by Ruby Lang
“Mine,” he choked. “I have a bigger bed.”
She reached into his pants and squeezed him. They stumbled awkwardly toward the bedroom.
* * *
Simon’s bed was occupied. The cat yowled as soon as they fell on top of it—and who could blame her?—but instead of giving them space, the tabby hissed and dug in. Lana scrambled off the mattress and fell on her ass beside the bed. She looked stunned and outraged and messy. She wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the straps of her pink bra had fallen so that the cups were opening like the petals of an overbloomed flower. She was the most beautiful thing Simon had ever seen, and he dropped to his knees and pulled her down the rest of the way to the floor.
The cat was still complaining.
“Cock blocker,” Lana muttered as she pulled Simon’s shirt off and threw it onto the bed. “The cat, not you.”
Simon laughed, part giddy, part relieved, that she seemed so determined, so eager despite the fact if they stopped to think about it, this was probably an extremely terrible idea.
The cat yelled again. Lana stood up. She’d shucked off her jeans. The bra was somewhere on the floor, her eyes were blazing. “We’re going to my room,” she announced.
He pulled the rest of his clothing off, then grabbed the box of condoms that he’d bought in a fit of optimism, and he followed her, his eyes taking in her messy hair, the strong curve of her shoulders, the intimate line of her spine. He reached toward her and ran his thumb along the valley of her back, and she stopped, trembling, her hands moving down her own sides, her ass curving up in invitation.
They were in the living room. They weren’t going to make it to another bed.
He hooked his fingers into the seam of her underpants, gliding them along her soft, firm skin. She made a sound like a whimper and he stopped. He fell—that was the only way to describe it—he fell on his knees so he could lick her right there, bite gently on the plummy curve, kiss her in the places he remembered in dreams.
She buckled soon, too, and he caught her, his hands splayed over her smooth, soft stomach, lowering her down until she was kneeling on the rug and he was right behind her, his mouth at her shoulder. “Why don’t you sit on the couch?” he managed to say, his breathing harsh.
For some reason, this was what made her stiffen. “You want to—you want to eat me out?”
“Why not?”
Did she not like it? Had she ever liked it? Did he not remember?
“It’s been so long...since we did that,” she said.
She turned around to look at him, her eyes wide. Then she buried her face in his shoulder. “I don’t know why this feels so different. And new. I don’t know why I’m—I’m shy?”
And why did this confession make him want her more?
He tried to calm his breathing, his body, his cock, so he could listen.
She said, “It’s not that I don’t want this. I do. I’ve hardly been able to think about anything else for days. Weeks, to tell you the truth. But memory is a different thing, and fantasy is different, too.”
She lifted her head.
“Like for instance, I don’t remember your shoulder being so sharp.” She pressed the point where his arm met the socket and traced her hand down. “I don’t remember the texture of the hair on your chest. I can tell myself how I thought it felt, but it seems different.”
“Maybe it is different. My body has changed.”
“So has mine.”
With aching care, he skimmed his finger up her stomach between her breasts, then down again, down to the tuft of hair between her legs. He breathed in and out, then he cupped her, letting her get used to the warmth of his palm before he moved his hand down.
She was right. Somehow everything had changed. Maybe the blue of her veins stood out more in her strong arms, the soft skin on her neck was more yielding, more fragile. His own body had definitely changed, because this body had never felt hers in this way. His fingers were the ones that felt different as they moved down into her damp folds, his eyes were the ones that were opened to wonder, his tongue and lips felt new as he kissed her and kissed her.
He couldn’t stop kissing her.
She murmured and moved herself onto the couch, opening her legs wider. “Okay, yes.”
Her hands had moved up, flirting with the undersides of her breasts. She circled her fingers around her nipples, and Simon gulped in one breath and pulled her forward to place his head between her thighs, brushed his cheeks and chin against them, held her knees. Once upon a time he’d loved her knees, and as his hand closed around one, he remembered why. The idiosyncratic bumpiness of bone and cartilage, the way she managed, even through that one hardy joint, to be so much herself. He kissed both of her knees and went back slowly to begin to lick her clit, trying to remember what she had enjoyed, trying to put himself back in the skin of the person he’d been.
But it was difficult to concentrate on memory under the exciting scent of her now. His recollections were overlaid with the reality of her dampness, her present softness. He had forgotten the way she moved when she enjoyed a nip, a touch at the spot she liked, the way she kept up a low hum, the feeling of her hand curved around his head, the restless pull of her fingers in his hair. He knew the eager jolt of her hips when his tongue hit a sensitive spot.
Her thighs tensed around him and she couldn’t seem to hold still anymore. One upward movement caught him on the lip, the shock making him see sparks for a moment. But it was good. It was better this way, a reminder to keep a rein on his own arousal.
He couldn’t help looking up at her head thrown against the back of the couch. Her cheeks were warm with pleasure, her lips and tongue moving, murmuring. At the last moment, she opened her eyes and looked down at him, and she watched him, she watched him taking her with his mouth and hands. She cried out, and her body shook.
