All I Want (Standalone; One-Shot)

All I Want (standalone; one-shot)

by

R. D. Oliver (2025-June-14)

The Teams meeting ends and I shut down the webcam before putting the desktop to sleep. Now alone, I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Gods, I'm tired. The home office is a dozen time zones back from where I am, and their business day only starts long after the work day of most locals has ended. I'm almost thirteen thousand kilometres from where I was born, grew up, from everything I've ever known. I don't mind. Because here was where I met her.

Daughter of an expat like myself and a local woman he met while assigned here. Born and raised in her dad's home country; came back because she needed a change of scene to help with her writing. We met at a concert. A concert my best friend dragged me to, even though he knew I was indifferent at best toward the headline act. Because he wanted me out of my flat, to do something other than work, because he cared. I resented it the entire night. Then I bumped into her. Literally.

A lively crowd, rowdy but not unruly. No real danger, though you had to go with the flow. I misread the current. And changed my life.

I felt the impact as my arm hit someone's back. I turned, already starting to shout an apology, wanting to make sure I could be heard above the music and the chanting of the crowd. The words never quite left my throat, because she also turned then, and our eyes met.

Dark eyes. Couldn't be more precise at the time (I later learned they were chestnut brown), given the riot of colour that filled the venue. Colour that painted her fair skin with all the hues of the rainbow and washed her dark hair with a melange of highlights. But her smile! Her smile had -- and still has -- a brilliance all her own. I was lost. For the first time in my life, I was lost. And I never wanted to be found, because here, here, was the only place I wanted to be.

What followed wasn't a whirlwind. It was slow, careful, measured. I didn't know what I was doing. She'd been hurt -- badly -- before. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, we learned: I the protocol, the etiquette, the dance. Her, to once more be receptive, to trust. When we finally met in the middle, it was glorious. I've striven to be worthy of her ever since. I've failed on more than one occasion, but I've never stopped trying.

I stand up and stretch, feeling my shoulders creak in the process. Then I unbutton my collar. I don't mind the uniform, not as such, though I'd be lying if I said I enjoyed wearing it. At least I can wear house slippers during meetings; the webcam will never see those.

I exit my work room and turn off the lights; when I pad past her writing nook, it's similarly dark beyond the rectangle of the open door. I wonder how long it's been since she went to bed. Probably not long. Her hours are strange like mine, for all that they're not constrained by the rigidity of time differences. Regardless, I don't dawdle.

Our time together is measured by the mile markers of routine: waking, meals, work, then the spindown to sleep. I work from home a lot. She, almost exclusively. As such, we're in the same spaces more often than not. Yet we are barely together. In the ways both of us want, both of us need, in the ways that matter to us both.

There is frustration. I'm well aware of my own, of course. But there's enough that, dense as I am, I can sense hers. She isn't like me: she has rhythms, seasons, and when they're quiescent some might call her cold, even frigid. I know better, because she's taught me her secrets -- some of them, anyway. Hibernation, not coma. Embers, not ashes.

When she flares, she flares bright indeed. So bright, so hot, so hungry it's almost too much. Yet gladly will I burn to the merest nub just to be with her. Recently, however, those times have been vanishingly few, and light-years between. And the frustration piles higher, for both of us.

Of late, exigent, restrictive schedules have made things particularly difficult. The home office's grand overseas experiment has borne fruit, which has led them to expand our local footprint. That means accelerated hiring, which leads to needing new offices, searching for available space, culminating in what is now an imminent move. All with corporate breathing down our necks, wanting it to be finished, done yesterday, if not sooner. And as second from the top locally, much -- though fortunately, not all -- of the responsibility devolves to me.

For her, her next novel is due; thankfully not overdue, but she's been in crunch mode nevertheless. Writing and revising on waking, during meals, in between, right up until she dozes off next to me. Calls with her editors and publisher at odd hours; there's that time difference again.

Sometimes I wake in the night to see her sitting up, features limned by the glow of her laptop, fingers typing rapidly on her quietest keyboard. She murmurs an apology. I shake my head and gently squeeze her arm. She's next to me. She's here. Compared to that, a little lost sleep is nothing.

Except that it all means neither of us has the energy to do much more than hold each other and exchange much more than a few heartfelt kisses before fatigue claims us for the night. The spirit is more than willing, but the flesh simply will not oblige. On the morrow, perhaps? Sadly, same excrement, different day.

