold of the steel counter seeped into her bones, a stark contrast to the heat Riley had left smeared on her skin.
Eventually, the phone went quiet.
She slid off the counter, her legs shaky. The towel was damp and chilled when she wrapped it around herself. She moved through the loft, a ghost in someone else’s space. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from their first frantic night. She could still smell them—sex, sweat, Riley’s cheap shampoo. She crawled into the depression Riley’s body had left, pulled the sheet over her head, and let the exhausted, confused tremors take her until she fell into a black, dreamless sleep.
Something woke her. A pressure. A warmth.
The grey dawn light filtered through the high windows, painting the loft in shades of charcoal and ash. Riley was there, astride her hips, a solid silhouette against the weak light. She was naked, her skin cool from the sheets. The scent of her—engine grease, cold air, and the lingering musk of their earlier fucking—filled Joanna’s nostrils.
Joanna blinked, sleep receding. Riley’s thick cock lay heavy against her stomach, already half-hard. She watched, her breath caught, as Riley took herself in hand, giving a few slow, firm strokes. It thickened under her touch, rising to its full, imposing length.
Riley’s eyes were dark pools in the dim light, unreadable. She shifted forward, kneeling over Joanna’s face. The head of her cock brushed Joanna’s lips, a soft, insistent tap. It carried the faint, salty-sweet scent of her own arousal, mixed with the cleaner smell of soap. She’d showered.
“You’re awake,” Riley murmured, her voice rough with sleep.
Joanna could only nod, her mouth slightly open.
Riley guided herself, the slick tip tracing the seam of Joanna’s lips. “Open.”
Joanna obeyed, her tongue dipping out to taste. The flavor was Riley, pure and essential.
Riley pushed forward, not slowly, not gently. She fed her cock into Joanna’s mouth, an inch, then two, until the head hit the back of her throat. Joanna’s eyes watered. She relaxed her jaw, letting Riley set the depth.
“Suck me clean,” Riley breathed, her hips giving a shallow rock. “I want to taste myself on your tongue when I fuck that ass raw again.”
The filth of the words, the possessiveness in them, sent a jolt straight to Joanna’s core. She hollowed her cheeks, applying suction, using her tongue to press along the thick vein underneath. She could feel Riley hardening further in her mouth, becoming a solid, unyielding weight on her tongue.
Riley fucked her mouth with a lazy, dominant rhythm. Her hands came down to cradle Joanna’s face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. There was a tenderness in the gesture that belied the crude command. Joanna moaned around her, the vibration earning a sharp hiss from above.
“That’s it,” Riley whispered. “Take it all. You look so good like this. Famous fucking mouth, finally put to good use.”
Joanna’s own cock stirred, untouched, against her stomach. She reached down, wrapping her fingers around herself, stroking in time with Riley’s thrusts. The dual sensations—the fullness in her mouth, the friction in her hand—were dizzying.
Riley watched her for a moment, then pulled out with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected her shining head to Joanna’s swollen lips. “Stop,” she said, her voice tight. “Don’t come. Not yet.”
She swung off Joanna, kneeling between her legs. She pushed Joanna’s thighs apart, her gaze intent. “Look at you. Soaked just from sucking my dick.” She leaned down, her tongue delivering a broad, flat lick from Joanna’s perineum all the way up the length of her cock to the tip.
Joanna jerked, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. Riley’s mouth was hot, skillful, relentless. She took Joanna deep, her throat working, while her fingers found Joanna’s entrance, still loose and slick from their earlier rounds. Two fingers slid in effortlessly, curling, searching.
“You’re ruined,” Riley repeated, her words muffled by Joanna’s flesh. “So fucking open. I could put my whole hand in here.”
The image, the sensation, pushed Joanna to the edge. She tangled her hands in Riley’s short hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Riley… please…”
Riley pulled off with a gasp. “Please what? You need my cock? Need me to fill this greedy hole up?”
“Yes,” Joanna sobbed, beyond pride, beyond anything but need.
