The first thing is the smell — sweat gone stale in the sheets, warm cotton, the ghost of the barn in my hair. Then the weight. Then the slow, thick slide of him pushing in, and my body taking him like it's been waiting all night for exactly this.

I'm still half in the party. Karen's laugh, the flat beer, the cold dark at the back of the barn with my hands on the rough boards. It all swims up behind my eyes and then recedes, and what's left is David. His chest against my back. His breath hot on my shoulder. The drag of his cock pulling almost all the way out before he sinks back in, easy, no resistance at all.

Loose. I'm so loose and wet from last night that he groans into my hair, a low rumble that I feel in his ribs before I hear it.

"Jesus," he mutters. "You're still—"

"I know." My voice comes out wrecked, sleep and beer and something rawer underneath. "Don't stop."

He doesn't. His hand slides up my stomach, flat and warm, then closes over my breast, thumb dragging across the nipple until it tightens under his palm. I push my hips back into him and he answers with a deeper thrust, one that makes my breath catch somewhere in my chest. The sheets are tangled around my knees. I get a fistful of the pillow and hold on.

The room's still dark. There's a thin grey line at the edge of the shade where morning's trying to get in. David's alarm hasn't gone off. Nobody's awake but us.

He finds a rhythm — slow, deep, the kind that makes me feel every inch of him. My cunt's slick around him, so wet it's almost obscene, and I hear it. That sound. Wet and soft and rhythmic against the quiet of the room.

"You hear that?" His mouth is at my ear. "That's what you've been all night. That's what I've been thinking about since I had you against that wall."

"Say it again," I get out. "Say what you were thinking."

"That I wanted you on your stomach with your ass up and my cock in it." His voice is a low scrape, no hesitation in it. "Wanted it at the party. Watching you walk around in those shorts with nothing under them, knowing exactly what you were doing."

I turn my face into the pillow and moan. He takes it as encouragement. His hips pick up speed, and his fingers dig into my hip, hard enough to leave marks. I don't care. I want the marks. I want to feel this tomorrow in every place he touched. "Harder," I say into the cotton. "Don't be nice about it."

But it's not enough. It's good — God, it's good — but there's a hunger underneath it that the party didn't finish, and my body knows what it wants before my brain catches up. I reach back. My hand finds his thigh first, then his cock where it slides out of me, slick and hot and twitching in my grip.

He hisses. "What are you—"

I pull him out. The wet sound of it is loud in the dark, and the sudden empty feeling makes me clench around nothing. I guide him back. Lower. My fingers wrap around his shaft, smearing my own wetness down the length of him, and I press the head of his cock against my ass.

David goes very still.

"Jodi."

"Just—" I push back. Just a little. Just the tip of him, and the stretch of it pulls a sound out of me that I couldn't hold back if I tried. "Slow. Go slow."

His hands find my hips. Not grabbing yet — just there, steadying, like he's giving me the chance to change my mind. I don't. I push back again and the head of his cock sinks in another inch, and the burn spreads through me, hot and bright and exactly right.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, Jodi."

"I know."

"Talk to me. Is this — are you sure?"

I reach back and find his hand on my hip, lace my fingers through his. "I know what I'm doing."

He laughs — a rough, disbelieving sound. "You're gonna kill me."

"Probably." I push back further, my whole body bearing down on him, and he slides in another inch. The stretch is everything. My breath comes out in a shudder and my thighs are already trembling. "But not yet."

"Jesus, look at you." His voice is thick. "Look at you take it."

He catches on fast. That's the thing about David — he never needs telling twice. His hips roll forward and I feel him sink deeper, slow as honey, and my mouth falls open against the pillow. He's big. He's always been big, and this is different, tighter, and every inch of him is a decision I'm making.

"Okay?" His voice is strained. He's holding himself still, letting me take it at my pace, and something in my chest goes soft and hot at the same time.

"Yeah." I get my knees under me, push the sheets away, arch my back until my ass is up and my face is down. "Yeah. Now."

He moves.

The first real thrust punches the air out of me. Not gentle. Not anymore. I asked for the slow part and he gave it to me, and now his hands are locked on my hips and he's pulling me back onto his cock like I'm his to take. The slap of his balls against me is loud, wet and obscene, and I can't stop the sounds coming out of my throat.

"That's it," he grunts. "That's it, take it."

"Harder—"

"Yeah? You want it harder?" He drives in and I feel the whole length of him go to the root. "Like that?"

"Like that—" I'm gripping the pillow so hard my knuckles ache. "Don't you dare slow down."

He gives me harder. My fingers twist in the sheets and my whole body rocks forward with each thrust, the headboard knocking softly against the wall. I'm so wet I can feel it running down the inside of my thigh, my own slick and the leftover of last night, and he's buried so deep in my ass I can feel the pressure of him in my belly.

"You feel that?" he says. "You feel how deep I am?"

"I feel it." The words come out split up, one to a thrust. "God, David, I feel it."

The party flickers behind my eyes again — the cold air, the barn wall, his hand clamped over my mouth so nobody would hear. The way he'd said my name when he came. And now this, the same man, the same hands, in our own bed with the grey morning coming up slow.

"You were so quiet at the party," he says, ragged. "All night. Watching me. Like you had a secret."

"I did."

"What was it?"

"This." I push back into him. "This was the secret."

"David—"

"I know." His hand slides up my back, between my shoulder blades, pressing me down into the mattress. "I've got you."

He fucks me like he's been thinking about it all night. Like every touch at that party was just him waiting for this. His rhythm goes ragged, his breathing harsh and broken behind me, and I can feel him getting close — the way his thrusts shorten, the way his grip tightens, the way his whole body goes tense over mine.

