The drag continues a few more reps but I'm aching for her, so I keep moving until I feel her tight and strained under my middle finger. I run it back and forth scraping against the length of my finger until I hear her whisper my name, "Franco."
I've always been indifferent to my name. Not anymore. Not when she says it like that.
I clamp her between our thumbs and forefingers. She's working with me. Twisting gently, pinching, rolling.
And while she's lost in our mutual pleasure fest, I remember that her neck, which I intended to give attention earlier, is exposed. Waiting. As is her upper back where her tank top dips. So, while my hand is busy, I touch the tip of my tongue to her spine just above the material of her shirt. And I paint a path to her hairline. Stopping to add my lips several times, because she tastes so fucking good. At her neck, everything picks up and mere licking and tasting aren't enough. I'm sucking. Feasting. Hard enough to leave a mark.
She sighs her approval.
I wrap my other arm around her and unbutton and unzip her shorts.
And when I do she moans. And it's not an average moan. It's deep gratitude for the pleasure she's experiencing paired with a plea for more. More.
It's a plea I have to answer.
As we continue to pleasure upstairs, I venture downstairs on my own.
Her panties are low cut. My fingers slip inside them with ease. And as soon as I'm in the time for slow and controlled is over. She widens her stance. It's another plea.
She's wet. So fucking wet beneath my touch. My fingers glide against her. Circling once. Twice. Before two fingers plunge in. Curling, pumping, pleasing.
"Yes. Fuck." It's no longer a whisper. It's a demand.
Those little two words coax my eyes open to take in the woman who has me completely enthralled.
Slipping her hand from beneath mine at her breast, she leaves me palming her on my own. My hand mourns her absence until I feel it slide in between us and grip me through my shorts.
She's stroking the length of me. "Fu—"
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Five rapid, but very precise, knocks on her bedroom door.
She freezes.
And then her hand drops me in an instant, and she's steps away.
"What's wrong? Can't you ignore it?" Please ignore it.
"It's Brandon," she whispers as she zips her shorts.
"So?" So!
She's still whispering, "He always knocks five times if he needs something. If it's urgent." I'm still staring at her, unblinking, so she adds, "Because he can't speak."
She opens the door and any irritation or ill-feelings toward the kid vanish when I see his face. Embarrassment is washed over it and his eyes are downcast. He mouths the word, Sorry, and points toward the living room. It's then that I notice the front of his white t-shirt is splattered with a brown, soupy, foul smelling concoction.
And then we hear noise from the living room. Something crashes to the floor. That was something breaking into many small pieces. Followed by, "Shit. That's not good." It sounds slurred, slowed by a quantity of alcohol that inhibits normal speech.
Gemma walks immediately toward the commotion.
Brandon and I step in line behind her toward the living room. I don't know what I'm walking into, but I'm sure of three things: I'm about to meet Gemma's roommate, I'm still half sporting wood, and poor Brandon smells like a ripe garbage can that's been sitting on the curb in the hot sun all day.
A man is kneeling on the floor clumsily trying to pick up pieces of a broken lamp. He startles when he realizes I'm standing next to him and looks up at me through watery eyes. He's crying. I have no idea what's driving the tears, but he looks emotionally wrecked. "I broke the lamp. It was an accident. I'm sorry."
The dude is wiped. He's apologizing to a complete stranger in his apartment, and it hasn't occurred to him how weird that is. I squat and begin picking up the pieces. They're sharp, and he doesn't have the dexterity to be gentle. I glance at his clothes for the presence of emptied stomach before I make my suggestion. He's clean except for the puke on his shoes. Unfortunately, Brandon was the lucky one to get unloaded on. "Why don't you sit down and take a load off and get those shoes off, man. I'll get this."
He pats me on the back like we're old friends, "Thanks, buddy," before he struggles to his feet and stumbles to the couch where he skips sitting and drops into a prone position like a falling redwood.
"Timber," I say under my breath. I'm thankful that went so well and that he's not an angry, alcohol-turns-me-into-an-aggressive-asshole drunk.
Brandon walks in, shirtless thank God, with an empty grocery sack and helps me clean up the wreckage while Gemma, now sporting latex gloves, scrubs vomit from the carpet. When she's done, she snaps the gloves off inside out, drops them and the rag in the sack of pummeled ceramic I'm holding, and suggests, "Why don't you go shower, Brandon."
He shyly nods his agreement and heads down the hallway toward the bathroom.
She stands and reaches to take the trash from me. I hold it back and head for the front door so I can drop the bag, and the putrid smell, in the dumpster outside and she walks with me through the parking lot. "You didn't have to do that, Franco. Thanks."
I shrug and smile so she knows I'm not upset by the recent events. "We've all been there."
She looks contemplative and then agrees, "Yeah, I can't fault him. He lost his mum last week. It was unexpected. He's taking it hard."
I nod. The way he was crying before he passed out, it was obvious this bender was his way of trying to cope with something. His tears looked like the release of deep-rooted emotion, not misplaced sorrow and regret over the breaking of a lamp. "That's right. You mentioned a funeral last night when you had to get home to take care of the dog."
She nods.
"Death fucks people up."
She nods again, but this time the look on her face tells me she's intimate with loss.
I shift gears because I can't bring this conversation down anymore and I need to make sure she'll be safe tonight. "Is he violent when he drinks?"
"No. I've never seen him this drunk, but he's the type who gets chatty and giggly when he drinks. He doesn't have a violent bone in him."