Chapter Text
This is not your bed.
You come to in varying degrees of consciousness. First is the clean smell of laundry detergent. Then, the astounding fact of your nakedness. A soft whirring noise, like a tiny engine, is making itself known to you. You open your eyes, and a glowing pair of green eyes meets yours.
This is not your cat. You don't even have a cat.
The cat curled on your chest peers down at you curiously. Daringly, she pokes her little pink tongue out and licks your cheek. It's prickly, and you scrunch your face at the sensation.
As you shift, it uses your face as a springboard to bound off the plaid quilted bed and slinks through the half-open bedroom door.
The arm slung around your waist is heavy and muscular, and the body attached to it is much the same. The night comes back in humiliating fragments. The bar. The tequila. Discarding your panties in the bar bathroom.
Oh God.
Carl is sprawled on his belly, his hair long and jet coloured and his back Adonis-like. No, not Carl. Charles. A lock of hair tickles your face, and you hold in your sneeze with considerable effort. Still, you lie there for a moment, listening to his breathing and watching the flutter of his eyelids as he sleeps. He's huge, and you find yourself reluctant to pull away from the warmth of his body. Absently, you brush your fingertips against the smooth dark skin of his forearm. It's muscular, ridged with veins.
Slowly, you lift Charles's crushing arm. He grunts sleepily, and the scar on his cheek comes into view as he shifts. It spiders through the stubble on his jaw. Too bad you'll never find out what happened to him.
Escaping his grasp, you find that stupid on-sale miniskirt you wore discarded on the green rug in his bedroom. It glitters shamelessly in the morning light. There's the top you wore. Your bra is nowhere to be found. A vision of your new red bra dangling off a parking metre assaults you with startling clarity. Your clothes are the only things out of place in it. The rest of it is tidy,
Gathering up your naked and wounded pride, you tiptoe out of his bedroom.
The cat that was previously on your chest sits on a massive cat tree that occupies most of the small, tidy living room. It stares down at you disdainfully. Your stomach rumbles a little, and you wonder if you should rifle through his fridge for a snack. No, no, you must leave before he finds you braless and panty-less in his earthen-toned living room, eating all his raspberry-flavoured protein yoghurt. You shut the fridge and find your boots somewhere near the entryway. Your jacket is hung up next to his.
The cat lets out an indignant meow as you fumble with the door.
"Shh!" You hiss at her as she unhinges her great maw to chirp at you loudly.
Leaping off the cat tree, she rubs her silky grey flanks along your calves. You reach down with one hand to scratch her between the ears. She quiets, purring and arching her back.
"Good kitty. Shh." Inching back from her, you jiggle the doorknob again, and she practically yowls at you.
Thrusting your hand into your jacket pocket, you rifle through for a bribe. The best you can come up with is a peppermint, dusted in lint and a wrapped Slim Jim.
Do cats eat those? You take a leap of faith and unwrap it, waving it about her sleek, triangular head.
She quiets again, sitting down at your feet with her tail curled around her paws. Charles has a very polite cat. Creeping back, still dangling the treat, you toss it across his carpet, and the cat leaps towards it excitedly.
Putting the toe of your boots through the crack in the door lest she follow you, you suck your stomach in and squeeze through.
By the time you get to the empty apartment, the whole thing already feels a little unreal. The walk to his apartment, clinging to his arm, the deep rumble of his laugh and the feel of his hair in your hands. The first week here, and you've already made a fool of yourself. The only way to go is up.
The new apartment has that strange, sterile air about it, whitewashed walls and your few belongings in cardboard boxes. You make yourself instant noodles and eat them on the floor. The apartment could not be more different from the one you woke up in. In between mouthfuls of noodles, you turn over the details of it in your mind. The clean living room, the desk with stacks of books and a mess of papers that you hadn't dared to disrupt. Charles. The night before churns in your mind, the hard muscles of his body folded along yours, his thick cock splitting you open. It still aches between your legs.
