She tries to turn around to kiss him, but he won’t let her, and that turns her on even more. His hand slips down into her leggings and into her thong and he moans when he feels how wet she is, and she loves that he’s always surprised by it, always so delighted and grateful that he doesn’t have to work that hard to get her to this point, that she’s always ready for him. She knows it makes him feel like a god, and she loves that she can make him feel that way, and that he’ll do anything to keep making her feel this way, because he’s patient and undaunted by anything he might need to do to get her to orgasm.
His fingers are inside her and it feels incredible, but she still wants more, and so she tugs her leggings down, and bends forward, against the window, pressing her hands against the cold glass. She doesn’t care that any person walking the grounds below could look up and see them. His face is now where his hands used to be, his tongue is everywhere and tasting everything, and it’s so good and so kinky and he’s groaning with pleasure like she’s the one doing it to him.
And this is what makes it so different with him. It’s the sex, yes, but it’s also how the sex makes her feel. When they fuck, she can be anything she wants to be. She can say anything she wants to say. She is completely uninhibited in a way she’s never been with anyone before. She might not know how to ask him to hold her hand in public, but she does know how to demand he stick his tongue deeper into her. She comes hard, writhing in his face, and he doesn’t stop until she’s finished and tells him to.
When she turns around he’s pulling down his underwear, but she wants him inside her, and so she pushes him onto the bed and climbs on top, where she can look into his eyes and kiss him and taste herself on his lips, and it only takes a few minutes because he’s so turned on, and she rides him as hard as she can stand it until he cries out her name and his eyes bulge and that vein in his forehead pops.
There are two things she loves about this moment. First, it’s the only time Derek ever looks ugly, because otherwise, he is always beautiful. Always. Even when he’s being a dick at McDonald’s or talking about his old-man music or snapping about her feet on his well-oiled dashboard, he is beautiful.
Second, it’s the only time she’s ever fully in control in their relationship. He’s the one who dictates everything that happens, and being able to make him come like this—hard, without having to hold back for her orgasm—is the one thing she gets to do.
But there’s now one thing she’s starting to hate about it. It reminds her that there’s an expiration date on their time together. Right after this, Derek will leave to go to work, and she’ll go back to her shitty apartment, to her resentful roommate and neglected cat, to cupboards full of mismatched bowls and packets of dollar-store ramen, feeling emptier than she did when this whole thing started, because every day that she’s with Derek, every time they do this, she loses a piece of herself.
They don’t cuddle after sex. Instead, she lies on the bed, sated, watching him get dressed, observing the meticulous way he buttons his shirt and tucks it into his pants, the way he ties his shoes so precisely. His shoes cost more than a month’s rent for her and Ty. She knows, because she looked them up.
“I can’t drive you home, I gotta head straight to the office,” he says. “But I think you should stay. Get some breakfast. Get a massage if you want. Charge it to the room. I’ll leave you money for a cab.”
She sits up. “You can’t eat with me?”
She senses he wants to come sit by her; it’s in his body language, the way he seems to want to step closer to the bed but is willing himself not to. He’s been like this the last few times, strangely hesitant with his goodbyes. Like there’s something more he wants to say. Like he knows he should end it and end it now, but then he chickens out.