The screen door bangs shut behind us and the kitchen's dark enough that I don't bother with the light. David's hand is on my hip before the door settles, steering me past the island, past the fridge's low hum, down the hall where the only glow is the nightlight in the bathroom and the thin silver leaking under our bedroom door from the street.

"You're quiet," he says.

"I'm thinking about how fast I can get these shorts off."

He laughs, low, and it's the beer and it's the barn and it's the way he's been all night — a hand on my ass every ten minutes, like he was checking I was still there. My calves are sore from the mile and my thighs are sticky and I can still feel the ghost of him against that wall, the hay dust, the way he'd said my name into my shoulder like he was mad at me for it.

Our room smells like the morning — the sheets I never got around to changing, the faint sour of two people who slept hard in them. I flick on the lamp. It's the lowest of the three settings, the one that makes everything look like it's been sitting in amber.

David kicks his shoes off. His shorts are damp at the waistband from the cooler water, and he peels the tank top up and over his head and tosses it at the hamper and misses, and doesn't care. His chest is still flushed. His neck has the hickey on it, purple going brown at the edges, and I don't remember giving it to him but I'm not sorry.

"You're staring," he says.

"You're worth staring at."

"That's the beer talking."

"That's me talking. The beer's just making me honest."

He comes at me and I let him. His hands find my waist and slide down over the shorts — the shorts, the ridiculous shorts, the ones I cut the liner out of before we ever left the house — and his thumbs hook the hem and then his fingers are moving under it, and I watch his face because I've been waiting all night to watch his face.

Two fingers slide through me and stop.

He goes still. His mouth opens a little and nothing comes out. His fingers press deeper, and the sound that comes out of him isn't a word, it's the noise a man makes when he's reached for something ordinary and found treasure instead.

"Jodi."

"Mm."

"You're — " His fingers drag, slow, through the wet, and my knees give a little and I put my hand on his chest to keep myself up. "Jesus. All night? You've been like this all night?"

"Since the mile."

He pulls his hand out and holds it up between us, and his fingers are shining, and he looks at them and then at me like he's never seen me before. "You ran a beer mile like this."

"I ran a beer mile, I did the chicken dance with Karen, I stood by the keg and talked to your boss about his boat. All of it."

He makes a sound and pulls me in and kisses me hard, and his wet hand comes up and smears my cheek and neither of us cares. His tongue is in my mouth and his other hand is shoving the shorts down over my ass and I step out of them and kick them somewhere and then I'm bare from the waist down and he's still got the tank top on me and I like it, I like the way the hem rides up when he grabs my hips.

"Get on the bed," he says.

"Wait."

I turn away from him and go to the nightstand, and my phone's sitting there next to the water bottle I brought up yesterday and forgot, and I pick it up and start fiddling with the case, and I can feel him watching me.

"What are you doing."

"Nothing."

"Jodi."

"It's for the group chat," I say, and I prop the phone against the water bottle, the screen tilted just so, angled toward the bed, and I open the camera and hit the red button and the little dot starts blinking. "A little preview of the rematch."

He's quiet for a second. I turn around and he's standing there with his hands loose at his sides, and his face has gone through something — surprise, then a flicker of that thing men get when they're being looked at, then something warmer underneath.

"You're going to send that to Karen," he says.

"I'm going to send it to Karen and the girls."

"Jodi — "

"You don't want them to see how impressive my husband is?"

He blows out a breath. He looks at the phone. He looks at me. "You're out of your mind," he says, but his voice has gone low and thick and he's already moving.

And then he's on me, and I'm going down onto the mattress with him over me and my legs coming up around his waist and pulling him down, and the sound he makes when our bodies meet is a groan that comes from somewhere under his ribs, and I know that groan is on the recording now, and the thought of it goes through me like a match.

"Say it again," I say.

"Say what."

"Say you're going to send it." He's kissing my throat. "Say it."

"I'm going to send it," I say. "I'm going to send it to Karen and the girls and they're going to hear that noise you just made."