When I arrive at our bedroom, the lights are on, warm, golden light spilling over the threshold. I knock on the frame as I pause in the doorway. She's in bed, the covers drawn up to her waist, her head bowed to read the screen of the tablet on her lap. The knock makes her look up, and she laughs. Her laugh has always been as beautiful as her smile.

"Why do you always do that?" she asks. There's an undercurrent of fatigue in her voice, but the joy runs roughshod over it.

"Politesse. To let you know I'm home," I reply, smiling back at her. "And because it makes you laugh."

"We're always home," she counters. "Except when we're not, of course," she continues, mock-archly.

"Ah," I say, "Not true. This, this is a flat," I go on, as my arm sweeps in an intentionally-grandiose gesture to encompass our surroundings. "A very nice flat, to be sure. But home? Home is right there."

I halt the movement of my arm and use a finger to point at the space where she sits. She scoffs, but her heart isn't in it, and when she speaks, her voice, if possible, is even happier.

"You're a hopeless romantic."

"Incurable, I'm afraid." I enter the room, my hands already unbuttoning my shirt the rest of the way. I take off my shirt and slacks, then hang them up so that they don't get wrinkled. She pushes her horn-rim reading glasses down a bit, looking over the top of them, watching me but saying nothing, before she goes back to her reading.

She doesn't ask about my day. She never does. She doesn't need to. To her, I'm an open book. By contrast, I find her much more difficult to read. Difficult enough that if I played poker -- which I don't -- I would never play against her. But that's all right. She's never been shy, most of all when it comes to communicating. I learned a lot about that from her. Most of what I know, in fact.

I pull a sleep shirt and shorts from the closet before turning back to her.

"Grabbing a shower. Be right out," I say. She looks up.

"No need to hurry on my account, love," she says. "I'll be up for a little while yet, looking over what I've written today." A long, slim finger taps the bezel of her tablet.

"Close?" I ask, lifting an inquiring eyebrow. Her face falls; subtly, but enough for me to see.

"No. I'm stuck." Her hands move, draping her hair -- longer now than when we first met -- over her left shoulder. She looks good no matter how she styles it, but this arrangement is my favorite, something I've often told her.

"How bad?"

"Bad enough to be irritating. Hopefully not bad enough to halt progress entirely."

"Sounding board?" I offer. In uni, I dabbled in creative writing, even joined the literary journal, but that was as far as it ever went. Yet on occasion, even the mediocre dilettante can have something to contribute.

"Later, maybe. I need to chew on it a bit more. Besides, you're tired."

I'd tried to put a spring in my step on entering, but... open book. I grin and nod.

"In one. Not as young as I used to be."

"Neither of us is, love. Get your shower. I'll be here."

I don't mention it, but those three words do more to mitigate my fatigue than anything else could. Instead, I nod again and enter the bathroom. Just before the door closes -- can't let the steam out into the bedroom, after all -- I hear rustling. Probably getting up to get a drink of water. I let the shower heat up as I undress the rest of the way, then step in.

When I was younger, I used to take navy showers: cold, two minutes max, barely any wasted water. I never served, but my father did, and he held my siblings and I to the same standards he'd held himself and his sailors to. Now, I'm of an age where I prefer my showers warm -- though not hot -- and of sufficient duration to heat bone and muscle both.

I finish, dry off, then dress in my sleeping clothes before tossing my laundry into the hamper. Then I grab the door handle, turn it, and pull open the door. I was starting to speak as I emerged, but my voice catches in my throat, and I promptly forget what I was going to say.

We have our differences. A veritable ocean of them. But the one relevant to the moment is that she doesn't like the cold while I don't like the heat, something which extends to the climate control in our flat. So we compromised: it's always a little too warm for me and it's always a little too cold for her. I sleep in a t-shirt and shorts, she wears pajamas. I don't mind. The fabric she can tolerate is soft, just as she's soft and curvy in all the right places, all of which makes for a most agreeable huggle when the opportunity presents itself.

She wears pajamas. Or at least she was wearing pajamas when I went into the bathroom. What a difference twenty minutes makes.

