He shucked my panties off and pushed me up against the sink. I grabbed the faucet for balance, turned the water on hot and got my hands wet, then shoved them down his jeans. I was still wearing my tank top and silly, useless bra. I used to prepare myself for him, shaving my legs, perfuming all the little hidden areas where the heat makes the scent rise unexpectedly, matching lingerie in black and red. My nose was sunburnt, my hair wild, panties more simple and cotton than sexy and lace.
We waited a minute. Maybe we were deciding, without speaking, if we still wanted it. Because I knew she was in the vicinity, just a few houses down, and he knew that my boyfriend was off on a family trip, would be returning today. We took a breath. And then I was grasping at the buttons on his jeans, yanking his shirt, starving for the old rush of his warm, flushed skin on mine.
He was always this hot, skin all warm and slightly sweaty like a teenage boy even though his star athlete days were far from over. My knees were buckling as he thrusted into me from behind, making the cupboards slam under the sink. The whole thing hurt, but I wanted it. It felt a little like poison, like the first time you taste alcohol and it burns in your chest.
He stopped, picked me up and set me on the counter for a minute, let my head bang against the cabinet and the glasses on the bar shake in rhythm. I knew he liked it. We were at the point now where we hated each other so much that this was a power play, a punishment, a guilt trip. But then I was just over it, checked out, done. We were on the floor of the kitchen now, cold under my back and hard, unsupportive under my knees when I rolled on top to finish him off.
He came, biting at the air and then crumpled inside me. I got up, stepped into my underwear and showed him the door. I made sure to shower his jizz off before my boyfriend got home.