fiction.

One More Night

I want it to be just like the song, she told him. She slipped out of her dress, and unhooked the back of her bra. She let him take her in, the slanted lines of her shoulder blades, the tiny goosebumps that sprang all over her skin. She had to shove and wiggle to get out of the skirt. She left on the black lace panties, the nude hold up stockings and heels. She had planned this. Standing and breathing in front of him.

Okay. He said. He understood. They stood in his living room. There were sparse, black and white photographs behind him. There was the panoramic view of Manhattan behind her. There was a glass topped coffee table between them. He stepped around it and she stood still, waiting. He gripped the roots of her hair. He shoved her body against his. He breathed hard against her naked neck. She was trembling and trying to hide it. He didn’t kiss her lips, but devoured the rest of her, relentless, violent. He pinned her against the window, her ass pressing against the glass, her wrists held hard together in front her breasts.

She looked at him. There was empty lust. There was dead fire. There was a cruelty he had rarely seen. When she fucked him it was mechanical, furious. Her hair a tangled mess, the sweat on her arms. He was the one who couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted her to pause. Wrap her soft arms around him and press her face against his chest. Kiss him tender and play with his hair.

They never made it to the bed. They lay tangled in front of the window. She lingered for only a second, then her weight was gone. She pieced together her outfit. He watched her, still naked on the floor. She stepped into her spiked heels. She looked back at him at the door. “Goodbye, then.”

He watched the door slam closed. He closed his eyes. He was surprised by how much it hurt.

Source: paintedfictions