The blankets are folded to one side, artfully messy, but obviously not just cast off. Her pajama top is gone -- on the floor? -- and she wears only the ribbed cotton tank top that's always beneath it. She's drawn the right shoulder strap down, exposing a full breast, pale pink nipple stiff, and not just from the coolness of the room. Her left leg is drawn up, her foot flat on the mattress, the tablet propped against knee and thigh. Her right leg lies flat, on its side, knee slightly bent. Her pajama bottoms and underwear are not in evidence, and from my vantage point at the foot of the bed, I can see everything.

She's touching herself. The fingers of her right hand stroking, circling, occasionally penetrating, eliciting faint, liquid sounds just audible over the low hum of the air conditioning. Her movements are casual, languid, seemingly absentminded, but the flush across her upper body, the rise and fall of her chest, and the sound of her breathing tell me she's been at this a while, likely ever since I went to take my shower. More tells, more secrets, she's shared with me. Between the sight of her and the realization, my heart begins to race, my blood to pound loudly in my ears, for all that I am frozen where I stand.

In her peripheral vision, she notices me. She looks up, her left hand setting the tablet beside her on the bed. And all the while, her right never ceases its ministrations. Then, she smiles again. Not a saucy, come-hither grin, but a smile affectionate, warm, and welcoming.

"Done?" she asks, in a voice so matter-of-fact I marvel at the effort required. I can only nod in response; I've never had her discipline, her control, and I don't trust my ability to match her nonchalance.

"The -- ah! -- part of my novel I'm having trouble with," she goes on, "It's the big love scene between the protagonist and deuteragonist. The, the, climax, if you will. I've written so many of them, it's difficult to find the words. There are only so many ways to describe what's going on."

Her hand stops. She extends it toward me, fingers faintly gleaming in the light from the lamps. When she speaks again, she lets her control slip ever-so-slightly, lets the desire finally enter her voice. Her words are almost a plea.

"Read it with me? Help me finish?"

"Of course, love," I reply. "I am nothing if not accommodating."

I pull off my shirt and drop it at the foot of the bed; my shorts follow suit immediately thereafter. Her eyes dart to my crotch as my erection is freed, and her hand momentarily drifts back between her legs before pulling away once more.

"How do you want me?" I ask, approaching my side of the bed and climbing onto the mattress.

"Every way," she answers, in a voice so controlled it cracks. "All the way."

"I rather thought that. But I was being literal."

A curt nod. A single finger points at my chest then towards the headboard.

"Sit up," she says, her voice gradually losing its rigidity, becoming softer, huskier.

As I comply, I watch her. Deft fingers move to the hem of her tank top, begin pulling upward, then stop. Instead, she slides down the left shoulder strap, letting the garment fall in a loose ring around her waist, the fabric sitting where the flare of her hips begins. She is well aware of the things I find appealing.

Her breasts are among those things. With what little support the top provided gone, it is abundantly clear that she is completely natural. I find that most attractive; I have no use for artifice or augmentation, something on which we both agree. She blushes as she sees the look on my face. On occasions such as this, I make sure she can read me even more easily than usual.

She edges closer, and I can feel the dampness of her fingers as she gently urges my legs apart. Then she crawls between them and turns around, leaning back and drawing up her knees to place her feet flat on the bed. As she wriggles to settle herself snugly against me, she chuckles as the curve of her bottom presses against the evidence of my arousal.

"A reliable indicator as always," she says. "Can you both wait a spell?"

"Yes. It may be ha-" I clear my throat to try and hide the change to a less loaded word. "Difficult. It may be difficult."

The chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh.

"So I wager. Know that your forbearance will be amply rewarded. Now-"

She takes my left hand, uses it to cup her breast. I can feel the goosebumps dimpling her smooth skin.

"I'm sorry, love," I murmur. "For making you wait in the cold so long."

"I kept myself warm enough," she replies, just as softly. "As you saw. And I plan for the both of us to be warmer still," she goes on, as she takes my other hand and guides it to her sex. I move my fingers, but a gentle touch stills my motions.

"Hold," she says, in a voice that is the very epitome of reluctance. Then she picks up the tablet, brings it to life, and begins reading aloud.

She reads for all the audiobook versions of her works, despite the time commitment, and her writing nook is also a home studio. And while I love the feel of paper underneath my fingers, audiobooks are the only way I've ever experienced her writing. Except for when we have the opportunity for her to read them to me. Like now. Because I love her laugh, love her voice.