He had stuck out to you from the small clusters of the sad Sunday night crowd. He'd been all alone. The first thing you'd noticed were his eyes, dark brown and long-lashed. Then, the thick black hair was tied back from his face. When you'd gotten all close, all tipsy and flirtatious, the sheer size of him. The mug of beer dwarfed in his hand,the other, sliding along your lower back.
By evening, it’s your first shift back at the Old Light, and you’re still half-convinced you’ve forgotten something important as you walk in. You pat yourself down, rifle through your purse: keys, wallet, cigarettes. You curse yourself for even considering the trial shift. What sort of bar puts you on a Monday shift? You'd thought working here would mean lazing away on weekdays and smoking as much as you like. Instead, it's a 4 to 11 shift. You tie the tiny apron Sherry had given you. It's embroidered with a lantern at the hem.
The place is already warm and noisy. Sherry, your new boss is calling out instructions from behind the bar, and you’re just trying to get your bearings when the front door opens and a voice you know cuts through the noise.
“You want me on the door or inside tonight?”
You look up. You see long dark hair, wide shoulders and high cheekbones.
It's Charles. Charles with the clingy cat and the Adonis-like back.
Charles, whom you fucked in the filthy bar bathroom.
For a moment, you do consider suicide.
"Sweetheart, this is Mr Smith." Sherry grins at him. "He's security along with those two." She gestures to two men off in the distance. "Anyone gets mean or touches you, you call 'em."
His eyes flit over you once, and you fiddle with the strings of your apron. Giving no acknowdledgement that he was inside you less than twenty-four hours ago, he nods once in greeting.
Sherry pats him; her hand looks tiny on his shoulder.
"Inside, sweetie."
Charles nods silently, and you see him weave his way into the corner of the bar. Your first day at a new job, and the guy you fucked the night before works there too. Typical.
You do as Sherry says, though. Monday night isn't too crowded. Perfect day to learn, she says with her wide crooked grin. You do as she says, and another girl, Maya, shows you where the cleaning supplies are, how to mix the simplest of drinks. Every so often, your eyes flicker up to Charles, standing with arms crossed over his chest and a carefully blank expression on his face. From your spot behind the bar, you watch as he shoulders off a small group of boys with wispy goatees who look far too young to be there.
Your shift has only just started to feel manageable when one of the regulars starts getting too loud at the bar. At first, it is nothing worth noticing, just another man drinking too fast and talking too big, the kind you'd ignore. You are wiping down the counter when he turns, catches your arm hard enough to stop you in place, and says something slurred and mean under his breath.
“Let go,” you say, already trying to pull back. His grip tightens, and he pulls you forward till the counter bites into your stomach. The glass topples at the force of his movements and crashes onto the bar with a musical shattering noise.
Before the moment can get any worse, Charles is there.
“I think you’re going to have to leave,” He says, and his hand closes over the man’s shoulder with calm, immediate force.
His face is stony, and the white scar down his cheek is stark against his skin. The broken glass glitters on the countertop. The man mutters something incoherent, and Charles's knuckles turn white. The man squirms under the heavy handling. Charles's face remains composed. Bringing another hand down on his shoulder, Charles manhandles him away from the bar, and you see his dark head disappear in the throng of people. You crouch under the bar to find the dustpan. The floor is sticky with spilt drinks.
Taking the brush, you sweep the glittering shards of glass down and off the bar. They clatter into the dustpan in a shimmering waterfall. There's a commotion from outside the bar. A raised voice—not Charles's jabbers loudly in the distance. When you set down the dustpan and brush, A sickening thudding noise reverberates through the bar, making the patrons murmur.
Charles weaves through the crowd, his hand clapped over his face. He comes over to the bar, and when he removes it, you can see his eye already swelling.
"You alright?" His voice is low, eye half shut.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I think so."
"Could I— get some ice or somethin'?"
"Of course." You find some and a zip-lock bag in the drawer, and hand them to him.
