Delivered

Finally, she's in bed. Feeling every bit of the day in her bones. Fatigue lines her hips, her lower back, her calves -- a leg session right after an eight-hour shift can do that. Soft rain outside, lush, soothing. She pulls the covers up to her chin.

She should be falling asleep before her head hits the pillow. But instead, she's fidgeting, eyes darting around the fuzzy contours of the dark room. Soft green numerals of the alarm clock grinning at her cheekily: 1:41AM.

A hand finds its way down between her thighs, just to keep her company down there.

Half-committed masturbation. The clock ticks over to 2AM. Buzz of phone next to her head. Here he is, right on cue.

She plucks her phone up off the bedside table, grimacing. Tongue in teeth, she opens the pic. Rush of dopamine, saliva in her mouth. He's shirtless in bed. Faceless torso, teasing pull of his boxers with his thumb. The sparse caption: u up?

She throws the covers away from her chest, pushes her arms out, finds her well-rehearsed angle. Snaps a pic, sends it. Without delay, he returns the favour. Back and forth like this for a while. She pops a tit out, massages it, dares to capture it with a three-second video. He does the same with his shaft, planting his phone beneath his balls and stroking for her. Wordless escalation.

The better part of her knows this is all a mistake being made. Again. Getting too comfortable, too complacent.

As if he's read her mind, he starts slipping away. She can sense it before it happens. Thirty second gaps between replies stretch to two minutes, then three, then five. She almost sends twice to get his attention but manages to stop herself. Pulls her tit back into her bra, face burning.

After a while it becomes apparent he's vanished entirely. Not even doing her the courtesy of opening her last pic -- leaves it on delivered instead. She hates how long she spends next to her phone when it gets like this. How often she refreshes the app, closing and reopening it. As if somehow it's a technology error rather than the biting truth.

That he just doesn't care.

She laughs to herself. Runs her fingers over the pitted feeling in her chest.

How could she be stupid enough to think he'd keep going for once? The flakiness is the only consistent thing about him. Textbook, at this point. It's the same mid-sexting disappearing act he's pulled the past two, three times he's crashed his way back into her life. With that stupidly pristine waist, those slutty angles. Never one for talk, either. Any time she even hints at chatting, he just plays the same game -- going ghost.

Clenches her jaw, rush of self-sabotaging conclusions. It's because he's got other girls on his phone. Prettier ones, actually worth finishing with. Useful for more than just warming up.

She bites the inside of her cheek. Tells herself the overthinking isn't helpful. It would be wise to just roll over, cut her losses, get some proper sleep after the day she's had.

But instead, she's flicking the lamp on, pacing to the kitchen. Returning with the bottle.

One rushed glass of wine, indulgently gulped down. Pours another for good measure. As if it can cleanse the frustration and embarrassment away. Keeps the bottle and glass by her bed as she crawls back into the messy covers.

Picks up her phone. Types as she drinks.

It's paragraph and a half, to say the least. Easily enough to get his precious attention.

---

With the fading alcohol in her veins, she's able to twist their brief argument in her favour. Into an invitation. Guys are easy, like that. Even the flaky ones like him.

Twenty minutes later, his headlights are cutting shapes in her curtains as he pulls into the driveway. She's changed into a bathrobe, spritzed herself with perfume -- roses with a trace of cinnamon. Hair up in a bun. Buzz in her lower abdomen from how quickly she's prompted him into a hookup. A touch of wine-steeped vitriol can work wonders.

She lets him in quickly; it's still raining. Loose fall of hoodie over his tapered frame, little sparkle in his eye despite the played-up look of disinterest. That fuckboy fringe, runs his fingers through it just because he can. She clenches a fist in her robe. He won't be keeping this act up for long.

The silence does the work for her. He starts to talk about the light fixtures, but she just turns around, walks on through. Forcing him to follow.

In her room, she stops him with a finger in his chest. Muscular pushback. Hint of his hastily-applied cologne in the air. She steels herself against all of it. Raises an eyebrow. "Well?"

He swallows, eyes darting down. "I'm sorry. I should communicate better."

He sounds so genuine that she almost lets her guard down. Almost. But she keeps the wall up: guys will say anything when they think they're about to get some pussy.

"That's right," she sighs. The robe falls. She's wearing panties and nothing else. "Make it up to me, then."

---

His tongue doesn't disappoint. That much is clear as she uses his face, pressing her hands into his scalp, trapping his head with her thighs. Shudder of ecstasy through her body, rippling through, punctuated by her stuttered moans. His hand travels up her leg, past her bellybutton, cupping her tit and massaging it. Tears pinpricking her eyes.

