People who don’t like each other have sex all the time, Rey tells herself as Kylo backs her into his bedroom, grazing his teeth along her collarbone. This is normal. This is a normal thing that normal people do.
It’s the twenty-first century, and she’s a millennial with a healthy awareness of her own desires. So it doesn’t matter that he thinks she’s beneath him, because she’s going to be beneath him--
Kylo makes a choked noise when she tangles her fingers in his hair. “Too hard?” she asks.
“No. No. Harder.”
Then she’s flat on her back, mattress springs digging into her butt. And Kylo’s expression…
Derision looks good on him. It could almost, in the right light, be mistaken for--
But, well. It doesn’t matter what it almost looks like. Contempt is contempt, and wishful thinking is for children.
What his lips do to her, though, isn’t deceptive at all, and when he leans down and mouths at the shell of her ear, she pulls his hair as hard as she can.
She destroys him on the first Tuesday of June.
Tuesdays are when his boxes get delivered. He doesn’t have the time or inclination to go to a grocery store, so signing up for a weekly meal kit service made sense, and has kept him in relatively healthy food for the last year. But the problem -- the problem that just cannot be solved, apparently, no matter who he emails or chats with or talks to on the customer service line -- is that the delivery company thinks he lives in Apartment #313, not #213.
So every Tuesday he gets home from work, goes upstairs, and picks up his food from a kid named Finn who figured out quick that repetitive postal misdirection did not make them friends. But on the first Tuesday of June, Finn does not answer the door when Kylo knocks.
So he knocks again.
Then he pounds.
With his fist.
“Just a minute!” he hears from inside the apartment, and a moment later--
--it’s not Finn who answers the door.
“Sorry, I was in the shower,” says the girl. The wet girl. In the towel. “Can I help you?”
Kylo (who can be reasonably articulate when the occasion calls for it) just stares. Because she is wet, and in a towel, and has a British accent and hazel eyes and a bright smile. And freckles on her shoulders.
And is, it should again be noted, not his neighbor.
“Where’s Finn?” Kylo demands.
The smile falters. “He’s gone for the summer,” she says. “I’m flat-sitting through August. Why do you-- oh! Oh, wait, you’re Kylo Ren, aren’t you?”
She ducks back into the apartment hallway and bends down -- she bends down and the towel just stays on and Kylo can’t live his life if this woman is going to be in his building for the next three months -- to grab his meal kit box. “Finn told me about the delivery mix up,” she says, handing it over. “I’m always home on Tuesdays, so you can come get it any time. I’m Rey, by the way.”
Kylo grabs the package from her, holds it in front of his midsection, and walks away so quickly his feet nearly slip on the hallway tile.
“I’ll see you around, Kylo,” she calls after him.
He doesn’t respond.
Rey thinks that maybe the sex will be good because he doesn’t like her. Until now she’s only been with people who at least enjoyed her company; it’s always nice, with them, but not like this. Not like she’s being lit on fire.
He pulled down her dress -- the neckline is ruined -- past the line of her breasts, and that lush mouth of his has been kissing, and nibbling, and suckling steadily for several minutes. She’s starting to forget her own name.
But he-- he must be getting bored.
“What do you want me to do?” she manages to ask.
“Yeah. To you.”
“Oh.” He switches from the right to the left, hair tickling her skin as he moves. The word licks across her flesh: “Nothing.”
No, no. He must want something, everyone does. She can’t bear the thought of how much less he’ll think of her for being in his debt. “But I could--” she gasps as he does something unreal with his tongue, she’s going to come the instant he touches her clit, she really is “--I could go down on you? If you’d like?”
And his fingers, which have been kneading gently at her waist, dig into her hips.
Rey takes that as a Yes. “Roll over.”
“You don’t have to,” he says stubbornly. (You won’t be good at it, is what she hears.)
“I know. But let me.”
He heaves a sigh (or is it a shaky exhale? No, it’s a sigh, it’s a vaguely annoyed sigh) and turns onto his back. Then he unbuckles his belt -- as though she wouldn’t know how.
It stabs a little, how incompetent he thinks she is.
But still, he wants her. This wouldn’t be happening otherwise. And she-- oh, she wants him. Rey wants him in her mouth, undone, wrecked, the way he’s been wrecking her for weeks.
It’s only fair, isn’t it?
Kylo is wrecked.
Intense is what people say about him when they’re being kind. Creepy is what they say when they’re not. He knows this, and he knows it’s true, and it’s what has sabotaged every relationship he’s ever tried to have; he is, as the kids say, far too extra.
(He thinks about the effortless charm of his father, the calm assurance of his mother. If he was going to be as weird-looking as he is, it’s truly unfair how those traits passed him by.)
The thing is, he’s pushing thirty; in the last few years he’s come to terms with the fact that he’s going to be alone. He’s been celibate for so long that he’s nearly forgotten what fucking is like. It’s a relief, in a way.
