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“Quick!” he says, grabbing Joyce as he spots a door leading off the hallway. “In here!”
He opens it and shoves her in, pulling the door closed behind them, only to find that their hiding place is a tiny supply closet, barely big enough for both of them to stand.
Joyce is pressed against him, and he can smell her shampoo, and underneath that, Indiana dirt and Russian laundry detergent, an intoxicating cocktail that makes him dizzy.
“Now what?” she asks.
“Now we uh…” He tries to focus on what she’s asking, instead of the feeling of her body pressed against his in their ill-fitting uniforms, but it’s an impossible task. “We wait.”
There’s an awkward pause while they catch their breath.
“Um, Hop?” Joyce asks, sounding a little too amused, and even in the dark of the supply closet, he can tell she’s smiling. “You’re…”
He can’t control his body when he’s around her, and it embarrasses him, like he’s still a horny teenager trying to sneak a peek down Joyce’s shirt in between fifth and sixth period, trying to catch a glimpse of those same curves that are now pressed against him.
And he’s noticed. Boy has he noticed.
“Fuck,” he mutters, entirely too aware of his body, aware of the arousal radiating off him in waves. “I’m-”
“How long until you think the place clears out?” she asks, giving him an out, so he doesn’t have to apologize for having the self-restraint of a sixteen-year-old.
“Probably- uh, probably not too long,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m not squishing you, am I?”
“No, but your- you-” Now it’s her turn to sound flustered. “You’re kinda digging into my hip here, Hop.”
“Oh shit, sorry.” Hop tries to inch backwards, but a second later there’s a dull thud as his back hits the door, and he swears again, a little breathlessly. "Shit.”
“Aren’t you going to do something about that?” she asks, and she still sounds amused, and now he can see just enough of her face to see her looking up at him expectantly with those big brown eyes.
“Like what?”
She sighs. “Jesus, Hop, do I have to draw you a map? You’re the one who dragged me in here!”
He can’t believe his ears. “To hide from the Russians, not- not-”
“You don’t want to?” she challenges him, and oh Christ, if there’s one thing he’s not going to take, it’s being browbeaten by Joyce about not fucking her when he’s wanted to for years.
So instead of answering, he grabs her face, leans down and kisses her, hard and bruising, and she doesn’t stop him, doesn’t pull away. Instead she loops her arms around his neck and kisses him back, her mouth opening to his, all passion and heat as she presses against him.
He pulls away. “Joyce?”
“What?”
He doesn’t tell her he’s wanted to do that since they were kids between fifth and sixth period. He doesn’t say a word, just leans down and kisses her again, savage and bittersweet, his hands fumbling with the buttons of her uniform, growling into her mouth in frustration.
She laughs against his lips, her own fingers nimbly reaching down to unzip his pants, and it electrifies him, it stuns him, that they are here, that they are doing this, and he groans when she wraps her fingers around him.
He manages to get the pants of her uniform out of the way, shoving them down and away from her body, and he’s so eager, so wanting, so needy, that his fingers slip on the button of her jeans, and her panties are damp against his fingers while she squirms against him.
It’s clumsy, the way he lifts her up, so light in his arms like she’ll just float away, and he presses her against the shelves of the supply closet, his whole body humming with anticipation and need, clothing shoved out of the way.
“Oh fuck, Hop,” she says breathlessly, his lips on her neck, her legs coming up to wrap around his waist, heels digging into his backside, and she gasps as he pushes into her. “Oh fuck.”
It’s frenzied, and hurried, and not at all like he wanted, thrusting in a rhythm neither is accustomed to, feeling the curves and edges of her body through the layers of clothing, and here in the dark, they could be kids again, fumbling in the backseat of a Chevy.
“Hop, Hop, oh Jesus,” she says, her voice breathless and debauched and thrilling, fingernails biting into the skin of his shoulder, sharp enough to sting, and he wants, so fiercely, for her to leave her mark on him, wants to leave his mark on her.
He sucks bruises into her neck, slipping a hand down between them, sliding it over her breasts and belly, past damp curls to touch her, making her gasp and shudder against him, slick and soft and burning against his fingers.
There is no finesse to this, nothing more than the clumsy joining of two desperate people, but if Hop closes his eyes, he can pretend that Joyce feels the same way that he does.
He can pretend that this is not a crazy, adrenaline-fueled fuck in a supply closet in a secret Russian base under their hometown, pretend that for once they’ve done this the right way instead of upside down and ass-backwards, but if that were true, it wouldn’t be them.
“Hop, Hop, please,” Joyce begs, her voice wrecked, and his fingers slip, making her gasp, a tiny broken noise that nearly kills him.
“I’ve got you,” he promises, an absurd thing to say with his lips on her pulse and his fingers on her clit, but it’s been true for twenty years.
“Fuck, Jim, Jim, oh,” and then she is arching up into his touch, and he feels her fall apart around his cock, and he nearly loses his grip on her, feeling her body tighten and release around him, and he has a sudden moment of absurd pride that this is his doing.
He lets his slick fingers fall away, cupping her ass instead, her skin soft against his touch, and he is close.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, because he knows, he knows he cannot hide it, he knows that this is not about getting it over with, not for him.
“For what?” she asks, sounding dazed, and he’s about to pull away, he means to pull away (trying to have some measure of responsibility even in this temporary insanity), but her voice is trembling, and her body is still pulsing around him.
It’s too late.
“For- oh fuck.” He presses his forehead against hers, going still as his body gives. She strokes his hair, and reaches up to kiss him, her mouth absurdly sweet in the midst of something so filthy. “Joyce.”
“I’m here,” she promises as he falls to pieces, lost in the feeling, in the moment, in her.
He’s still holding her when he comes back to himself, gently setting her down as he slips out of her, her thighs slick, the scent of what they’ve done heavy like guilt in the air.
He wraps his arms tighter around her, pulling her in against his chest, both of them breathless and sated.
I love you, he thinks, but doesn’t say it. “Thank you,” he mutters instead.
“I love you, Hop,” she murmurs dreamily back.
He feels her freeze in his arms, and then what she’s said sinks in. “What?”
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“Joyce-”
She buries her head in his shoulder, and he can feel the heat of her face seep through, can hear her muttering, over and over again like a prayer, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”
“Hey, hey, hey,” he pulls away, gently, wiping his damp fingers on his uniform before he tucks her hair back from her face, lifting her chin with his finger. “It’s okay, Joyce. I… I love you too.”
“You mean-”
“I mean I love you, Joyce.” He leans in and kisses her. “I love you, you hear me?”
“Oh,” she says, when he pulls away. “You do? But what about-”
“But nothing. I’ve thought up every reason why I shouldn’t or couldn’t or whatever. None of ‘em stuck,” he assures her. “Lots of weird shit around here doesn’t make sense, Joyce, but loving you… that does.”
“Oh.”
He pulls her back into his arms, his heart still racing, his body singing with the knowledge: she loves him. She loves him.
“So uh…” she clears her throat, sounding like she’s about to laugh. “So much for just getting it over with, huh?”
“Yeah, well, I told you, Murray’s a sick and twisted individual,” he says, and delights in it when she laughs.