The shift ends with less commotion, and you whisper to Maya to cover for you as you take your break.
Stepping outside, you rifle in your pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Notes of soft music, Sherry switched on for cleaning up float outside. You suck in deep mouthfuls of air, a change from the liquor and sweat coating the inside of the bar.
Charles stands outside, close to the door. The other two bouncers have left Charles to stick around and fend off lingering customers.
"Thank you." You say, approaching him. He's massive up close like this; no wonder the girls at the bar call for everything.
"Hm?"
"For dealing with him."
He raises a brow.
"That's my job." He says, not unkindly, you feel idiotic. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the long-sleeved shirt all the bouncers wear strains over his arm.
"No, I know, I just thought—I'm new here." You finish and grope for the lighter in your apron. "I wasn't sure if I should cut him off, Sherry says we haven't been getting business and upsetting a regular—"
"He grabbed you," Charles says, quietly. You light yours and, dropping the lighter back in your apron, you belatedly offer him one.
"Thanks, I quit." He says, and you regret pulling one out at all.
"Sorry. I should have asked before I lit mine."
"It's alright." He shakes his head, his long, dark hair gleaming under the neon sign."You've had a long night."
You nod, taking a drag and turning your head away from him and blowing a stream of acrid smoke.
"The other night." You hesitate, "I'm not in the habit of doing that."
He says nothing.
"And—I didn't know you worked here. I'm not stalking you." Idiot.
Staring straight ahead, he gives the slightest of nods.
"Didn't think you were."
"Do you like working here?" You say, in an effort to make conversation.
"Ain't so bad." He shrugs.
"Even when you get punched?" You say feebly.
He shrugs. "Been a year now."
"What were you doing before?"
"Contracting. You?"
"Receptionist."
He says nothing, but raises his brows, glancing down at the curling lines of ink on your forearm.
"At a tattoo shop." You say hastily.
"What brings you here then?"
"Uh. I was studying—and now I'm taking a break." You inhale the smoke too sharply and splutter. "So I moved out here and—" you gesture to the bar, "—here I am."
Sherry calls your name sharply, travels faintly from the half-open entrance.
“I should go.” You crush the cigarette underfoot and for no reason you can justify, stick out your hand. “It was nice to meet you properly, Charles.”
"You too." He nods, without taking it.
"Wait." You start without thinking, and then fish in your apron for a sticky note. Hastily, you jot down that new number of yours, hoping you've remembered it right. "I'll buy you a drink or a coffee or something. To make up for your face."
He says nothing as he pockets it. Sherry calls loudly, her voice cutting, and you skitter back inside.
Charles calls you when you least expect it. Early one morning, your only day off, the phone buzzes with that wretched musical ringtone you'd set when you were in a far better mood. You reach for it on the nightstand and succeed only in sweeping the pill boxes decorating your nightstand off onto the apartment floor.
You pick up.
"Hello?"
"Hey." The voice is deep, and for a moment it does not register. "It's Charles."
"Charles?"
"From work."
"I just—it's early, that's all."
"It's 8 am." He says, and you can picture the slight tilt of his brow when he says that. He must wake up at 5 am and do pull-ups. With arms like those.
"It's my day off."
"Um. Yeah, I know." He says hesitantly, "I was wonderin' if you'd want to go for that drink. Tonight."
"Drink?"
"I don't expect you to pay, but I was—if you'd want to go."
"I wasn't coming onto you or anything." You say hastily.
"No.No. I didn't think that." His voice is faint through the microphone: "I'm not either."
"Just a drink, then."
"Yeah. You said you're new here, and I got a night off."
"Okay. Yeah."
"I can text you a place."
"Sure."
The bar he picks is crowded. Big neon signs and tap beer. People mill about around you in droves. He looks nice, in a clean sweater and dark jeans. His hair is tied back and combed. Those scuffed boots he wears to work.
Awkwardly, you stick your hand out to shake his, and he takes it, his grip firm.
