Page 72 of Faultlines

She shivers, and I feel the ripple of sensation move through her, back into me. Her positioning and the arch of her back are deliberate, demanding.

“You feel that?” I ask. “Every single inch of you is mine right now.”

“God—” she chokes out.

I press her hands flat against the glass. “Don’t move. Keep them right there.”

She obeys, but her hips roll, impatient, and her breath fogs the window. I push inside her, one hand braced on the glass beside hers.

“That’s it,” I whisper into her hair, my lips brushing her scalp. “That’s it. You don’t know what you do to me.”

With every deliberate push, a shudder runs through her, and she pushes back harder.

“You feel so good,” she whispers as she drops her forehead against the glass, her breath clouding it again.

“Look at the window,” I say into her ear. “Watch us in the reflection. See that? See how beautiful you are? Watch how well you take me.”

“I can’t⁠—”

“Look at all those people down there.” I press deeper. “They have no idea. This is just for me.”

“Please,” she whispers.

“Please, what?” I pull back before driving forward again. She gasps, her palms squeaking against the window, leaving faint steamy prints.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop, please, don’t⁠—”

“I’m not stopping.” I bite down on the back of her shoulder. “I’ve got you. We’ve got all night, and I am not stopping.”

I can feel her start to come apart, her pussy squeezing my cock, and we both let go together. Afterward, she leans back into me and rests her head on my shoulder, and I put my arms around her.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

I press my lips to her hair. “That I don’t want to sleep.”

She tilts her face up and kisses me. “Then don’t.”

The weight of the ring on my finger is a dull pressure, the phone on the nightstand showing 11:47 and a text I haven’t opened. I push it all back, into the darkness at the edge of the room, and hold on to her, the warmth of her body the only thing that feels real.

I return to consciousness, the way you do in an unfamiliar room—that half-second where nothing is certain. Suspended between dreaming and waking, I lie there, unable to move. I notice a weight settled on my hips, and I realize her mouth is on me, her lips, her tongue, the deliberate pressure.

How long has she⁠—?

She shifts, and her hair, damp from exertion, brushes across my legs; its soft weight finishes the work of waking me. I exhale, long and slow, the sound merely audible above the murmur in my ears. She knows I’m awake but doesn’t stop. If anything, she slows further, as if she waits for me to surface so she can properly take me apart.

I touch her hair, needing to confirm that this is real. The bed creaks, and she takes me deeper, and every coherent thought dissolves. My hands find her hair, gripping tight enough to bruise. “Fuck,” I breathe.

She hums, the vibration moving through me. Then she does something with her tongue, and my head falls back against the pillow as I release into her mouth.

A few seconds later, she moves up the bed, curling against my side, fingers light on my ribs. The rhythmic thrum of the building’s ventilation system is a low drone in the background. I put my arm around her, pressing my lips to the top of her head. She smells like the hotel soap.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispers.

I don’t sleep for a long time. I lie there holding her, hearing the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of a late-night bus. The city’s pulse below feels ceaseless. She falls asleep first. I notice as soon as her breathing evens out against my chest.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of the shower, its steady spray a white noise behind the bathroom door. I check the time, ninety minutes before the first session. More than enough time to join her. The city light comes in pale and honest through the curtains hiding nothing—different from last night’s amber glow.