Until the girl.
She’s everywhere. She’s in the laundry room, folding her sheets and humming along with whatever is playing in her earbuds. (He thinks he recognized Demi Lovato, though he’d never admit it.) She’s in the back lot, tinkering with her bike and wiping sweat off her forehead. She’s stepping aside as he passes her on the stairs, silently averting her eyes.
And, of course, she’s there when he knocks on her door each Tuesday to get his box.
(He should cancel it and go to the grocery store like a normal person. But then… then he’d have no excuse.)
“So… are these good?” she asks one day, running her finger along the seam of the package in a way that makes his mouth go dry. “The recipes, I mean? I’ve been thinking about signing up.”
He says: “They’re expensive.”
(He means: They’re only worth it if you’re as busy as I am and hate shopping, and maybe not even then, but it’s habit now, because buying food for just one person is by far the most depressing part of being alone, and I’m thinking about getting a pet just to be able to purchase cans of food and actually have more than two items in the cart at a time, but even animals never like me. Have you had that problem? I doubt it, you seem like the kind of person both cats and dogs would love. Did you have a pet growing up? Where did you grow up? Tell me about yourself, tell me everything.)
But a line appears between her brows. “I suppose it’s not for everyone’s budget,” she says coolly.
She nods, then hands him the box. “Good night, Kylo.”
And she closes the door in his face.
He lies awake all night, staring at the ceiling, knowing she must be asleep just beyond that bit of wood and plaster, no more than twelve feet over his head.
When she swirls her tongue around him he makes this noise. It’s not a moan, and it’s not a gasp, but it’s deep and perfect and Rey wants to shove half her hand into her cunt to travel this road with him but she doesn’t have that kind of balance. She settles for grinding herself against his knee and she might come from that alone.
All the floorplans in the apartments are the same. Her bedroom is right over his. She could be on these soft sheets every night.
If only he liked her.
“Rey. Rey, please.”
Is that a Keep going please, or a Stop it that tickles please? She pauses, trading her tongue for her cheek. “Please, what?” she asks.
Kylo’s already dark eyes darken further. “Please, suck harder.”
Apparently Kylo doesn’t like to be teased. So Rey plants her hands on his hips, takes him deep, and hollows out her cheeks.
And again she grinds down against the wool of his trousers as she does it, riding his thigh as he cups the back of her neck, runs his thumb over her forehead, makes more of those delicious, astonishing noises--
--and in the midst of whatever’s happening to him, he realizes what she’s doing. He bends his knee up against her clit. Hard. “There,” he tells her. “Right there.”
The cries of her climax are muffled by his cock, and then by her swallows as he jerks erratically into her mouth.
Honest-to-God, he can’t tell if he’s subconsciously stalking her or if it’s just dumb luck.
It’s the highlight of his day, each time he sees her -- and it’s every single day, now. The weather is surprisingly cool for July so she all but lives on the front stoop of their building, wearing sunglasses and sundresses and smelling of sunscreen.
He loves it. And it is ruining him.
(Rey can’t be a day over twenty-three, which is hardly more than twenty-one, which is basically just eighteen, and Kylo is going to be thirty in October which is really almost forty so she’s much too young for an old man having a mid-life crisis and this is all so pitiful but he can’t help himself.)
Kylo reminds himself that he just has to make it through the summer. Then Finn will come back, Rey will leave, he will get his meal kits without engaging in stupid fantasies, and life will go back to normal.
One evening there’s a knock on his door and he almost has a heart attack at the sight of her sweet, apologetic smile. “Do you have a spare egg?” she asks.
Her face falls. “Oh, no. I’m making pancakes and I ran out.”
“Too bad,” he says.
(He means: I was just making dinner and I think I made too much cavatelli, do you want some? Do you like Italian food? You are so, so far beyond my reach but do you want to come in and sit at my table and speak to me for a little while? I want to know you and your opinion on cavatelli seems like a good place to start.)
Rey looks him up and down, taking in his rolled up sleeves and the flour on his shirt. He probably should have changed before cooking. He must look ridiculous. “Okay,” she says. “Thanks anyway, I guess.”
Then she’s gone, and he hits his head against the door frame, because it’s the only thing to do, really.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He stares at her as she does. She notices his dick already starting to harden again.
Neither of them are properly undressed yet and Rey about to fix that, even though she wants to leave him as-is, just ride him with his pants barely open and her dress pulled down and hitched over her hips and her underwear shoved to the side--
--and then she realizes, why not?
(It’s definitely the clothes that started this, anyway. Every time she sees him, he’s wearing a three-piece suit, with those vests that need to come back into style right now. Even though he obviously thinks she’s some low-class under-educated peasant she’s been camping on the front steps to watch him arrive home every day, which is magnificently creepy, but she’s been gone since the day he knocked on her front door with his tie just barely loosened.)