Any other time, she'd be caving in at this point: an orgasm deep already, shaking like a bitch. But it's him. And that means she's still hungry. Insatiably so.

He's slithering into missionary, licking up her lust from his chin. Little chuckle through his perfect teeth. Hands beneath her thighs. Rustling and clanking as his belt is tossed away. She can feel it nudging against her entrance and she whines.

He leans in, chews her earlobe. "Someone needs it."

Once again, he's failed to realise it's all theatre to her. She strikes, sitting up onto her elbows, embracing him. Tits squishing against his chest. One long, deep kiss to disarm him.

Then she jolts, twists, finding purchase on the bed with a well-placed knee. Wrestles him over: one rough, precise movement. His eyes widen as he finds himself beneath her, held down by his wrists. His toned arms, like the rest of him, are just for show. Ripple of adrenaline through her belly. She's so much fucking stronger than him.

"Inside," she huffs, half-growling the words.

"Huh?" he gasps, still dazed from the sudden switch.

"Inside. Get inside me. Right fucking now."

"You'll have to..." he dips his head towards his restrained hands. Reluctantly, she lets his left arm free. She adjusts her own position: squatting over him, lust dripping onto his abs, pooling along the lines leading down to his cock.

He rubs himself as he gets into position, grinding against her. His tip against her aching cunt. The cunt he's denied any follow-through every time they've sexted. The cunt he insists on ignoring.

The cunt he acts like he's too fucking good for.

She slams her hips down. Savours every little detail of his whimper. Rolls her hips with him inside, writes words. Sentences. Every little grievance she's ever had against him, spelled out on his cock. Dangerously fast, perfectly slow, then every speed in between. He's squirming, throbbing, and she can't get enough of it.

She spits in his mouth. "You moan like a fucking girl, you know?"

He tilts his gaze away, blush singing his cheeks, his neck. "I don't..."

She does away with the little circles, lifts her hips and crashes back down on him instead. Fucking him like he's a dildo. The sudden escalation is enough to conjure more of his pretty noises: high-pitched, embarrassingly feminine.

Sticks her thumb in his mouth, he sucks it. She grins, "Yes you do. What a pretty little girl you are."

She speeds up, finding a devastating rhythm. Ass slamming down hard on his pelvis, taking him to the base on every stroke with vicious precision. Sweat dripping down between her tits, catching on his chest, flecking the mattress. Bars her forearm across his neck; he grabs onto it. All she can feel and smell is him. Him, him.

It's so good she doesn't realise he's trembling. Trying to tell her something. She leans in. "What was that?"

Wetness lining his eyes, pleading, enraptured. "I'm..."

He only manages the one word before he starts cumming. Pulsing inside of her, voice fluttery and weak. She holds him down as her cunt soaks it up, every last rope. She cocks her head to the side as she feels him finish. He's drooling. She whispers in his ear, "That's so embarrassing."

His vacant-eyed, mumbled response: "Thank... you..."

She says nothing. Just slips him back inside, builds up her pace once more. Ignores his desperate protests.

She keeps moving until she finishes. Throws her hand down to her pussy. One light brush of fingers across her clit is all it takes. Her climax is explosive, sudden. Primal. Shuddering and clenching on his half-soft shaft, spears of guttural need running her through. Feels like the room is shaking, rumbling, off-balance -- the only anchor in the maelstrom being his cock.

She takes his head in her hands, presses him into a messy, tongue-filled kiss. He's verging on tears from the overstimulation. She's grunting into his mouth, mindless repetition of the same phrase: "Good little fucktoy. Good little fucktoy."

The moment is so perfect that she wakes up.

Morning light cuts across her face, scrunching her eyes. Faint memory of wine in the mouth. Body half tangled in the sheets, something hard and rubbery wedged between her legs: her vibrator, out of battery, its thick head coated in a telling amount of lust.

Jolt of realisation. She lunges for her phone. Taps into the app, pinching her wrist as she does so.

Her paragraph remains unsent. And her last picture to him? Still unopened.

Reads her drafted words back to herself, cringing. Embarrassing amount of cursing and typos.

She sighs. Wash of relief, tinged with biting shame. Laughs to herself for a while, albeit quietly. Sobering silence. Brushes hair back behind her ears. Takes a moment to breathe, just breathe.

She mulls over the scathing sentences once more. Fingers move on their own. She deletes, edits, rewords. Hones the whole mess down to read with firmness rather than scorn. Her thumb hovers over the send button. Hesitant.

This is the mature thing to do -- letting him know how she feels. And if he can't communicate, that's his problem.

One decisive tap as she sends it through.

She hops up out of bed, casting her phone aside. Leaves it behind as she goes to make some breakfast.