He had been waiting for the memories to come back to him, but he’d been wrong. All he wanted was now.
Chapter Eleven
Lana should probably be worried. This was Simon. Simon. He was straightening up, his face intent on her. Desire stretched over his skin, pulling his eyes tautly to her. And although she felt lazy and liquid and warm, part of the warmth that bathed her was from a sense of her power.
She eased herself up on the couch, extending her arms, her legs, down to her toes, enjoying the way he followed every movement. Simon rose to his full height in a sudden surge, and she smiled to see the tic in his lean face that showed he was barely controlling himself. His body was strained everywhere, his toes almost digging into the floor. She admired him, her gaze going down the line of his chest, down the dark hair, to his cock, hard and thick. She tilted her head so that her eyes could trace lovingly the muscles of his ass, tensed, ready.
Lana reached out with her leg, touching him musingly, her toe trailing along his calf, and he let out a harsh breath, and dove to tear open the box of condoms, the strips of shiny plastic bursting out as he pulled it apart in his haste.
She laughed.
“I’m glad you’re so pleased,” he grumbled, smoothing the condom over himself. He kicked aside the unused strips and stood above her.
“I’m very satisfied with how things are going.”
Despite the heaviness of her limbs, she did want to help him out. She reached up and grabbed his hand, yanking him to sit on the couch, arranging his limbs, sliding her hands over him. Then she crawled into his lap, straddled him, put his hands on her breasts. “Kiss me.”
It was almost too much for Simon, she could tell.
She lifted her ass and closed her hands around his cock, then slid down around him in one full, satisfying movement. She could feel him, feel herself, expanding, her hips loosening. Even his hands, reaching down to grip her ass in a deep, deep hold, seemed to be pulling her outward and upward as he began to pump into her.
For a while there
was no sound except for the creak and thump of the couch and the pant and wet slap and suck of their bodies. They both worked furiously. She brushed impatiently at the sweaty strands of her own hair, caught between their faces and lips and clashing teeth. A strangled gasp broke out from him, and the sound of it filled her up, making her wild and powerful. She opened her arms and threw her head back, pushing herself up and down on him until her thighs were trembling with the effort of her motion.
But he was turning them now, flipping her under him so that she lay on the couch, one leg over the back, the other over the side, while he braced his foot on the floor. He was holding himself over her, sliding her up the cushions until her back burned from rubbing herself against the material. She needed to hold something. There was nothing anchoring her against his relentless movement. Another wave of pleasure crashed over her. She should let it carry her.
She arched, trying desperately to grab something, anything, but there was only Simon pulling her along. She could feel him—she could feel herself—losing control. She banged her head against the arm of the couch even as she felt herself coming, as she felt Simon’s last powerful thrusts.
The tears were from pain and pleasure, and her first breath came out deep with the weight of Simon’s body collapsed on top of hers. He raised himself after a moment, the last wet drag of his cock leaving her body making her gasp again.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She sighed and rubbed the back of her head. “Yes.”
He kissed her hair gently, her cheeks, and her lips. He pulled her up, so they were both sitting, and touched her gently as if to make sure the rest of her was all right. Then he walked her to the bathroom. When she came out again, he’d disposed of the condom, and cleaned up the mess they’d made of the living room. The tang of sex still lingered in the air, but she was too tired to care. He held open a blanket for her, which he used to bundle her to her bed, where they slept for the rest of the night.
* * *
“You’re thinking too hard,” Simon murmured.
Lana had been awake for a while. She needed to go to the bathroom. She felt grubby and uncomfortable, and she suspected there was a small bump on her head from last night’s activities. But the bed was warm, and Simon was in it, his palm resting lightly on her belly, his even breath tickling her ear.
For a while, she let herself match her inhales and exhales to his. She almost, almost took his hand to feel the long fingers curled with hers once more. His hands had always been so expressive and active. When she and Simon were still married, they’d often sat doing their reading, hand in hand, the little jumps and squeezes and jostles telling her exactly what he thought of the material he was studying. But she didn’t want to wake him now, no matter how much she wanted to hold him. So she held herself in bed with him but away from him. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes following the curves and dips of the crown molding, imagining faces in the shapes, wondering what they thought of her lying in bed with her ex-husband, the person she’d vowed to avoid.
“Don’t think about it too much,” came Simon’s voice again, more clearly.
She rolled to her side, moving her belly away from his hot hand. He tried to keep her for a moment, then pulled his arms away when he noticed she’d stiffened. She found it difficult not to feel a small edge of resentment from his words—a tiny crack—but whether that was because she didn’t want him telling her what to do, or because he knew her too well, she didn’t know. And that was also irritating.
He must have understood, because after a moment, he said ruefully, “It’s as much a warning for you as it is for me.”
Oh. Of course, it was hard for him, too. She said, trying to gentle some of the panic in her voice, “I have to go to the bathroom. But I feel like the minute I leave the safety of the covers, reality is going to set in. I’m not ready for that, either. Also it’s cold out there.”