"Come in me," I gasp. "Come in my ass, David, come on—"

"Where?" His voice cracks. "Say it again, where do you want it?"

"In me. All of it."

He shouts. Not words — just a raw, broken sound that fills the whole room, and then he's pushing in deep and staying there, and I feel it. The pulse of him. The heat flooding into me, thick and endless, and his hips jerking with each wave of it. His whole body shudders over mine and his hand slams flat against the wall to hold himself up.

For a long moment neither of us moves. His cock's still buried in me, softening slowly, and I can feel his cum starting to leak out around him. My knees are shaking. My face is pressed into the pillow and I'm grinning so wide it hurts my cheeks.

He pulls out slowly. I feel every inch of it, and then the wet rush of him spilling out of me, hot down my thigh.

"Oh my God," he says. He sounds wrecked. He sounds like a man who just got hit by a truck. "Jodi. What the hell was that?"

I roll over onto my back and look at him. His hair's a disaster. His chest is heaving. There's a smear of my wetness on his hip and his cock is still half-hard, slick and shining in the grey light.

"That," I say, "was me being fully awake."

He stares at me for a second. Then he laughs — the same laugh from the party, low and rough and disbelieving — and drops down onto the bed beside me, one arm flung across my eyes.

"I'm not gonna survive you," he says.

"You said that at the party too."

"I meant it at the party too."

I stretch my legs out, feel the soreness already settling in, and turn my head to look at him. The alarm clock on his nightstand says 6:47. The party's over. The barn's just a barn again. But I can still smell the beer on my own breath, and I can still feel him inside me, and I don't want any of it to be finished.

"Good morning," I say.

"Morning." His voice is a rasp. He doesn't lift his arm off his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Six forty-seven."

"On a Sunday." He says it like a man reading a sentence handed down by a judge.

"You're the one who woke me up."

"You're the one who didn't wake me up first." He lifts his arm. "You were lying there, and I just — you know how long it's been since you let me do that?"

"Too long."

"Way too long."

The arm comes off his face. He turns his head on the pillow and looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't quite name — not hunger, not anymore. Something quieter. He reaches over and pushes a strand of hair off my cheek, and his thumb stays there, resting at the corner of my jaw. "You were lying there. I woke up and you were just— there. And I couldn't not."

"I didn't say I minded."

"You said a lot of things."

"I meant all of them."

He huffs out a breath that isn't quite a laugh. His hand slides down my neck to my shoulder and stays. The ceiling fan is turning above us, slow, ticking faintly on every third rotation. It's a sound I've heard ten thousand mornings and never once noticed until now, lying wrecked in my own bed with the taste of last night still in my mouth.

The taste. Beer gone flat and sour at the back of my tongue. I swallow and it's still there, and underneath it the fainter, saltier ghost of David's mouth on mine against the barn wall. I close my eyes and the party comes up at me — not a memory, more like weather. Karen's hand on my arm. The red cups stacked on the folding table. The Prefontaine shorts, cut liner and all, riding up between my cheeks every time I took a step and the little thrill of knowing it.

"You're smiling again," he says.

"Am I?"

"Same smile as the barn. Right before you told me to get on my knees."

I open my eyes. "I never told you to get on my knees."

"You looked it." He traces a slow line down my arm, elbow to wrist, and leaves his hand there, fingers loose around mine. "That's worse."

"You want me to say it out loud next time?"

"Jodi." He says my name slow, like a warning and a prayer at once. "Some of us need coffee before you start."

The sheets are a mess. My side's kicked down to the foot of the bed and his is wound around one ankle like a rope. I should get up. There's a shower with my name on it and a Sunday that's already half gone, and the room's starting to take on that grey-blue flatness that means the sun's actually up behind the shade.

But my legs won't do it yet. There's a deep ache sitting low in my back, and the soreness in my ass is the good kind — the kind that keeps reminding you it's there. I shift, and his cum moves too, cooling on the inside of my thigh, and I don't wipe it away. Not yet.

"You need to change the sheets," I say.

"We need to change the sheets."

"You're the one who—" I gesture vaguely at the whole of him, the crime scene he's made of our bed.

He laughs properly this time, and it's a good sound, rough from sleep but real, and it makes the room feel less like the tail end of something and more like the beginning of a day. He sits up, swings his legs over the side, and I watch the muscles move across his back. There's a red mark on his shoulder I don't remember leaving. I must have. At the barn, maybe, when he had me against the boards and I needed something to hold.

"Coffee," he announces, and stands.

His shorts are somewhere on the floor. He doesn't bother finding them. He walks out of the bedroom naked, and I listen to him go down the hall — the creak of the third board, the click of the kitchen light, the tap running — and it's ordinary and it's obscene and it's exactly right.

I roll onto my stomach and look at the clock again. 6:51. Four minutes. Feels like a whole season has happened in four minutes.

My phone's on the nightstand face-down. I pick it up. Karen, two hours ago, in the group chat: who left the cooler open. my porch is a swamp. And under it, from someone else, a photo of the beer mile finish line, all of us in those ridiculous shorts, mouths open, arms flung up. I find myself in the corner of it — ponytail half down, cheeks blotched, grinning at nothing. David's hand is a blur at the edge of the frame, on my hip.

I put the phone back face-down.

From the kitchen comes the sound of a cupboard, then another, then the exasperated clatter of a man who has forgotten where we keep the filters. I smile into the pillow and don't call out to help him. Let him find it. It's Sunday.