She nods against my jaw and shoulder and my fingers begin moving. Finger and thumb brush and tweak a turgid nipple, and her breath hitches. Fingers comb through the soft down atop her mound, trace the lines and contours of her lower lips, dive to shallowly delve into the valley between, then rise to lightly circle the erect nub at the crest before heading down to start again, and she lets out a sigh that is a long, drawn-out "Yes."

As the last sibilant leaves her mouth, she resumes her recitation. It is a testament to her strength of will that her voice is steady, assured, with nary a tremor or pause. So we stay: skin to skin, warmth to warmth, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. I am enthralled, ecstatic, yet still attentive in stoking her ever-building heat. It is a wondrous time.

"Two. No. Three," she eventually says, voice suddenly tight, breaking the flow of her reading.

"Two no three?" I tease, my fingers careful to keep her just shy of her peak. "That's what she says to him in the moment? Makes no sense."

One hand lets go of the tablet and slaps me lightly on the thigh.

"Hush, you. Do as you're told," she scolds, her voice thick with passion. But glancing down, I see her smile.

I could never, would never, refuse her anything, so I obey, easing three fingers into her even as my thumb brushes her clitoris with steady, gentle strokes. She bucks, hips rising to meet my hand even as her inner walls constrict, spasming against my fingers. She drops the tablet, both hands now gripping my thighs hard, to the point of pain, and she gasps, explosively, again and again and again, loud in the quiet of our bedroom.

My hand leaves her breast so my arm can wrap around her waist, holding her close as she writhes in my embrace. My other hand's fingers continue their massage, pressing back against the contractions that keep them captive, while my thumb continues its motions, slower but more firmly; drawing out, prolonging. Her orgasm goes on for what seems like an eternity before she collapses against me, her lungs drawing deep, unsteady breaths.

I count them. One. Two. Twelve is when they return to a semblance of normalcy. She opens her eyes, then turns as much as she is able and peppers my face with kisses, her arms twining awkwardly around my neck.

"Oh how I've missed your touch, love," she says, between kisses.

"And I yours, love," I answer, losing myself in the depths of her eyes.

She arches an eyebrow at me, a lazy smile on her lips.

"I haven't touched you. Yet," she says, in a voice laden with promise.

"I beg to differ," I say, looking down at where our lower bodies are still in contact. There is no way she can miss my erection pressed against the small of her back. "Especially when you were coming, with how much you were moving."

"We both know that that doesn't count," she retorts. "Not really, despite your gallantry. Let me up."

Even though I do so with the utmost slowness and care, she whimpers a little as I withdraw my fingers. She is always very sensitive after she comes, and tonight is no exception.

"I'm sorry, love," I whisper, and I give her a little hug before letting her go.

She shakes her head, looking me in the eye as she pulls away.

"Don't. It's the price I pay for the pleasure. And I pay it gladly. No apologies." She leans in and kisses me briefly, but deeply. Then she moves to her side of the bed.

"Lie flat," she commands, and her desire is palpable in her gaze and her tone. "And be still."

When I'm positioned, she kneels on my left and bends at the waist, leaning over my hips. The pose and her movements make her breasts sway invitingly, and unable to resist, I palm the nearer one, feeling the nipple stiffen anew under my touch. She gives me a steady, mildly reproachful look.

"Behave," she admonishes. "It's your turn now, so have the good grace to lie back, enjoy it, and not distract me."

I smile, shrug, and remove my hand. She briefly cups my balls then runs her fingers up my length before gripping me directly. I've been leaking pre-cum ever since she leaned against me earlier, and she takes that, spreading it all along my shaft before beginning a slow, languorous series of strokes that caps and uncaps me with every repetition. My breath quickens, and I feel myself getting close. She senses it too, and stops, applying firm but gentle pressure at the juncture of head and shaft until my orgasm recedes. She isn't teasing me. I know where this is going, and I am eager and anxious in equal measure.

I used to be insecure about my size, to the point where -- when we finally decided to have sex -- I actually apologized to her as soon as we'd both undressed. She looked down at my penis, then into my eyes, and kissed me full on the mouth, all without saying a word. She then proceeded to show me why she gave not a good goddamn about my size. I've not worried about it since.

She kneels between my legs, getting comfortable. Giving me one last, utterly lecherous look, she takes me into her mouth, all the way to the root. I shudder involuntarily, breathing harsh and raspy, my hands clutching at the bedspread.