This time his arms came around her. And he pulled her close. “Real life is cold.”
“Were we really stupid? Did we complicate things too much?”
He kissed her forehead. “Everything is complicated all the time.”
Simon laughed at her dubious expression. “I’m serious. It’s never just putting your shoes on and running. It’s stretching, and not eating too much beforehand, and having a shower afterward, and having clean clothes and shoelaces, and worrying this whole thing is too hard on your knees. It’s never just getting a bunch of bodies in a room to sing together. It’s coordinating with venues and getting programs printed, and chasing down permissions slips, and making sure kids can come to extra rehearsals and fretting that your grantor is going to withdraw funding. It’s never just a bowl of noodles. Life is constant complication on top of complication. So right now, I’m going to try not to worry that we’ve done something terrible when we’re warm together under these covers, when you’ve energized me. Right now, I’m happier than anything.”
He kissed her neck, her shoulder. His body was interested, and hers, too. But in the end, real life came to them. The cat slipped in the room and leaped onto the bed, or rather onto what felt like Lana’s bladder, and yelled about her breakfast. And Lana really did have to go to the bathroom, not to mention she should brush her teeth.
So she kissed him, and he knew her well enough to understand she was going to get up. He said, “I’ll feed this cat.”
She went through her morning routine, feeling self-conscious and oddly tender, as if she’d shed her old skin for new growth last night. But there was nothing new that she could see in the bathroom mirror, except for her smile. At least she was dressed by the time she got into the kitchen.
“Of course I’m wary,” she said by way of greeting. “Of course I’m going to think too much.”
He handed her a mug of green tea. “We can try to be casual about it. Take it day by day.”
She almost laughed. “I don’t know if we can, judging by how intense it was last night. And by the fact that we have a past.”
He moved closer, his hand went to his waist. “But you are new. You’re different. You were always wonderful, but you’ve become an amazing manipulator of flour, apparently. But it’s not only that, the way you talk—the way you talk to me—has changed. You’re braver and more complicated. In a lot of ways. I’m the one who’s stayed the same. Living in the same apartment. Going through the same routines. Teaching. Worrying about students and grants and department politics. Doing the exact things I said I’d do.”
“Do you really think the grant isn’t going to come through?”
“Yes? No? We have a solid board and good business management. But the best thing is this group of kids. And it isn’t just their voices. It’s how dedicated they are. How much they really seem to love singing and performing. They’re so engaged. They volunteered to choreograph some songs we hadn’t done movement with, and they came up with such great moves. I’m constantly impressed by them. But the grantors, they’ve been funding us for a few years now and they’ve been making noises about changing things. You know what that means.”
“It could mean that you’ll get more money. And I’d like to point out, you’re not living in that apartment anymore. You’re with me now.”
“Yeah, I’m with you now.”
He drew her closer, his hands smoothing up her waist, and she felt like a flower about to unfurl under the sun. There was a question in his eyes. She nodded as she stood on her tiptoes to meet his lips. It was so soft and searching. He snuck up on her until all she could feel was the pressure of his tongue on hers, his hands working up and down seeking the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades, or cupping her ass just right, always pulling and seducing her toward him until she was an open well of want.
When he pulled back and asked suddenly, “Will you come to the concert? It’s the Monday after next. Your day off. No pressure, though. I don’t know how much you like to attend th
ese things anymore now that you’re—I mean, you haven’t gone near the piano... Anyway, I can get you a ticket, if you’d like.”
She blinked, still dizzy with lust and with the change of subject. Or was it one? “Ye-es? Yes, sure. Can I bring Julia?”
His smile was a bright ray, and for a moment he looked just like he did when he was younger. She felt a stirring of unease. But he’d spun her around and out of the kitchen. “Yes! I’d love that. I appreciate it. I really do.”
He started maneuvering her toward his room, his hands sliding under her shirt, hot and eager.
“I’d forgotten you get like this,” she said.
He pulled his head up. Something flashed over his face. “Like what?”
“All the energy you have when a big performance is coming up. Remember that time you put together an impromptu benefit for the college? I think it was your first big production, your first time coordinating all that—”
“You did a lot. You helped.”
“Sure. But you were running around frantic all the time, booking a venue, getting people to type up programs for you, and printing off the lot on the school’s photocopier, convincing our friends to perform even if they had another gig that same evening.”
“I could be a bit much.”
“Yes, you could. But I remember at a certain point each day, you’d snap your phone shut. It was one of those little slider cell phones and it made a really final sound when you closed it. And then you’d apply that same frantic energy to me.”
He blinked, hands still on her as if remembering this all for the first time.
“The concert was a huge success. I remember. All our classmates performed, solo and together, and it wasn’t competitive. We were all so talented and young and hopeful. We had lots of wine, and we came home, back to your apartment. You were so relieved and happy. And you pulled me to the bedroom and took off all my clothing, slowly, like you had all the time in the world. And maybe you did. First you took down my hair and unzipped my dress, that long black concert dress.”