Riley rose up, positioning herself. She spat into her palm, slicking herself, then nudged the head against Joanna’s waiting entrance. She didn’t push in. She just rubbed the slippery tip back and forth, teasing the sensitive rim.
“Say it,” Riley demanded, her own breath coming fast now.
“I need your cock,” Joanna gasped. “Please, Riley, fuck me. Make me feel it.”
Riley drove in.
It was a deep, singular stroke that buried her to the root in one smooth, brutal motion. The air left Joanna’s lungs in a rush. The stretch was immense, perfect, a reclaiming of territory that already felt like Riley’s.
Riley held there, her body trembling with the effort of stillness. She looked down at where they were joined, her face a mask of fierce, unvarnished want. “Mine,” she growled, the word a primal claim.
Then she began to move.
This wasn’t the frantic pace of the kitchen, or the slow possession of the shower. This was something else, a rhythmic, punishing grind that rocked the entire bed. Each thrust was a statement. Each withdrawal was a promise of return. Riley’s hands gripped Joanna’s hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place for the assault.
Joanna met her thrust for thrust, her heels digging into Riley’s back, pulling her deeper. The sounds were animalistic: skin slapping against skin, the wet, slick noise of penetration, their ragged, shared breaths. Riley bent down, capturing Joanna’s mouth in a kiss that tasted of her own cock, of salt, of need.
“Touch yourself,” Riley panted against her lips. “I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.”
Joanna’s hand slipped between their sweat-slicked bodies, her fingers finding her own cock. She was painfully hard, leaking freely. A few rough strokes were all it took. Her orgasm built like a storm, tightening her muscles, pulling Riley deeper still. When it broke, it was a silent, shattering thing, a white-out behind her eyes that made her body arch and convulse.
Riley felt the violent clenching around her cock and lost her rhythm. With a raw, torn shout, she plunged deep one last time and came, her own release pulsing hot inside Joanna in long, drawn-out spurts.
They collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs, soaked in sweat and spent. Riley’s weight was a welcome anchor. Joanna could feel Riley’s heart hammering against her own, a frantic syncopation slowly settling into a shared, exhausted rhythm.
For a long time, neither spoke. The light in the room grew stronger, turning from grey to pale gold.
Riley was the first to move, rolling onto her back beside Joanna. She stared at the exposed pipes on the ceiling. “Marcus called again. While I was in the shop.”
Joanna’s stomach tightened. She turned her head on the pillow. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t. I didn’t answer.” Riley’s voice was flat. “But he called three times.”
“He’s persistent.”
“He owns a piece of you.” Riley stated it as a fact.
“He owns a piece of who I was.” Joanna corrected softly.
Riley turned her head, her eyes searching Joanna’s face. “Is there a difference?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Joanna looked away, at the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam now cutting across the floor. “I don’t know anymore.”
Riley sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. She reached for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, lit one, and took a long drag. She offered it to Joanna. They smoked in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth, the simple intimacy of the act somehow more profound than what they’d just done.
“My old man,” Riley said suddenly, her gaze fixed on the window, “was a trucker. Long hauls. He’d be gone for weeks. My mom… she waited. Made a home. He’d come back, spend a day or two, fuck her like he was claiming territory, then leave again. She called it love.” Riley took the cigarette back, her lips tightening. “I called it a prison sentence.”
Joanna listened, her heart aching. “What happened?”
“She died waiting. Ovarian cancer. He was on a run to Fargo.” Riley’s voice was stripped of emotion, which made the words cut deeper. “He didn’t make it back in time. After that, he just kept driving. Drove his rig into a ravine two years later. Probably fell asleep at the wheel.” She finally looked at Joanna. “I don’t do waiting. I don’t do maybe. I take what’s in front of me. I fuck it. I fix it. Or I walk away.”
Joanna understood. This was Riley’s confession, her warning. She was what was in front of her. A complicated, broken-down thing.