Size matters. But not always in the way you expect. Something which I'd once seen as an inadequacy became an advantage when I met her. She's never been especially wild for receiving oral. However, she's more amenable to giving it, mostly because she knows that it's something I enjoy. That she can easily deep-throat me during fellatio only enhances the experience for us both. For me, it's the very act, of course; for her, it's the knowledge of just how much pleasure she's giving me.

As she's doing now. She holds me in her throat for a heartbeat, then two, then slides her mouth upward until she reaches the tip, her tongue teasing the underside of both shaft and head the entire way. She pauses, suckling and teasing the crown before moving back down until her lips reach the base again. Over and over.

I won't, can't, last long at this rate, for all that she stops every so often to delay my orgasm, and for all that I myself try to hold back. It's the tension between prolonging the sensations and achieving gratification, and the animal part of my brain can't decide which it wants. But, inevitably, there is no more room for volition. Knowing that, I tap her hand, warning her.

"Close, love. Very close." My voice is as tight as hers was mere minutes ago. "You might want to-"

Her eyes flick up to meet mine, an elegant eyebrow arches upward once more, and I swear that she would smile were she able. Then, still maintaining eye contact, she plunges to the base of my shaft one final time. Through my glans, I feel her throat flex. Around my shaft I feel her lips and mouth sucking aggressively, her tongue rubbing unrelentingly. I lose it. Completely.

My head slams back into the pillows, hard enough that were I not well away from both headboard and wall, I might have hit my head and given myself a concussion. My hands are claws, closed around the bunched-up sheets in a veritable deathgrip. My hips rise, and she needs both her arms to keep me from lifting too far off the bed. Guttural noises squeeze from between gritted teeth; I'm not a shouter, but this almost makes me one. And through it all, I can feel her sucking, swallowing, and the knowledge of it makes me come that much harder.

I don't know how much time passes before the ecstasy begins to subside. When I can finally raise my head from the pillow, I see her licking me clean, and the sight and the sound and the sensations would be enough to make me hard again were I not so thoroughly drained.

"Come here," I croak, and she moves to settle in beside me. I pull her toward me and kiss her.

"Thank you," I say, when the kiss ends some time later.

"I thought the occasion called for something special," she replies. "Concur?"

"Rhetorical." I raise one hand, opening its fingers in an exploding motion. "Mind. Blown."

"So finally you admit that your primary brain is in your cock."

Her statement sends us into a giggle fit, but I feel her shiver. I reach for the AC remote on my nightstand and turn up the temperature; putting the remote back, I pull the covers over us. She says nothing, but she nuzzles into the space where my neck meets my shoulder and lays one arm across my torso.

I know she's not satisfied yet. It's plain in the way she lays soft kisses on my skin. The way her hand strokes my chest even though she stays pointedly away from my cock. When I tuck a finger under her chin so I can look into her eyes, I see the anxiety and hunger warring in their depths, as well as the question silently yet so eloquently written on her expressive face. I answer it.

"No, we're not done, love. But I will need a bit of time after that-" I punctuate the sentence with a reprise of my explosion gesture.

She lifts the blanket and throws a leg over me to sit on my lap. Instinctively, I draw up my knees so she has some support for her lower back; in tandem, the movements make her sex press against mine. She reaches down, adjusting me so that, even still flaccid, I nestle along her cleft. Her smile turns into a grin as she throws her arms around my neck.

"Will this expedite matters, you think?" Her voice is playful as she rubs herself against me.

"I'm certain of it," I reply. "Perhaps not as rapidly as we might hope, but it certainly doesn't hurt. Quite the contrary, in fact." My hands cup her bottom and pull her in more tightly.

"Whatever shall we do in the meantime?"

I lean up and capture her lips in a kiss. Open mouths, dueling tongues, pulling back to tease before diving back in. Heated breaths traded back and forth till it seems as though there is but one singular breath, once and forever. For all time, and no time at all.

She loves kissing. And I love kissing her. If I didn't know any better, I might swear that she loves it more than the actual sex. There is such pure, unadulterated joy in her kisses that I will often feel her smile into the kiss, all the while making little, wordless noises that tell me just how happy she is. For us, kissing is no chore, in no way pro forma; it is part and parcel of who we are, together.

