The table is a mess; but then the table is always a mess. He stares at it anyway, only half-listening to what she’s saying as he thinks about the way her body pressed against him when they danced. Warm. Soft. Eager.
A gusting wind rattles the living room windows, and he lifts his gaze over her shoulder to take in the street below, stretching down towards the main road between two lines of neatly-parked cars and the red-flecked houses behind them. It’s eerily quiet, he thinks, like something lifted straight from a movie set before the actors have had the chance to take their places.
“Stop,” he says, and she pauses mid-sentence, her hand reaching up automatically to brush a tight curl of auburn hair away from her face in anticipation of his kiss. Instead he pushes her back until she’s leaning against the edge of the table, arms hanging awkwardly at her sides.
“Spread your legs for me. A little wider. Yes, that’s it.”
Her tights are brand new, and a rueful look passes between them as his fingers dig into her thighs. He is tempted to rip them anyway – one wide, gashing hole at the crotch, so he can take his time deciding which of her holes to fuck – but there are other ways to do this, and besides, it will be hard to keep control of himself once he feels the tight fabric start to give way.
She is silent as he rolls the tights down from her navel; he can feel her watching him, and is pleased when she lifts her bottom unprompted, allowing him to unwrap her slim, strong legs all the way down to the knees.
Her underwear is an almost inconsequential triangle of dark green fabric, and his fingers slip under it without ceremony. She is already wet, but if he is surprised by that he doesn’t show it. He’s learned to conduct her body’s response with a degree of fluency; his touches are quick and light, and her hips jut forward instinctively, in what her brain belatedly registers as a futile desire to feel more of him.
As she squirms against him, he allows his eyes to drift back towards the window. This time she follows him, twisting her head so she can look out into the silent street.
“Someone could see,” she says between small gasps, and he nods once, still distracted by a feeling he can’t quite place. It’s less a movie set, he thinks, than the aftermath of a disaster; the jarring evidence of human habitation in a world suddenly empty and quiet.
“Yes, but what would they see? Eh? This would all look very innocent from the outside, wouldn’t it? Maybe if I do this…”
He pulls her off the table, holding her upright as she stumbles into him. The pleather sofa behind him squeaks under her dress as she bends over the arm. His hand is on her arse, but he doesn’t need to guide her, not really; she’s already arching her back in anticipation, her legs spread as wide as the tights now bunched around her ankles will allow.
Lifting her dress, he slowly peels off her knickers and allows them to fall down her legs. As his fingers brush over her skin they leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and she shivers, wobbling a little on the heels she knows he won’t remove.
He slips his thumb inside her cunt, pressing down as his other hand tugs impatiently at the belt around his jeans. She wants to turn and help him, to sink to her knees and take his cock in her mouth, but there is an insistence and a control to the way his thumb strokes her – she is anchored to it, and to the palm that lightly cups her pubic mound.
It’s hypnotic enough that she cries out when he stops, her cunt gripping frantically at the sudden void.
“Quiet now,” he whispers, and his hand finds the small of her back. It is late, but her flatmate is a light sleeper, and her bedroom shares a wall with the cramped, cluttered lounge.
“I’ll try, I promise I’ll try,” she says, almost believing it herself. The words have barely left her mouth when she feels the wide tip of his cock nudge inside her. She hates it when he teases her; hates even more the knowing smirk on his face as he holds back, giving her just enough to make the subsequent denial feel genuinely cruel.
He’s not though – cruel, that is – and however much he’d like to draw it out there’s no way he can resist her like this, bent over the arm of her flatmate’s sofa, trembling under his fingertips. She is tall enough in heels that he has to rock forward onto the balls of his feet to enter her fully, but the noise she makes, somewhere deep in her throat, is worth any momentary discomfort.
He has to steady himself to avoid collapsing down onto her, so intense is that first thrust, and for a second they both forget the need for silence. It is a form of possession, he will think later; the way sounds just bubble out of him when she clenches hard around his cock, as if squeezed up from his chest by an invisible hand.
All around them the world seems to hold its breath; or maybe life is being drained from it, sucked up into them with each tilt of his hips. They are a rough, raw kinetic force, and as he fucks her – fucks her hard – the contrast with the watchful stillness of the road outside induces in him a weird, lightheaded euphoria.
His hand finds its way up the back of her neck, into her hair, and she squeezes her eyes shut in anticipation of the pain. She wants to lift her own hand off the sofa and place it over his – to feel his fingers flex as he pulls the hair between them – but she knows she can’t support the weight of him inside her with one arm alone. It is a brief, agonising dilemma, resolved only when he tugs harder, lifting her away from the sofa, away from his cock, and spinning her round to face him.
“Take off your dress. Yes, that’s it, bra too. Here…I want you here. Up on the table, come on. Sit up there.”
She can’t move at first, hypnotised by the splash of streetlight on her bare breasts. All the people in those houses, she thinks. Those hundreds of people. All they have to do is step outside and they’ll see me.
“I want them to see me,” she says, and he kisses her on the forehead, before pushing her towards the table. When she’s perched on the edge, he slides his arms under her thighs and enters her again, his hands cupping her arse and pulling her onto his cock.
“Fuck me, please. Fuck me right here.”
The table shakes as he slams into her. It shakes so hard that magazines and medical textbooks start to tumble off it, dropping to the floor in a clattering counterpoint to the staccato beat of the cheap wooden legs. In the distance, a small silhouette bobs along the empty road, and even above the breathy, juddering chaos of their fuck he imagines he can hear heels clacking against the tarmac.
Sweat flies off his body, landing on her chest and shoulders, but she pulls him in close anyway, wanting his warm, solid torso flush against hers. At this angle she is acutely aware of the way his cock saws along her clit with every thrust; it is almost painful, but she pushes down on it anyway, feeling her stomach loosen in response to the familiar series of short, sharp jolts that quickly coalesce into a long, knifing orgasm.
He keeps his hand on her back, taking her weight until she comes back to him. He is starting to tire now, and the lights outside swim and blur as he looks again for the dark figure moving between the cars. The figure is gone though, or maybe it was never there in the first place; from his vantage point it seems improbable that anyone would disturb the desolation in front of him.
She kisses him then, a sweet press of her lips on his that drags him back to the reality of her body and the heat of her cunt. It has the power to make everything else immaterial, and he knows that their time in the window’s curved bay is at an end; he needs her in bed, curled into him under a thick duvet. He will fuck her again in their own dark cocoon, and she will pull a pillow to her face to muffle her sobbing gasps.
With a final glance behind him, he leads her through the living room door, into the hallway. They leave behind only silence, and the dim yellow glow of a sleeping outside world, cast onto a table that has shed its mess under the weight of their two bodies.