Alex walks around with a smirk on his face for the rest of the week; eyes her over breakfast with a smug look on his face; watches her from the couch while she's trying to work through the proofs of her next book, stroking one thumb over the stubble and grinning. It irritates Claire a little, how obviously he's getting off on the memory of making her come—remembering how it had felt when he'd hit that spot inside her, over and over, making her pant and gasp and moan—and how she's this close to squirming in her chair, squeezing her thighs together and wanting that feeling back again.
There's a little part of her, though, that wants to wipe that smirk off Alex's face, that wants him to be the one lying beneath her and shaking apart. And, well, Claire's an educated woman and a sex therapist; she knows Alex, and she's pretty sure she knows how such things can be accomplished. She smirks right back at Alex, making the tilt of her mouth just wicked enough to distract him from his own work before she turns back to her laptop, opens a new tab in her browser, and tries to remember where she left her credit card.
She pays a premium for express delivery, and the next morning she's signing for the package at the door, the UPS guy handing over the brown-paper-wrapped box with a polite "you have a good morning" and no inkling of what's inside. Claire carries it upstairs to where Alex is sprawled across their bed, looking like a college kid in his faded old NYU sweats, the Mets t-shirt that's shrunk just a little too much in the wash, pencil clenched between his teeth as he mutters to himself about the crappy proof-reading in some article in today's New York Times.
"Can you believe they hired this guy to replace me?" he grouses when she comes into the room, tossing the pencil and the paper to one side. "He's an absolute—" He breaks off when Claire climbs onto the bed and straddles him, resting the box on his stomach.
"Hey," she says without preamble, "Remember Thursday night?"
"Yeah?" Alex says, eyes suddenly wide and hopeful, and Claire can feel the way his hips twitch upwards just a little. She knows what he's thinking, and she knows what he's going to get; her mouth curls upwards in a grin, wicked and feral, and she leans down to whisper in his ear.
She doesn't know exactly how she had expected him to react; she'd expected a little resistance, yes; a little—or even a lot—of coaxing before she got him on his back. She expected shock, maybe, or disgust, or even laughter, the two of them discarding the thing in favour of the familiar; but when she opens the box and pulls out the harness, the sleek black dildo, Alex's lips part and his eyes glaze over just a little, and Claire can't see anything in his expression beyond pure, dazed want. "Really?" she says, intrigued, shifting on him a little so that she can feel—oh, yes, he definitely wants—and when his tongue darts out to swipe at his lower lip, when he croaks out Claire and his hands come up to clutch convulsively at her hips, she has to fight not to laugh.
She stands up and peels off her clothes, orders him to strip in turn before she makes him strap on the harness. His fingers work quickly, but are strangely clumsy; when they brush against her thigh, her hip, she can feel them trembling. She doesn't know if this it's because this is a desire that's been too long suppressed, or if it's one that's never been indulged, but she feels that it's something delicate, something that she'll have to coax out of him, and she cups his face in her hands, stills him, leans in to kiss Alex as chastely as if they were in public, as if they weren't in their bedroom, standing in a pool of Saturday afternoon sunlight, kissing and kissing, her hands skating low over his stomach while her strap-on juts out almost obscenely between them.
Claire coaxes him back onto the bed by inches and degrees, lays him out and arranges him so that he's sprawled on his stomach, one knee raised. He looks... god, she thinks, Alex, and she runs one finger the length of his spine, relishing the full body shiver that gets her. She climbs onto the bed, straddling him so that her thighs bracket his and leans forward, rubbing the dildo against his ass, letting her bare breasts brush against his back; Alex's skin is feverish warm already and he's got his head turned to one side, pressed into the crook of his elbow, panting just a little even though she's not got started yet.
"You want this," Claire says, just enough hint of a question in her voice to make Alex nod. "Good," she says, and moves her hips just a little. He bites at his lip, and she keeps on talking, murmuring low words against his ear while she tells him just how good she's going to make him feel, as good as he made her feel all day yesterday; how she's going to fuck him so slowly with this, work her cock into him inch by slow inch; how she's going to smirk at him tomorrow in public when he has to sit down next to her just that little bit gingerly. "I'll know," she whispers, "and you'll know, and I'll know how much you want this," and she bites gently at the so-soft skin of his shoulder, runs her tongue over the freckled skin there, and relishes the way he moans, as if his voice is already gone.
She runs her hands down the long, lean length of his sides, shoulders to hips, before urging him up onto his knees. "Come on, Alex," she says, "Move for me," and he goes without a whimper; no familiar teasing, no going slow, no hint of make me in his movements; just Alex, on his knees, head resting on his folded arms and she moans just a little at the sight. He's letting her do everything, she realises, he'd let her do it all; and just the thought alone is enough to make her feel dizzy, giddy, to make her press a reverent kiss to the base of his spine. And then she joins lips with fingers, moves lower down, uses wet tongue and mouth and fingers slick with lube hastily retrieved from underneath the pillow. Alex gasps at the first touch of her tongue, like hadn't expected her to do this—and yes, there are some things she may not have done before Alex, and yes, Trevor may sometimes be right when he calls her a prude, but she went to college in Berkeley, for god's sake—and she pushes in with her tongue, with one finger, two, just to hear that tone again.
By the time she's got three fingers inside him, moving hard and steady, he's begging for it: Claire and I can't, yes, please and Claire and please, yes, but it's only when he shudders and breaks fully, when he says Claire, I can't, oh god, f-fuck me that she gives it to him. Draws her fingers out slowly and pushes back in with her cock, looking down at where they join, watching the thick length of it disappear inside of him. She talks to him the whole while, tells him how good he looks, how good he feels inside, how she's going to make him come from this alone. "Just this, Alex," she tells him, voice clipped and precise as she fights to keep her words neutral, her tone as calm and patient as if she's dealing with a client.
His fingers are clenched in the pillows now, she can see, the fine cotton wrinkling in his white-knuckled gasp. "Jesus," he says, "Yes, please, make me, god," and Claire starts to move in earnest. It's a little unsteady at first, no muscle memory in her body to tell her how to move, how to balance; but then she's in deep, deeper, and the sudden hoarse shout that forces its way out of Alex's throat lets her know she's found what she was looking for. She leans forward, wraps one arm around his stomach, aiming for more and finds it; Alex's head is thrown back now, and he's panting and sobbing and pushing back against her, saying yes and yeah and god, I love you, yes and coming hard all over their brand new comforter. Just the vibrations of Alex's orgasm, the force of it, rattling their way along Alex's spine and through her ribcage, are enough to make her come; she rests her head against the smooth skin of his back and breathes her way through it, each quick exhalation shaking her like she's laughing.
Claire stays there until Alex starts to shift beneath her, just enough to let her know that he's starting to get uncomfortable. She pulls out slowly, feeling the way even that's enough to make Alex, over-sensitised, moan, and they both collapse onto their sides. She grins at Alex when he opens his eyes to look at her, but he doesn't grin back; just looks at her, suddenly serious, eyes heavy-lidded, before reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear before pulling her close and kissing her fiercely, deeply, licking at the curve of her lower lip and murmuring something all the while that she realises, after a bit, means thank you, thank you.
"Alex," she says against his mouth, fond, "Alex", twining her arms around him in turn and pressing her whole body back against the warm length of him. He twitches, a full-body shudder, when the dildo presses against his thigh, and she rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes. He runs one big hand the full length of her side, curve of her breast to the arc of her hipbone, and says, hesitant, "D'you think maybe we could? Again?"