She feels it as soon as I do. Reluctantly breaking the kiss, she glances down.

"Lazarus has come forth, I think," she notes, catching her lower lip in her teeth.

I don't answer immediately. Instead I lick and suck at the soft flesh of her neck and she gasps.

"Oooh, you," she says, faintly irritated. "If I must do it myself-"

She reaches down, takes me in hand, and begins lowering herself onto me. I grip her ass, gently but firmly, and prevent her from sheathing me.

"I will not be satisfied with just the tip," she growls, a perplexed expression crossing her face.

"Sorry, love," I say. "But I don't know if I'll have another in me after this. So I have something else in mind."

"Oh?"

"Yes," I reply, and this time, it's my turn to give her an impudent grin. "Turn around. Foot of the bed. All fours."

"But-"

Her favorite position during sex is doggy-style, in all its various permutations. I, on the other hand, prefer to see her face while we have sex, whether it's making love or all-out fucking. So in this, we have compromised as well: there's a high-quality, full-length mirror on the bedroom side of the bathroom door. It's been a good compromise.

"But nothing," I say. "This is for you. For being so patient, among other things. Besides, you know very well that what gets you off, gets me off."

She beams, offering no further protest. Instead, she lifts off of me and throws off the blankets. Turning around, she bends over until she's on her hands and knees, and crawls toward the foot of the bed. Her movements are graceful, sensual, sinuous like a big hunting cat on the prowl. Just shy of the edge of the mattress, she stops, dropping to her elbows and looking back over her shoulder. Between her sultry expression and her hair falling in gorgeous riot about her face, she has a wild, wanton cast to her, accentuated when she wiggles her hips at me, her glistening sex on full display, framed by long, shapely legs. I was at three-quarters mast before, but suddenly I'm so hard it hurts.

As though in a trance, I move toward her. At the touch of my hands on her hips, she trembles in anticipation, and I hear her breathing change. I don't keep her waiting. I don't want to. And to be honest, I can't. Not really.

Placing myself at the entrance to her sex, I start pushing in, slowly but steadily, resisting the urge to ram myself home. She has other ideas. She pushes back, hilting me in one stroke, and comes. Hard.

It takes everything I have to not come immediately myself. I hear her moan, and she looks back at me again, fixing me with a feral stare. When she speaks, her voice is a panting snarl:

"Ride. And spare not the horses."

Animal instinct takes over. Entirely. I shift my knees, positioning myself just so, then pull back until I'm barely inside. I pause, then bury myself in her. This I repeat, picking up speed as I go, my body remembering the long-neglected rhythms.

She likes it hard, but not rough. No delicate flower she, tall and toned from years of longsword practice, and she gives better than she gets, on the sparring pitch and in bed. It's taken me a long time to get to a level where I can just barely keep up with her, and it's taken much work to stay there. But it's worth it.

I shorten my strokes, leaning over to rest lightly on her back, one hand once more cupping a pendant breast, while the other moves to caress her achingly-erect clitoris. She comes again, wordless noises spilling from her lips, and I have to pause lest I finish with her. I want this to go as long as possible, for her sake more than mine. Because I love hearing her cries of pleasure, knowing that I had some part in it.

"Don't. Stop," she gasps. "Don't. You. Dare." Thrusts of her hips punctuate each and every word.

I comply. Even though my hips, knees, and back protest. Abbreviated strokes and long thrusts. Slow withdrawals and quick insertions. Shifting gears, changing up, until I'm at my limit. And through it all, she comes, keeps coming, her face contorted in an amalgam of beauteous agony and rapturous ecstasy, a mesmerizing tableau glimpsed in flashes whenever I glance at the mirror.

It seems an eternity, but it is not. It is a brief, yet intense span of minutes circumscribed by my all-too-human frame. But I hold out long enough to hear her plead:

"Now! Before I break."

I shake my head in self-deprecation -- a gesture she cannot see -- because I will always break long before she does. But as she wishes, so shall it be. I lean into her again, and move my hand from her sex so that I can wrap an arm around her waist. Then I go back to short, sharp, thrusts. One. Two. On the third, I can no longer hold back, and I come, my crotch pressed hard against her ass, my cock as deep as it can go. She feels me twitch, then pulse, and her walls trap me, squeeze me, milk me, her final orgasm following close on the heels of mine, creating a feedback loop that, this time, tears a drawn-out groan from my throat that she echoes with cries of her own.

