Rain on the Window

The cafe smelled of wet wool and burnt sugar, and the rain hammered the glass like it was trying to get in. I'd been nursing the same espresso for twenty minutes, watching the street turn to mirrors, when she walked through the door shaking water from her hair.

Lena. From three doors down. Married to Mark, the guy with the loud mower and the louder opinions.

She spotted me, and her face did something complicated — surprise, then a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She ordered something hot, then slid into the seat across from mine without asking.

"Jack," she said. "Hiding from the weather?"

"Hiding from my own head, mostly."

She laughed, a low sound that vibrated somewhere in my chest. "Yeah. I know that one."

Her sweater was damp at the shoulders, clinging. She pulled at the collar, and I caught a flash of collarbone, a hint of skin that made me look away too late. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"Mark's away," she said, stirring her tea. "Conference in Berlin. Three days."

"Why are you telling me that?"

She looked up, and her eyes were dark, unreadable. "Because I've been thinking about your hands for three months, Jack. Every time you're out there fixing your fence, every time you wave at me from your driveway. I think about what those hands would feel like on my skin."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My cock stirred, thick and insistent against my jeans.

"Lena..."

"Don't." She leaned forward, and I could smell her — rain and something floral, underneath it something warm and woman. "Don't tell me this is a bad idea. I know it's a bad idea. I've been a good wife for eight years, and I'm so fucking tired of being good."

The rain roared on the roof. The barista was in the back, invisible. Lena's foot found my ankle under the table, slid up my calf.

"Come on," she breathed. "The storage room. I saw it when I came in — there's a lock on the door."

I should have said no. I should have thought about Mark, about lawns and neighborhood barbecues and the way things were supposed to work. Instead I stood up, and she took my hand, and her palm was hot and a little sweaty.

The storage room was small, stacked with boxes of napkins and coffee beans. It smelled of dark roast and dust. Lena locked the door behind us and turned to face me, and there was nothing hesitant in her eyes.

"Kiss me," she said. "And don't be gentle."

I grabbed her hips and pulled her against me, and my mouth found hers — hungry, demanding. She bit my lower lip, hard enough to sting, and groaned into my mouth. Her hands went to my belt, fumbling, impatient.

"Fuck, I need this," she gasped against my lips. "I need you inside me."

I shoved her against the wall, and she yelped, then laughed — a dirty, breathless sound. Her leggings came down in one motion, and she wasn't wearing panties. Her pussy was slick, glistening, and when I ran a finger through her folds she moaned loud enough to echo.

"Look at you," I said, my voice rough. "So fucking wet already."

"It's been so long," she whimpered. "Mark hasn't touched me in weeks. I'm dying, Jack. I need your cock."

I didn't make her wait. I lined myself up and slammed into her in one stroke, and she screamed — a raw, guttural sound that she muffled by biting her own fist. Her walls clenched around me, hot and tight, and I had to breathe through it just to keep from coming right there.

"Yes," she hissed. "Oh, God, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me hard."

I grabbed her ass, lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around my waist. The new angle drove me deeper, and her head fell back, thudding against the wall. Her tits pressed against me through the damp sweater, nipples hard as pebbles.

"You like that?" I grunted, pounding into her. "You like being a dirty little slut in a storage room?"

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, I love it. I love your cock, Jack. I've wanted it for so long."

Her nails raked down my back. I could feel her getting closer — her legs trembling, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I shifted my angle, drove deeper, and she screamed again.

"I'm coming," she cried. "I'm coming, don't stop, don't you fucking stop—"

Her whole body seized around me, and I felt her come — hot, pulsing, flooding over my cock. The sensation tipped me over, and I buried my face in her neck and came inside her with a groan, pumping into her until I was empty.

We stood there for a long moment, panting, tangled together. The rain had let up outside — I could see a pale strip of light under the door. Lena's fingers traced lazy circles on my back.

"That was..." she started.

"Don't say it was a mistake."

"It wasn't." She laughed softly. "But Mark comes back Thursday."

I looked at her, at the flush on her cheeks, the satisfied curve of her mouth.

"Thursday," I repeated. "That gives us three days."

Her smile was slow and wicked.

"Good," she said. "Because I'm not nearly done with you."