“You want a drink?” he asks, after a stretch of silence.
" Ginger ale.”
He glances at you, just briefly. “That it?”
“Mm. I've turned a new leaf.”
The corner of his mouth twitches before he turns to the bar.
The bartender sets the bottle down in front of you, along with a glass you don’t use. Charles's thigh brushes yours under the bar. He blinks, and you hear the creak of the stool as he shifts it away from you.
“How come the Old Light?” you ask, if only to fill the space.
“Needed the work.” He shrugs. “They were hiring.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
You huff softly, turning the bottle between your palms. “You’re not much for conversation, are you?”
“Not much to say 'bout it.”
His thigh presses against yours under the bar again. The denim chafes against the sheer of your tights.
“So,” you say, setting the bottle down a little too carefully, “are we going to pretend we don’t know each other, or—?”
He looks at you then, properly. “Depends. You want to?”
You hesitate, then shake your head. “No. I don’t—” You exhale through your nose. “I don’t want it to be weird at work.”
“It's not weird for me.”
“That’s because you barely talk.”
A huff of amusement escapes him.
“You worried I’m gonna tell people?” he asks.
“Should I be?”
“No.”
You nod, relieved despite yourself. “Good.”
“I don’t usually do that,” you say, quieter.
“Yeah,” he says. "I figured."
You glance sideways. “That didn’t sound convincing.”
“I ain’t judging you.”
“I know, I just—” You stop yourself, pressing your lips together. “Forget it.”
"You don't need to explain yourself."
"I wasn't trying to." You snap and then bite your lip. “I just got out of something,” you say finally.
A little white lie never hurt. You do not say you were halfway to the courthouse when you'd made him pull over. You'd taken off your sparkly white heels and walked the highway until your feet had been red-raw from the burning concrete.
He nods. “Alright.”
“That’s it?” you ask.
“What d’you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something insightful.”
"I don't have an insight into it." Shrugging, he takes another sip of the beer.
You squint.
"Are you angry about it?" He asks.
"Really fuckin' angry." You grin over the bottle. "Angry enough to sleep with someone else."
“You regret it, then.”
You blink. “What?”
“The other night.”
“No,” You say, honestly. “Do you?”
He shakes his head once. “No.”
The anxious knot in your chest loosens.
“Okay,” You murmur, more to yourself than him.
He reaches for his beer, takes a slow pull, then sets it down.
“This,” He gestures faintly between you, “is just a drink.”
You look at him, then nod. “Just a drink.”
You take another sip of your ginger ale, though you’re not tasting it anymore. The noise of the bar swells around you—laughter, glass clinking, someone shouting over a song you don’t recognise. Loud pop music that you'd really quite enjoy if Charles's eyes weren't boring into you, his eyes fixed on your lipsticked mouth around the rim of the bottle. He averts his eyes as you glance at him,
You set the bottle down.
“Do you want to get out of here?” you ask, plain and stone-cold sober.
He studies you for a heartbeat, his eyes unreadable.
“Yeah,” he says.
That’s it.
You grab your jacket before you can think better of it. He throws some cash on the bar, and then you’re moving through the throng of sticky bodies. Charles's hand is firm on your waist, yanking you close when a man lurches towards you in the drunken mimicry of a flirtation. His presence is so imposing that the crowd parts easily.
The door swings shut behind you, cutting the noise clean. There is only the faint whoosh of the wind around you. You lift your hair off your neck, letting it cool your nape.
You turn towards Charles and, without meaning to, step straight into him. Then, his mouth is on yours in the grimy parking lot. Your hand fists in his sweater as you sway with the heat of the kiss.
"The car?" You whisper, and Charles breaks away from your mouth a second to steer you towards it.
You kiss him again, backing him up a step until his shoulders hit the car door with a dull thud. His hand drops to your waist, firm, keeping you close as you press into him.
“Keys,” You mutter.