“I’m not asking you to wait,” Joanna said quietly. “I’m asking you to see me. Not the model. Not the thing your father might have jerked off to on a long haul. Me. Now.”
Riley stubbed the cigarette out, her movements precise and final. She looked at Joanna, really looked at her—at the shadows under her eyes, the new bruises on her hips, the vulnerable set of her mouth. “I see you,” she said, the words so low Joanna almost missed them. “That’s the fucking problem.”
Downstairs, the buzzer for the street-level door sounded, a harsh, insistent bleat that shattered the fragile quiet.
They both froze.
It sounded again, longer this time. Someone was holding the button.
Riley’s face closed down, the vulnerability vanishing behind a wall of hardened steel. She swung her legs out of bed and walked to the intercom by the door, naked and unselfconscious. She pressed the button. “Yeah?”
A voice, tinny and distorted through the speaker, but unmistakably smooth, male, and edged with impatience, filled the loft. “Riley? It’s Marcus. Joanna’s friend. Let me up, we need to talk.”
Joanna’s blood went cold. She pulled the sheet around her, sitting up.
Riley’s back was to her, her shoulders rigid. She released the button, cutting off Marcus’s next words. She stood there for a long moment, her head bowed.
Then she turned. Her eyes met Joanna’s across the room. They held no warmth, no softness from their earlier moments. They were the eyes of the mechanic who fixed broken things, assessing the cost.
“Choice time, princess,” Riley said, her voice devoid of all inflection. “You answer that, you go downstairs, you get in his shiny car. You stay here…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She just gestured at the rumpled bed, at herself, at the messy, raw reality of the loft. “You stay here, you’re choosing this. All of it. The fucking, the grease, the silence. The walking away.”
The buzzer screamed again, a relentless demand.
Joanna looked at the door. Then she looked at Riley, standing naked and defiant in the stream of morning light, offering her a prison or a wrench. Both felt like different kinds of ruin.
She threw the sheet aside and stood up.
She stood naked before Riley, the morning light painting her skin in pale gold. The buzzer’s screech was a physical thing, a nail dragged down the chalkboard of the fragile peace they’d carved. She didn’t look at the door. She kept her eyes on Riley’s hardened, waiting face.
“Tell him I’m not here,” Joanna said, her voice steadier than she felt.
A muscle twitched in Riley’s jaw. She studied Joanna for a heartbeat longer, as if searching for a lie. Then she turned back to the intercom, pressed the button. “She’s not here.” Her tone was flat, final.
“Don’t bullshit me, Riley. Her car’s on the block.” Marcus’s voice was clipped, a CEO’s patience worn thin. “This is business. Let me up, or I come back with a process server. Your choice.”
Riley’s thumb whitened on the button. She released it, silencing him. The sudden quiet was more threatening than the noise. She turned, her gaze sweeping over Joanna’s nudity, the fresh bruises, the defiant set of her shoulders.
“Business,” Riley echoed, the word a sour taste. She walked to the window, peering down at the street below. “Black town car. Double-parked.”
Joanna joined her, the worn floorboards cool under her feet. She saw the sleek vehicle, a glossy insect in the gritty urban landscape. A man in a dark suit leaned against it, phone to his ear. Marcus. The sight was a cold splash of her other life, the one of contracts and curated images.
“He doesn’t give up,” Joanna whispered.
“He owns something he thinks is his,” Riley corrected, not looking at her. “You gonna go down there? Put on a show for him?”
The question was a blade. Joanna felt its edge. To go down was to step back into the frame, to be looked at, managed. To stay was to choose the chaotic, raw truth of this loft and the volatile woman beside her. She thought of Riley’s mother, waiting. She thought of her own years as a beautiful object.
“No,” Joanna said.
Riley finally looked at her. “Then what?”
“Then we ignore him.” Joanna reached for Riley’s hand, lacing their fingers together. The mechanic’s callouses were rough against her skin. “He’ll leave. He hates scenes.”