Moments pass as we stay near-frozen, trying to recover. When I feel her knees start to give way, I tighten my grip around her waist, moving my other arm to cross her chest, its hand gripping her shoulder. I fall to the side, onto the bed, pulling her with me, catching her, cradling her. She is laughing: breathlessly, joyously, and my overtaxed heart is nigh to bursting at the sound of it. Neither of us has been this happy in a good, long while.

She rolls away, repositioning herself to lie half on me, half on the bed. Laying her head on my shoulder, she whispers in my ear:

"Thank you, love."

I kiss her forehead and stroke her hair.

"I should be thanking you. You initiated this, after all."

"Fair," she replies. "We were both tired, but I asked myself: If not tonight, then when? 'Carpe noctis.' That's what I decided."

"And you were correct, as always. We needed this."

She nods, nuzzling at my jaw.

"We've been remiss," she adds. "And we should not be so, going forward. I will not propose that we mark out days on a calendar but-"

"Make the time."

She nods again.

"I have vacation days and sick leave that will sunset if I don't use them," I add. "That will make it easier. And I'm sorry that I didn't take advantage of them before."

This time she shakes her head.

"I've had my head buried in my book. So the fault lies with me too. We just need to be more mindful."

"Agreed and understood. Now then-"

"Hmm?" she asks, a tinge of drowsiness coloring her tone.

"I hate to bring this up, but we're going to have to change the sheets. I know for a fact you don't like lying in a wet spot."

"Ugh. Fine." She starts to get up.

"But after that-"

"Hmm?" she asks again, although the drowsiness is gone, replaced by curiosity.

"We," I say, stressing the word, "Will need to get a shower. I don't think we want to climb into some clean, crisp sheets all sweaty, now do we?"

She practically leaps out of bed, heading straight to the bathroom to wash her hands before handling the linen. I chuckle. She knows what I like, and I know what she likes. It is how we are. It's been a good night. And it's not quite over yet.

We make love one more time in the shower. I am unable to get it up -- that I managed two orgasms in the space of a night was a miracle in itself -- but she rubs herself to one more climax on my thigh as I lean back against the shower wall, the warm water falling softly over us both as we kiss. We hold each other close the entire time, and we stay like that for a while before we clean up, dry off, and return to bed. When we finally fall asleep, I sleep like I have not slept in many a month: tired but sated, and most of all, happy.

* * *

I awake to the sun streaming through the blinds: bright enough to see, but not so bright as to be annoying. She is sitting up in bed next to me, typing on her laptop, her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She is wearing her pajama top again, but it's open down the front, making it clear that she's naked underneath. Curious, I cock my head and try to lift the sheet. She stops me.

"Yes, I'm not wearing pants or underwear," she says absently. "Now kindly don't move the laptop. I'm almost done."

"Oh?"

"With the thrice-damned scene anyway."

"It sounded fine to me when you read it aloud last night. What you said does cut both ways, you know. True, there are only so many words to describe sex, but there are also only so many ways humans can have sex. I doubt your readers will mind."

"I mind," she says, sighing. "But your point is well-taken. And I suppose this isn't the time to be experimental. It's the final book in this current series. Maybe the next one-"

She closes the laptop and sets it on the nightstand, placing her glasses on top of it.

"But that's for the future. What are we making for breakfast?"

"Full English?"

"Only if you join me for an extended session in the gym later. And only if you make the hash browns."

"Done and done. You're better at frying up the eggs and sundries anyway."

"And we'll have to substitute longganisa for the black pudding. I checked the app and the international deli had none to sell. No surprise that."

"Needs must as the devil drives. I'll get started directly."

I make as if to rise. A single, imperious finger on my chest keeps me where I am.

She pushes the blankets down and strips me of my shorts; when she climbs on top of me, I see she wasn't lying about being naked from the waist down. As she guides me into her, she shrugs, making the top fall slightly off her shoulders, totally exposing her front while still leaving her partially clothed. My love knows what I like.

Her hips begin to roll, slowly, teasingly, and she bends forward, molding herself to me. I grab her bottom in both hands, matching my movements to hers. No urgency, just intimacy.

"We'll do brunch," she whispers.

I don't mind one bit.

---FIN---