He fumbles them out of his pocket without breaking the kiss, the car unlocking with a soft chirp. Reaching back, he finds the handle.
The door opens, and you’re both moving at once—him pulling it wider, you climbing in halfway, dragging him with you as he slides into the driver's seat, squeezed against you.
You end up sprawled over the console, and half in his lap, Charles's hand finds the back of your neck again, stronger now, holding you in place as your mouth opens against his.
“Charles,” You breathe.
He answers with a rough exhale, shifting under you.
You press closer, your hand sliding down between you, bolder now.
“We could just—” Your lips brush his, “—do it here.”
His hand closes around your wrist, stopping you, breath still uneven.
“I ain’t an animal,” He says, low.
You lean back just enough to meet his eyes, hazy from the kiss.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Placing both his hands on your waist, he lifts you from the car console and onto the passenger seat. Leaning over you, he draws the seatbelt across your chest and misses the latch three times as you mouth his neck. When he can finally peel away from you, he settles his big hand on your knee. Perhaps, to hold you in place. The panties you wore are distressingly wet. You squeeze your thighs together as his hand slides upwards on your tights.
The ride to his apartment feels like a million years. You use the time to collect your thoughts as best you can. His palm against your thigh makes that difficult. The elevator ride up is silent, both of you staring at the tiny screen where red numbers flash at a snail's pace. He stares straight ahead, the only indication of what this is, the hand braced on your lower back.
Does he do this often? Invite girls out in the hopes of getting laid. The thought dissolves as he helps you out of your worn leather jacket. His cat, presumably recognising you, noses at your legs and then sinks her tiny claws into the netting of your tights. Hastily, Charles snatches her up, and she hisses at him.
"Sorry. She's excited."
"That's okay, we've met before, haven't we?" You reach out to scratch her between her pointed ears, "Haven't we—" You look up at him.
"Taima."
"Haven't we, Taima?" At the sound of her name, she begins to purr, shutting her eyes and leaning into your hand. "Got off to a rough start, didn't we?"
She meows. She probably gets it.
Charles has the faintest of smiles when you look up at him. Setting her down on the couch, he turns towards you. You feel exposed, suddenly. The top you wore feels too low cut, although his eyes are fixed on your face. His bicep flexes as he sweeps his arm around your waist, drawing you against him. The swell of your breasts smushes against the knit of his deceptively soft sweater, concealing acres of hard muscles underneath.
"You know, I just got out of a relationship." You say, as he slides a searching hand into the back of your top. His palm flattens against your spine, warm and sure.
"Yeah? You hadn't mentioned it."
Slipping your bare arms around his neck, you lean forward, lips brushing his. His breath hitches as he widens his stance to accommodate you.
"So, I'm really not looking for anything."
"Right." Charles cocks his head as you lace your fingers through his hair.
"Seriously. I mean it." You tug at it, just to feel his grip on you tighten.
"Fine by me." He says, and leaning forward, kisses you.
The hot press of his mouth against yours is what finally shuts you up. He slips his tongue past your lips, and you gasp into the heat of his mouth. His thick, dark hair is pulled away from his face, and you plunge your fingers into it, yanking as he lifts you so your stockinged toes graze his carpet. You are suspended in his arm as he sucks a bruise into the tender skin of your neck. The brown knit sweater he wears is thick and soft under your fingers, and you slide your hand into the collar to feel the corded muscles of his neck.
"Charles?"
"Yeah?" Another bruising kiss at the fluttering pulse in your throat.
"I really can't get involved with anyone—ah—I'm focusing on myself."
"You said that." Hiking your leg up, he squeezes the meat of your thigh over your thighs. "Many times."
"Bed?" You whisper into his ear, scraping your teeth along the shell of it.
"Yeah. Bed." His voice is rough with want.