Riley’s fingers tightened, almost painful. She pulled Joanna away from the window, leading her back toward the rumpled bed. “He’s watching,” she said, her voice low. “Let him watch.”
She pushed Joanna onto the mattress, following her down. Her mouth was hot and demanding, a brand of ownership. Joanna kissed her back with equal ferocity, her hands gripping Riley’s short hair. The buzzer sounded again, a short, angry burst.
Riley broke the kiss, her eyes blazing. “Fuck him.” She moved down Joanna’s body, her mouth and hands claiming territory. She took Joanna’s cock into her mouth with a brutal, sucking intensity, her tongue working the sensitive underside. Joanna arched off the bed, a cry torn from her.
Downstairs, a car door slammed.
Riley pulled off, her lips slick and swollen. “He’s leaving,” she breathed, a dark triumph in her voice. She positioned herself between Joanna’s thighs, her own thick cock nudging insistently at Joanna’s entrance, still loose and wet from their earlier fucking. “This is what you chose.”
She pushed in, a slow, deep reclamation. The fullness was a shocking relief, an anchor in the storm. Joanna wrapped her legs around Riley’s waist, pulling her closer, needing the weight, the reality of her.
Riley fucked her with a deliberate, punishing rhythm, each thrust a wordless reply to the world outside. The bedframe knocked a dull tattoo against the wall. Joanna met her, thrust for thrust, their sweat-slicked skin slapping together.
“He wanted this,” Riley gritted out, her pace increasing. “He wanted to package this. Sell it.” She drove deeper, hitting a spot that made Joanna see white. “It’s not for sale.”
“No,” Joanna gasped, her nails digging into Riley’s shoulders. “It’s not.”
Riley’s control snapped. Her thrusts became frantic, erratic. She buried her face in Joanna’s neck, her breaths ragged puffs of heat. “Come for me,” she demanded, her voice raw. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The permission, the fierce possession in the words, undid her. Joanna’s orgasm ripped through her, a silent, convulsing wave that pulled Riley over the edge with her. Riley’s release pulsed deep inside, a hot, claiming flood.
They lay entangled, hearts hammering a frantic duet. The loft was silent. The town car was gone.
Riley shifted, her softening cock slipping from Joanna’s body. She didn’t move far, just rested her forehead against Joanna’s shoulder. “He’ll be back.”
“I know.”
“What will you do?”
Joanna stared at the ceiling, at a crack in the plaster she hadn’t noticed before. “I don’t know.” She turned her head, her lips brushing Riley’s temple. “But I’m not going back to being a prop.”
Riley propped herself up on one elbow. Her eyes searched Joanna’s face. “Then what will you be?”
It was the question hanging over everything. Joanna touched Riley’s cheek, tracing the sharp line of her jaw. “Here,” she said, because it was the only true answer she had.
A ghost of a smile touched Riley’s lips. She rolled off the bed, padding naked to the small kitchen area. She filled two glasses with water from the tap, came back, and handed one to Joanna. They drank in silence, the ordinary act feeling more intimate than what they’d just done.
“I have to go to the shop,” Riley said, setting her glass down. “Got a transmission swap that’s bled into today.”
Joanna nodded. The real world was reasserting itself, minute by minute.
Riley dressed in her uniform of jeans and a faded t-shirt, her movements efficient. She didn’t look at Joanna as she laced her boots. “You can stay. Lock up when you leave.” She grabbed her keys from the counter, the sound jarringly loud.
“Riley.”
Riley paused, hand on the doorknob.
“Thank you,” Joanna said. It felt inadequate, but it was all she had.
Riley glanced back, her expression unreadable. “For what? Fucking you raw? Ignoring your manager?” She shook her head. “Don’t thank me. Just… be here when I get back.”
Then she was gone, the door closing with a soft, definitive click.
The loft felt vast and empty. Joanna finished her water, the cool liquid doing nothing to ease the dryness in her throat. She rose, her body pleasantly sore, and wandered to the window. The street was just a street again. She showered in Riley’s small, clean bathroom, using her soap, smelling like her.
Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she hesitated by the door. Her fingers traced the cold metal of the deadbolt. Lock up when you leave.
She turned the bolt, engaging the lock from the inside. She wasn’t leaving.
The decision settled in her bones, a quiet calm. She cleaned the kitchen, wiping the counter where they had been hours before. She straightened the sheets on the bed, erasing and preserving the evidence at once. She found a notepad by the phone, a mechanic’s invoice.
On the back, she wrote: I’m here.
She left it on the pillow.
Then she sat on the couch, in the same spot where this had begun, and waited. The sun climbed higher, painting warm rectangles on the floor. She watched the dust motes dance, and for the first time in a long time, she was simply present in a silence that wasn’t lonely.
Her phone, buried in her discarded purse, began to vibrate. She could see the light of the screen flashing. She didn’t move to answer it. She just watched it until it stopped, until the screen went dark.
The afternoon stretched, thin and quiet. She dozed. She thought of nothing and everything.
The sound of a key in the lock jolted her awake. The loft was bathed in the long, orange light of late afternoon. The door opened, and Riley stood there, backlit by the hall light. She smelled of gasoline and sweat, her knuckles grazed.
She saw Joanna on the couch. She saw the cleaned space, the made bed. Her eyes found the note on the pillow.
She didn’t smile. But something in her posture, a tension Joanna hadn’t even fully registered, released. She dropped her keys into a ceramic bowl by the door with a clatter.
“You’re here,” Riley said, not a question.
“I’m here,” Joanna replied.
Riley walked to the fridge, pulled out two beers, and opened them. She handed one to Joanna, then sat on the far end of the couch, leaving a foot of worn fabric between them. They drank in the gathering dusk, the city’s electric hum rising outside the windows.
“Transmission was fucked,” Riley said finally, taking a long swallow. “Had to pull the whole damn thing. Took all day.”
“Sounds rough.”
“It’s work.” Riley looked at her, really looked, as if seeing her anew in the dim light. “He called the shop.”
Joanna’s blood cooled. “What did he say?”
“Said to tell you he’s exercising the morality clause in your old contract. Some bullshit about ‘bringing the brand into disrepute.’ He thinks you’re shacked up with some ‘grease monkey.’ His words.” Riley’s voice was dangerously even. “Said he’s got photos from a PI. You entering this building. Me. My record.”
The calm Joanna had cultivated shattered. A cold fear, professional and deep, snaked through her gut. “He can’t.”
“He can. He will.” Riley set her beer down with a heavy thud. “He wanted to know my price. How much to make me walk away and give you a nudge back toward sensibility.”
The air left the room. “What did you tell him?”
Riley turned to face her fully, her eyes glinting in the twilight. “I told him my price was watching his face when he realized he couldn’t buy this.” She leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Her hand came up, not to strike, but to cup Joanna’s cheek, her thumb rough against her skin. “He asked if I loved you.”
Joanna’s heart stopped. “What did you say?”
Riley’s mouth quirked, a bitter, fragile thing. “I said love’s a word for people who have time.” She moved closer, her breath mixing with Joanna’s. “I don’t know what the fuck this is. But it’s mine. And you chose it.”
She kissed her then, a deep, slow kiss that tasted of beer and exhaustion and a defiant, unnameable hope. It was a seal. A promise. A gamble.
When they broke apart, Riley rested her forehead against Joanna’s. “He’s going to war.”
Joanna closed her eyes, seeing the lawsuits, the headlines, the brutal unraveling of the life she’d tried to leave. “I know.”
“You ready?”
Joanna opened her eyes. In Riley’s steel-grey gaze, she saw no pity, no rescue. Only a fierce, combative partnership. She took Riley’s hand, the one with the grazed knuckles, and laced their fingers together. The connection was a circuit closing.
“No,” Joanna said truthfully. She brought their joined hands to her lips, kissed the broken skin. “But I’m here.”