Her heel dug into his lower back and pulled him forward.
The granite was cold under his palms. He could feel it through the sweat, through the heat of her thighs clamped around his waist, through the rhythm they'd built that had the glasses in the dish rack rattling with every stroke. The edge of the counter bit into his thighs and he didn't care because she'd just made that sound again, the one that started in her chest and came out broken, and his hips snapped forward harder chasing it.
"Troy- right there, don't you dare-"
Her fingers slipped on the granite. She grabbed his shoulder instead, nails biting crescents into the muscle, and her other hand knocked the pepper grinder off the counter. It hit the tile. He didn't look.
He watched her face. Couldn't stop watching her face. Mouth open, eyes screwed shut. The flush crawled up from her neck until her cheeks were burning. Her skirt was bunched around her waist, her shirt shoved up past her bra, and every time he thrust forward her whole body rocked back on the stone, tits bouncing with the impact, hair swaying where it had come loose from her ponytail. The contrast when her bare back met the cold granite made her gasp, her nipples tightening, and he felt that clench run all the way through her body to where he was buried inside her.
Wet. She'd been wet before he'd pulled her underwear off, before he'd lifted her onto the counter while she laughed and said the dishes weren't done, before he'd pushed her skirt up and pressed his mouth between her thighs until her protests turned into fingers yanking his hair. Now the sound of him sliding in and out of her was obscene in the quiet kitchen. Slick. Rhythmic. Louder than he'd expected. She heard it too because her face went red and she turned her head and he watched the flush spread down to her chest.
"Ah- god-"
"Look at me."
Her eyes came back to his. Glassy. Embarrassed. He pulled his hips back slow, just the head inside her, and the wet sound of him sliding out was loud in the kitchen and her blush got worse.
Her heels pulled him deeper. Both of them now, hooked behind his back, ankles crossed, and the angle shifted and she gasped and went tight around him and he had to stop or this was going to be over before she got there. He gripped her hip with one hand and held himself still, just the head inside her, feeling her try to pull him back in with her legs. Her hips working in small desperate circles. The wet heat of her right there, gripping the tip.
"Don't tease, you asshole."
He grinned. Pushed forward slow. One inch. She was so wet he could feel it running down, warm on his thighs where their bodies met. Her breath hitched and her hand on his shoulder squeezed harder and she bit down on her lip. Two inches. He looked down. Watched himself disappear into her. The stretch of her around him, slick and flushed. Three inches. Four. All the way, his hips pressed flush against her, and the sound that came out of her throat was guttural, animal, and she slapped a hand over her mouth the second she heard it.
"Nn- mm-"
He pulled her hand away. Pinned it to the granite beside her hip. "I want to hear it."
Her face was on fire. She turned her head and he pressed his mouth to the pulse hammering under her jaw and sucked on that spot he knew and her hips rolled against him, grinding his cock deeper, and a moan leaked through her clenched teeth.
He stayed there. Deep. Ground his hips in a slow circle and her head tipped back and her throat was long and flushed and she tasted like salt. Like the perfume she'd put on that morning, twelve hours faded, her underneath it. Her walls squeezed him on every rotation and her breathing was getting ragged, through her mouth now, and she couldn't keep her hips still.
He started moving again. Faster. The rhythm they both knew. Two years of this and he could read her body blind. The spot on her neck that made her clench. The angle that hit her right when he tilted her hips up with his hand. Her left leg always straightened when she was getting close. Knee locking, toes curling against his back.
He found the angle.
"There- right- fuck-"
Her hand went from his shoulder to the back of his neck and pulled his face down. She pressed her forehead to his, breathing into his mouth, hot and fast and losing rhythm. Her eyes opened and her pupils were blown wide and she was looking at him like she didn't see him, like she was seeing through him to wherever the pleasure was taking her. He could feel her starting to shake. Thighs trembling against his sides. Stomach muscles jumping under his palm.
The kitchen was warm. Late summer, the window open, the wet slap of skin filling the room each time his hips met hers. Sweat between her breasts, catching light from the stove hood. Her hair was sticking to her neck, loose strands plastered to the sweat on her face, and she didn't push them away. A bead of his own sweat rolled down his spine. Her back was slick against the granite where her body had warmed the stone and she was sliding with each thrust, her shirt riding higher, and the edge of the counter kept catching his thighs at the wrong angle and it hurt and he didn't care because she was making that face. Mouth open, brow furrowed, pulled tight from scalp to jaw.
He drove into her. Steady. Relentless. His thumb found her clit, slick and swollen, and pressed in a circle while he fucked her, and the dual sensation made her whole body jerk and a sound came out of her that was too loud for the thin walls.
"Ah- AH-"
"I'm- I'm going to-"
She went rigid. Head thrown back, throat exposed, her nails raking down his shoulders hard enough that he'd find blood on his shirt later. Her legs locked around him and squeezed and her walls clenched in waves, gripping him so hard he couldn't move, rhythmic contractions pulling him deeper. A cracked moan that started as his name and fell apart halfway through. Her hips stuttered against his in short involuntary jerks and her eyes rolled and her mouth stayed open, silent now, riding it out. Her stomach flexing. Her toes curled so hard her calves were shaking.