It takes some effort to peel yourselves away from each other so he can steer you to his bedroom. Standing over you, he pulls the knit sweater over his head. The white t-shirt he wears is stark against his luminous dark skin. You lie on the bed as he catches your ankle in his massive hand and reaches into your skirt to remove your sheer black tights. Slowly, he peels them off your leg, revealing inked skin with every inch. Sitting up on your elbows, you grab the buckle of his belt, struggling with it until he takes over, removing it in one elegant movement, his hands covering yours. Your pussy throbs.
"Take off your shirt." You command, wanting to see his body in all of its glory. This time, you'll remember it.
"You first." He cocks his head, raising a brow. It has a scar through it, giving him the air of a stray tomcat.
Sitting up, you pull your top over your head, leaving you only in your bra. The effect on him is immediate; the pupils of his deep brown eyes billowed out with want. His breath comes short before he steadies it, chest pumping. Most of you are exposed now, the inked skin of your forearms and shoulders—the glittering ring in your navel, the result of some drunken night out, long ago.
Running his knuckles along the swell of one breast, he caresses the goosebumps as they form under his touch. Tucking the tips of his fingers into the cup of your bra, he finds the hardening nipple.
"This is nice." He strokes the lacy edge of it, his fingers trailing upward to the divot where the bra pushes your breasts upward. You're glad you wore it just for the look on his face.
"Your turn." Your voice hitches at the brush of his callused fingertips. Making good on his promise, he pulls the white tee over his head. Strands of hair come loose at his temples, and you sit up to admire him. The broad acreage of his shoulders and chest is wide and heavily built. His ribs are blotchy, black, blue and bruised.
"What happened here?" You are surprised at the concern in your own voice.
"Gym."
"Gym?" You giggle, "What? Did you get mugged on the way?"
"Boxing." His mouth quirks up at the corner, the scar on his cheek twisting with the movement. "This morning."
"Of course. What else?"
Charles doesn't laugh at your joke; instead, he guides your hands to the button of his jeans. Hungrily, you drag your mouth along his belly, the hard muscle lining it quivers under your touch. His hands lace through your hair, one trailing from the hinge of your jaw to your chin. His head tips back as you trail your tongue lower, the soft seam of hair on his stomach tickling your face.
"Can I suck your dick?" You bat your eyelashes as he lifts your chin. His thumb swipes over your lips, and you take it in your mouth, sucking on it slowly.
"Sure." He nods indulgently. "If that's what you want."
"You're supposed to tell me to please give you a blowjob or you'll explode and die." You pout.
Charles looks amused.
"D 'you want me to say that?
"Never mind." You smile at him obligingly. "I'll give you one anyway."
"Kind of you."
"They say it's a virtue."
Leaning forward, you nuzzle at the bulge in his jeans, looking up at him. He gathers your hair in his hand in a makeshift ponytail. Breathing in the smell of soap and clean skin, you shut your eyes. Unzipping his fly, you ease him out of his flannel boxers. He's huge, bigger than you remember from that first night, not that you remember much. The tip of him is flushed and leaks fluid. You whistle.
"You've seen it before." He deadpans, but his white scar on his cheek flushes pink. God, he's incorrigible.
"I've seen the Grand Canyon before, too—it doesn't make it less impressive."
Rolling his eyes, he takes it in his hand and rubs the tip against your lips, smearing precome on them. Tapping it against your cheek as you cover your hand with his and lick up the shaft. Grasping your jaw and forcing your mouth into a pucker, he eases the tip of his cock into your mouth. You suck at it eagerly, leaning forward to take more. Your eyes water, but you follow through, taking him till the tip brushes the back of your throat and then bobbing your head as he grunts.
"Go slow." Tightening his hand in your hair, he holds you steady by it.
"This is slow." You mean to say, but it comes out garbled.
"You'll hurt yourself."
"Show off." You giggle around him, and he loosens his grip on your hair, allowing you to take him as far as you can.
You gag a little, but adjust as you slick him in spit. Charles begins to move, gingerly at first, and then with more urgency. His hand settles at your throat, not choking you but feeling the outline of himself in it. Gagging a little, you take him deeper and cry in surprise as he lifts your head off his cock.