She’s never going to get another chance at this, anyway. He doesn’t like her. He’s probably got women and maybe men lined up in his planner for each and every night. But right now his semen is on her tongue so yes, she’s going to fuck him in that suit.
“I’m on the pill and I’m clean,” she informs him. “Are you?”
(She really should have asked that before the blowjob, but c'est la vie.)
It’s the work of the moment to sink down onto him. He’s huge, and if she hadn’t already orgasmed -- and, you know, dreamed about this for weeks -- it would be a problem. As it is, once the tip breeches he slides in relatively easily, and their joint moans echo through the bedroom.
Rey breathes for a minute, eyes closed, waiting to relax before the movement starts, and Kylo says: “Why are you letting me do this?”
She blinks at him.
His expression is open, stunned, absolutely bewildered. Like he’s… like she’s…
And Rey says: “Why are you letting me do this?”
If anything Kylo seems even more flabbergasted. As though the answer should be obvious. “Because,” he explains, “people like you don’t happen to people like me.”
People like you.
Wow. What a jerk.
But he’s a jerk in a fine suit and his lovely dick is buried deep in her cunt, so Rey rolls her hips, and watches through a haze of pleasure and pride as Kylo’s head falls back on the pillow.
The day it all goes to hell -- by which he means he goes from ruined and wrecked to utterly demolished -- is the day he gets home late, angry at his job and his life, to find she’s still sitting there on the stoop, even though the sun is nearly set and the street lamps are on.
(For half a second he wonders if she’s been waiting for him -- then he remembers that pathetic people often imagine things.)
She’s reading. He should walk by without acknowledging her, because who wants to be interrupted when they’re reading, but he’s a raw nerve from this shitty afternoon and so he glances at the title and says: “Pride and Prejudice? Really?”
Rey looks up, frowning. “What’s wrong with Pride and Prejudice?”
“Nothing. It just--” I wondered what books you like and thought of Jane Austen first but realized that was presumptive since just because you’re young and female and British doesn’t mean I should assume you like Jane Austen “--seems stereotypical.”
Her frown turns to an active scowl. “You might think I’m a stereotype,” she says, “but it’s a good book.”
Kylo just nods, because there is no chance anything he chooses to say now could be the right thing. And he tries to slink past the way he should have to start with.
But Rey’s hand catches his pants leg.
“You look tired,” she says. “Rough day?”
“Yeah,” he says. He’s too busy trying to process the fact that she’s touching him to respond further than that.
Not only touching him, but not letting go.
In fact, she’s staring at her hand, too. She’s staring, same as him, as she traces the trouser crease. Like she has no control over her own fingertips.
Oh, and now it’s not just her fingertips, it’s her palm. It’s her whole hand, pressing against his thigh.
Rey clears her throat. Her cheeks have turned pink. “Maybe it could get better,” she says. She glances up at him -- at him, at him. “Your day, I mean.”
And Kylo -- it might have been years, but even he can’t misinterpret that look. A man would have to be dead to miss this. “It could,” he agrees.
“Maybe it could get better in your apartment.”
It only lasts a few minutes before Kylo makes another wonderful noise, yanks her dress over her head, and drags her hands to his vest. “Help,” he says, trying to slide his own pants down without dislodging himself or interrupting her rhythm. “Help me get this off.”
Rey tries for a coy smile, but it doesn’t really work. He feels too good -- this feels too good -- and she’s past flirting. “But you look so good in it.”
“Don’t care. Want to feel you. Help.”
She complies, if only to keep things going. She unbuttons his clothes as he rips the seam of her underwear -- the only other way to remove it would be to climb off -- with surprising precision. And…
Oh, she takes it all back. Had she known he looked like this underneath that suit, she would have had it off from the beginning.
His hands go to her shoulderblades and then she’s yanked down, held tight against his chest, and he starts to drive into her with abandon. “Fuck,” he moans, planting kisses and lovebites along the line of her throat, “this is better than I imagined.”
He’s going to bruise her inside and she loves it. “Than you imagined--?”
“I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t, but you--” one hand grabs her ass, squeezing hard, fingers sliding into the cleft “--you are stunning, I’ve wanted you so much--”
Everything he’s said to her, it’s not-- it’s--
“That’s good,” Rey gasps out, orgasm on the horizon, “because I’ve wanted you too.”
But it’s way too late for conversation, conversation can happen later, because Rey is shuddering and crying out and holding on as hard as she can as Kylo devolves into a steady stream of profanities and sloppy, uneven thrusts, holy shit this is good, she could have been having this for weeks?
What a waste of a perfectly good summer.
When they’re able to speak again, Rey says: “We should keep doing this. Like, a lot.”
“Oh fuck yes.” A beat. “Do you like cavatelli?”
“I have no idea.”
“We’ll find out.”