He watched. He always watched. The composure falling away, just her body doing what it wanted without permission. Her fingers loosened one by one from his shoulders and fell to the granite, limp. Her chest heaving.
The squeeze of her around him was too much. He'd been holding back since she started to shake and there was nothing left to hold. He buried himself deep, hips pressed flush, and came inside her with his forehead against her collarbone and her pulse pounding against his lips. He could feel himself pulsing, the heat of it, and she made a soft sound like she felt it too, her walls still twitching around him in aftershocks. Her hand came up, lazy, and rested on the back of his head. Her fingers in his hair.
He didn't move. Somewhere outside a car alarm went off and stopped. Her breathing slowed against his hair. He turned his head and pressed his mouth to the damp skin between her breasts and she laughed, a tired sound, and scratched his scalp with her fingernails.
"The dishes," she said.
"Fuck the dishes."
"You say that every time."
"And yet the dishes remain unfucked."
She pushed at his shoulder until he pulled out and stepped back. He looked down at himself, slick with her, and grabbed the hand towel from the oven handle. She stayed on the counter, legs dangling, watching him clean up with her head tilted and her mouth curved up on one side.
He got water. Two glasses. Handed her one and leaned against the opposite counter and drank, watching her over the rim. Her skirt still bunched around her waist. Her shirt pushed up past her bra. Her hair a wreck, dark strands everywhere, ponytail holder barely hanging on. She looked destroyed.
"Stop staring."
"No."
She smiled. Kicked her feet against the cabinets below her, a hollow drumming, and drank her water. The kitchen was a mess. The pepper grinder on the floor. Her underwear behind the trash can. A damp spot on the granite where her back had been.
"We should pack tonight," she said. "The flight's at seven."
"AM?"
"No, PM. Yes, AM. You know it's AM."
He did know. Her parents' place in Vermont. A long weekend. Her mother's cooking that he actually liked, her father's silences that he didn't, the guest room with the twin bed where they'd have to be quiet. He'd been looking forward to it in the way you look forward to dental work you know will go fine.
"I'll pack in the morning."
"You'll pack now, or you'll throw everything in a duffel at six and forget your charger."
"I've never forgotten my charger."
"You forgot your charger in April."
"Once."
She hopped down from the counter. Pulled her skirt straight. Grabbed her underwear from behind the trash can and balled it in her fist and padded toward the bedroom, bare feet on tile. She stopped in the doorway and looked back at him over her shoulder.
"Coming?"
He looked at the dishes. He looked at her. Hallway light catching the side of her face and the lazy post-sex looseness in her body.
"Yeah."
They brushed their teeth side by side. She bumped him with her hip and he bumped her back. She stole his toothpaste. He used hers. The bathroom was small, the mirror spotted, the towels mismatched.
She fell asleep fast. Always did. Her face against his chest, one arm thrown across his stomach, her breathing going slow and deep within minutes. He lay in the dark with her weight on him and thought about Vermont and the flight and whether he'd packed enough socks. Her eyelashes against her cheek. The grocery list on the fridge that had his handwriting and hers mixed together on the same piece of paper.
He fell asleep.
He woke to glass breaking.
The front room. Close. His body was already moving before the rest of him caught up, feet on the floor, hand reaching for the closet. A second impact, a lamp or a picture frame hitting hardwood.
She stirred. "Mm. What-"
"Stay here." He had the bat from the closet. Louisville Slugger, aluminum, left there by the previous tenant. He'd never used it for anything.
The hallway was dark. The kitchen light was off. He could see the front room through the open doorway and there was a shape there, someone, and the window was broken and cool night air was coming in carrying the smell of the street.
He should have called the cops. He should have locked the bedroom door and dialed 911 and waited.
He went down the hallway.
The guy was maybe twenty. Wired. Jumpy. Had a backpack half-full and was reaching for the laptop on the coffee table when Troy came around the corner.
They saw each other at the same time.
The knife was small. A folding knife, the kind you'd buy at a gas station. The kid's hand was shaking and the blade caught the streetlight in jittering flashes.
"Just go," Troy said. His voice came out even. His palms were wet on the bat handle. "Take whatever. Just go."
The kid didn't go.
It was fast. The kid lunged. Troy swung the bat and connected with his arm and the kid screamed and the knife went somewhere, into the dark between them, and then a punch to his stomach that wasn't a punch. A fist driven into his gut and left there.
He looked down. The handle of the knife stuck out from under his ribs.
The kid ran. Backpack, laptop, out the broken window, gone. Fire escape ringing under his feet. Then quiet.
He was on the floor. He didn't remember falling. The ceiling fan spun above him, slow, the chain swaying. He pressed his hand to his stomach and his fingers sank into wet heat and he thought, clearly and stupidly, that he hadn't packed his charger.
"Troy?"
She was in the doorway. He couldn't see her face. The hallway light was behind her and she was a silhouette and she was saying his name and he wanted to tell her about the flight. About the charger. About how she looked on the kitchen counter with the flush on her neck and her eyes going wide.
"Troy- oh god- Troy-"
The ceiling fan spun. The chain swayed. Cool air from the broken window moved across his face and he could smell the street and the rain that had come through earlier and copper.
The fan got slower. The chain stopped moving.
The dark took everything.
Light flooded in.