"I won't—last long if you keep doing that." He grunts. Aw. You oblige him with one last kiss, the tip of it. It twitches a little, leaking more salty fluid.
Flipping onto your stomach, you spread yourself out a little, cheek folded in the duvet. The miniskirt you are glad you wore is the only thing covering you, and it rides up your ass.
"That comfortable?" He says, right when you expect him to slide into you.
"Charles. Please fuck me." You beg, raising your head to put your chin to your shoulder.
"I will." He says, and smooths his big hand over your ass. "In a second."
Rubbing the tip of his cock at your core, he hisses as the tip breaches your entrance, your cunt flutttering to take him in. You bury your face in his duvet, but he still doesn't slide inside. You look over again.
"Are you sure that's comfortable?
"Charles." You reply patiently, "I'm very sure."
Sighing heavily, he slides inside of you. You gasp at the pressure; it doesn't hurt, exactly, but the stretch makes you cry out in surprise. He grunts a little, not moving, his hand clamped down on your hip. Arching back into him, you urge him to move. His other hand is braced on your ass. Your cunt squeezes around him.
"That's okay?" He says, voice strained.
"Mm." Trying to relax, you fold your arms and bury your face in them. He smooths his big hand down your shuddering back. "S'good. Feels good. You're so big."
You cringe a little at your own honesty. That stupid pornographic line, oh, it's so big, oh, how will it ever fit? But it's the truth. His grasp on you grows tighter.
"Gonna move now. Yeah?"
"You don't have to narrate—oh"
The first thrust makes you gasp and whine, Charles grunts behind you, a deep, rough noise that makes you even wetter. He moves slowly at first, just the even roll of his hips and the weight of him inside of you. You clench around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering around him. His breaths become harsher, but you feel the quivering restraint in his movements.
"Fuck." He grits out. "You look real good like this."
"Go faster." You groan, "Please."
"I won't last long if I do."
"I don't care." Whining, you arch into him. "I wanna come on your cock."
His hips buck at your words, and you look over your shoulder to his heaving chest, gleaming with sweat. His hand climbs up your spine, tracing the patchwork of images there, and he anchors it in your hair, twisting your head back to face him. Leaning over you, chest to your back, he kisses you, his tongue in your mouth. Breaking away from you, he pulls out and lifts your hips to fumble with the zip on the side of your skirt. Once it comes off, he manhandles you onto your back in one movement and spears you on his cock. Planting a knee on his bed, he deepens the angle and reaches between your legs to pinch your clit gently.
The sensation makes you whine, and you reach for his wrist to urge him on. His body folds over yours, and he takes one of your nipples into his hot, wet mouth. His thrusts grow more desperate as you thread your fingers into his hair and draw him to kiss you, mouth sliding over his.
"Charles, baby, I think—" You mumble into his mouth and lock legs around his hips, "I think I'm going to come."
He makes a low, satisfied noise and reaches down to press two fingers against you, stimulating your clit. You come, pulling at his hair. Colours flash on the inside of your eyelids, and your body hums around him. The orgasm makes you tighten around him, and he tenses.
"Yeah. M' gonna come too." His even voice is slurred with pleasure, and his eyes sealed shut. His head drops to your collarbone, his hands bracing beside your head, fisting in the duvet.
Pulling out, he takes his cock in his hand and thrusts into it. Reaching down, you replace his hand with yours, and he fucks it, hips bucking and brow furrowed. He comes in spurts on your belly, rivulets of spend trickling down it. You lie there a moment, limbs boneless. The warm come spills down your belly, and you dip your fingers into it mindlessly. You wish he had come in your mouth.
"Sorry." His voice is rough. "Should've asked you first."
"I'd have let you come inside me if you'd wanted." You say, tongue loose from the orgasm.
Groaning, he collapses beside you, gleaming with sweat.
