Late

Our relationship wasn’t built on spontaneity. Ever a schedule-drafting, clock-watching killjoy, I’m drawn to structure and order even in my partner and I’s most intimate encounters. During years of long distance, our weekend flings are meticulously detailed.

Any given Friday plays out like this: Marie drives in after work. If she has a full tank of gas and doesn’t need to pee, she should be at my gate at 9:30 p.m. That gives us time for casual conversation, light foreplay, and spirited cunnilingus. Which should put her in the mood for penetrative sex within the half hour, faster if we incorporate a toy. Five minutes of her on top or until her knees get sore and then I take over in missionary position. Due to our steep size difference, we effectively have three angles that work for us if there is a throw pillow handy. There’s some headboard knocking. A quick negotiation about where ejaculate should be deposited that night and then we are curled up in bed by 11 so that we can make it to an early morning breakfast.

An outsider looking in could say we are stuck in a rut, but when you only have a weekend to share every couple of months, it’s about developing an efficient strategy to divide and conquer the time together. 

We’ve tried spice. Our sexy advances read more like seasick sign language and produce more giggles than arousal. Romantic getaways and hotel sex devolve into minor breakdowns when the pressure of “making the moment special” grinds one or both of our libidos to a sputter before the underwear hits the floor. 

So, when we are running late to meet Marie’s high school friend for dinner on a holiday visit home, it is disarming to feel the spike of arousal. 

I’ve been dressed for twenty minutes. Alone in her childhood bedroom, I lay on her bed, beneath a Twilight movie poster, admiring her collection of awards and medals. Marie’s home life was characterized by a lifetime of Catholic school, squeaky-clean family fun, and absolutely nothing resembling premarital sex. The twin bed beneath me, complete with a trundle for middle school sleepovers, has never seen so much as a sneaked kiss. 

“You sure your parents aren’t going to be home tonight?” I ask, feeling like a teenager looking to hook up on prom night. 

“I’m sure! They’re going to be at the beach house at least another day.” She peeks out of the attached bathroom, eyeliner clutched in her hands. A fiery smile spreads across her face, her eyebrows dancing, full of unspoken innuendo. 

Marie is what princesses dream of being when they grow up. A pint-sized sass machine, she’s all charisma and effortless allure. Standing before me now in a black and white striped dress that hugs the curve of her hips, the bulb of her breasts, she is a far cry from the stick-thin dork peering out from picture frames in the hallway. Her toned legs are still bare beneath her high hem. I want to consume her body right now. My lips, frenetic against her neck, my hand squeezing her ass tightly. I want to kneel before her, kissing her abdomen, my fingers lost in the tangles between her thighs. I want her lost in ecstasy as my tongue works her clit while she stands above me. 

“What are you looking at?” she asks, blushing slightly. 

I am staring. Everything is so heightened in the shadow of her parents’ bedroom just across the hall. The electric hum of the taboo. I want to see her body now. 

But suddenly her phone is jingling. Her friend is a few minutes from the restaurant. 

“Oh shit. I’ll be done in a second.” She hurries back into the bathroom. “Can you bring me my leggings?” 

I scoop the heavy black tights and drag my feet to the bathroom. I should be berating her to hurry up. On a normal night, I would have had us there an hour ago, reading in the parking lot while we waited. But there is something different tonight. A small ember of desire sizzling deep within my gut. I try to douse it with a heavy dose of responsibility and practicality, but it just spreads instead. Resilient, stubborn. 

I post up in the doorway and admire her as she finishes her eyes. She always has a buzz about her on date nights. Like she is starring in some secret pop music video. All bouncing energy and excitement. She asks why I’m staring again. I slide behind her, my hand taking her by the stomach as I kiss her neck. 

“You got those leggings for me?” she asks with a hitch in her voice. 

“Not yet,” I whisper. I kiss her again, my hand voyaging across the length of her torso, a colossal ship traversing practiced routes, her content sighs are a favorable wind. 

“We’re going to be late.” It’s the first time that these words were not mine to utter. 

“Who cares?”

A flirty gasp escapes her. I toss the leggings back into the room. 

“Should we text…” My lips cut off the rest of the question. 

Her tongue works its way into my mouth as my hands bunch the hem of her dress, exposing her panties before our mirror images. She turns to watch my reflection as I reach down to her crotch. Her underwear disappears behind my palm. My fingers slide along the warm ridge beneath. Her folds shift beneath the fabric under my firm, exploratory pressure. Thin fingers grip the back of my neck as my hand dives beneath the fabric. 

Gliding my middle finger along her lips, I’m greeted by her wetness. Looking back at the mirror, all I see are two sets of hungry eyes. 

My hands around the waistband of her panties, I tug downward as she pulls her dress up over her head. We discard them on the bathroom tile. She turns to me to kiss me deeply and my hand finds her pussy once more. My fingers pass along her opening again and again before rising to circle her clit. She eases back to rest against the sink, legs parting, inviting me in further. 

My middle finger eases into her warmth. Her kisses grow more passionate the deeper my finger dives. Small curling strokes. 

Her hand finds my rigid cock through my slacks. We don’t say it. We don’t need to. 

I ease out of her before I take her up in my arms. Her strong legs wrap around my waist as I march us across the bedroom. We crash to the bed in a heap. I scramble to unclasp her bra. She reaches for her backpack, tossing condoms and a vibrator next to a stuffed giraffe sitting between her pillows. 

I pull my shirt off in a tangle. She unbuttons my pants and slides them down my thick, muscled thighs. My breathing is deep and wild, but it catches as she frees my cock and engulfs the head with her lips. As her hand slides up and down my shaft, I fumble with the box of condoms, ripping one from its packaging. 

Her legs wide, she lays back and fixes me with the eyes of some jungle cat. Sexy, unpredictable, and dangerous. She reaches for a pillow, but I enter her before she can adjust it beneath her. My sock-covered feet slipping on the hardwood, I root down, thrilled that our bodies line up just right on this lofted bed. 

I pull her to me. Arms around the small of her back, I slide deeper inside her. Careful not to jerk too roughly, I don’t want to race out the gate before she can settle in. My cock glides through her wetness. I reach down and rub her clit, slowly building a tempo. Her head slinks back against the mattress. Her mouth shaping silent moans. 

Her grip tight on my forearm, her lips curl into a smile as she asks for more. Deep and breathy. I shift forward, her legs angling toward the ceiling as I find my rhythm. Hugging her legs tight together, her ankles to the side of my face, I grind forward with short, choppy strokes. I slip free and we laugh. She apologizes like it’s a bad thing that she’s this wet. I roll my eyes and enter her again.

Crawling atop her, my chest presses against hers. Her smooth tits against my hairy pecs. Pinning her wrists to the mattress, I kiss her neck and thrust deeply. She gasps in my ear. Whispered fucks fuel me further. Each thrust hitting heavier, faster. Her breath bouncing with the rhythm. 

Together, we blindly reach for the vibrator at the head of the bed. My longer arms reach it first and I hand it to her. I lean back as she slides it between us. The powerful vibrations ripple through my belly as I continue at my pace. In moments, we’re both gasping, encouraging the other to come. 

Sweat dripping, we spasm together. Loud, bold, and excessive. 

I collapse to the bed as we catch our breath. Looking to my right, I see Robert Pattinson’s hunky, vampiric gaze watching over us. I look back to Marie staring up at me with dreamy eyes. I take her in my arms, but this moment doesn’t let us linger. 

“You should get dressed,” she says. “We’re going to be late.” 

Photo by Mikhail Nilov