You blink at the ceiling, vision blurred, and your mind blissfully quiet.
The mattress dips, and he's lifting himself off heavily. You watch as he pads to the bathroom, and you hear the tap turn on. Shutting your eyes, you slump back onto the bed, mind still reeling. The next thing you feel is the cool touch of a wipe on your stomach and the insides of your thighs. Charles sits on the edge of the bed and cleans the come off of you. You open your mouth to tell him he doesn't have to do that, but nothing comes out but an exhale of satisfaction.
"You alright?" Charles's voice is rough with exertion.
"Mm. Great." You say dreamily. Sweaty hair is plastered to his temples and neck.
Lifting the duvet, he slides back into bed beside you, tucking his hand under his head. Rolling onto your side, you prop your head up on your hand to look down at him.
Anchoring his hand at your jaw, he draws you over him. You prop an elbow on his chest.
"I had fun."
"Did you?"
"Wasn't it obvious?" You trace his lips with your finger; there's another scar on his other cheek; this one is tiny, the size of your fingernail.
"Just makin' sure."
Yawning, you curl up against him. He sinks his hand into your hair, fingertips moving in slow circles against your scalp. Your eyes flutter shut.
"Sleepy?" He says you are beginning to doze off under the movement of his hand.
"No." You sigh as he shifts his hand to your back. "I'm working tomorrow. Should get the bus to mine."
"I can drop you off at home." A tiny pinch of disappointment makes you shift off of him, pawing around for your bra. Of course, he wouldn't ask you to spend the night. It was just a drink, after all. "Couldn't have Sherry seein' us show up together."
"Embarrassing."
"Ain't what I meant. But yeah, I figure you wouldn't want to show up with me on your first week."
Clasping your bra and finding your underwear and tights, you rise from the bed. He sits up, his belly glistening with sweat and his dark hair over the pillow. It's come loose, somewhere in the tussle. The outline of his cock is visible under the sheets, and his eyes flick to the curve of your ass. Setting his big feet on his carpeted floor, he pulls his flannel boxers up and raises his big arms to pull a T-shirt on, wincing a little as it comes down over his bruised ribs.
The drive to your place is quiet, only the soft rock music channel on the radio and your muttered directions. You feel dishevelled, a little shamed next to his icy composure. Your hair is mussed, and your makeup smudged.
He walks you to the crumbling set of stairs leading into the lobby of your apartment. The place is run down, and you flush a little as he peers through the window at the peeling wallpaper and plastic chairs set out. The tired receptionist is just visible behind the desk. The big glass doors, the only new part of the building, the old woman who lives above you trots up the stairs, staring at Charles with a sour expression on her wrinkled face. You raise your hand in a half-hearted wave.
"It was cheap." You say abruptly, hugging your arms around yourself and looking at him. "I needed a place fast."
"No. I—that ain't—" He falters. "You got hot water and stuff? Everything works? Meets property standards?
You almost laugh. Contracting indeed.
"Hot water, sometimes. It's okay otherwise. The landlady isn't too bad."
"Alright. You can call me if there are any problems." You search his face for any false promise, any indication of a polite facade. There is none.
"Okay." Oddly timid, you stare down at the toes of your boots. "Thank you for the drink."
"Yeah. No worries." He stares down at your face, and you wipe at it self-consciously. The sun has long set, and the only light is the fluorescent glow from the lobby of your apartment. His eyes are the deepest shade of brown you've ever seen.
"I don't think this should happen again." You say softly.
Charles's face is arranged into neutrality.
"If that's what you want." His voice is calm, and you see him adjust his posture, straightening his spine.
"I'm not good at this stuff." You gesture between you two. "And I moved out here for a fresh start, and I don't want things at work to be—complicated."
"Sure. It ain't a problem." He says, finally.
"Goodnight, Charles."
"See you at work."
You make it four shifts at the Old Light before you find yourself in the storage closet, Charles's mouth on yours.