"Fuck," he says, into my neck, and his hips roll and I feel the length of him slide through the wet and catch, and I lift my hips, and he pushes —

— and I'm so wet it's almost nothing, almost no resistance at all, and he slides in to the root in one long push and we both stop breathing. My legs tighten around his back. My hands find his shoulders and hold on. He's got his face turned into my hair and he's not moving, just breathing, and I feel him throb inside me, feel how hard he is, how much he's been holding this.

"Look at me," I say.

He lifts his head. His eyes are dark and his jaw is tight and there's a flush climbing his chest, and I reach up and put my hand on his cheek and he turns and kisses my palm without looking away.

"Now fuck me," I say, "and don't be quiet about it."

"You want them to hear it," he says. Not a question. His hips pull back an inch and hold there, teasing, and I feel the whole length of him dragging slow against the inside of me.

"I want them to hear exactly what you do to me."

"Then you'd better be loud, too."

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and the drag of it makes me gasp, and then he pushes back in and the bed creaks and he groans — a real one, the kind he'd normally swallow — and I hear myself laugh, breathless, and then the laugh breaks apart into something else.

He sets a rhythm. Slow at first, deep, the whole length of him each time, and I feel every inch of it, the stretch of it, the way my body gives way and then clenches back around him like it's trying to keep him. My calves are cramping from the mile and I don't care. I've got one hand in his hair and the other flat on his back, feeling the muscle move, and my heels are digging into his ass and pulling him deeper on every stroke.

"Harder," I say.

"Say please."

"Harder," I say again, and he gives me harder.

The headboard knocks the wall. He gets his knees under him and shifts his angle and something changes and my back arches off the mattress and I make a sound I don't recognize.

"There," I say. "There, right there, don't you dare stop — "

"I'm not stopping." His voice is rough and he's got his hand flat on the mattress beside my head and the other one on my hip, holding me still for it. "You feel that? You feel how wet you are?"

"I feel it."

"Say it. Say how wet you are."

"I'm so wet I can hear it," I say, and my voice comes out strange and high. "Every time you pull out. You hear it?"

"I hear it."

"All night," he says, and thrusts, and the bed hits the wall. "All night you were walking around like that."

"I was."

"With my cum still in you."

I laugh again, and it turns into a moan halfway through. "Some of it ran down my leg. In front of Karen."

"Jesus Christ, Jodi."

"She didn't say anything."

"She knew."

He drops down onto his elbows and kisses me and his hips don't stop, and the kiss goes sloppy and breaks apart and he puts his forehead on mine and we're just breathing each other's air. I turn my head on the pillow and the phone is right there on the nightstand, the red dot blinking, and I watch it while he fucks me. I watch the little screen and think about Karen watching it later, think about her face, think about the group chat lighting up. The thought does something to me that his cock can't do alone, and I feel it build, low and tight.

"David."

"Yeah."

"I'm close."

"Don't." He says it through his teeth. "Not yet. Hold it."

"I can't — "

"Hold it." And he slows down. He slows way down, deep, grinding, and it's worse, it's so much worse, the slow drag of him against that spot, and I dig my nails into his back and he hisses and doesn't speed up.

"You're a bastard," I say.

"You're the one who's recording it."

"I hate you."

"Say it again."

"I hate you," I say, and my voice cracks in the middle, and he laughs, low, and grinds deeper, and I feel it right up under my ribs. "David. David, please — "

"Please what."

"Please let me."

He does that for a while. Long, slow, deep, and I can hear how wet I am, hear the sound of it every time he pulls back, and it's obscene and it's the best thing I've ever heard. My thighs are shaking. I'm saying things that aren't words. And then he must feel it, feel me start to flutter around him, because he says, "Now," and drives into me hard and fast and I come with my mouth open and no sound coming out, my whole body curling up off the bed, my hand slapping flat against the headboard to brace myself.

He fucks me through it. Doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, and I'm still coming when he groans and his hips stutter and he drives deep one last time and grinds there, and I feel him come — feel the heat of it, the pulse of it, the way he empties into me and keeps pressing like he wants it as deep as it'll go. His grip on my hips locks down hard enough to bruise. The sound he makes is raw, pulled out of him, almost angry.

"Take it," he says, through his teeth, barely a voice at all. "All of it. God — Jodi — "

Then his arms give and he comes down on top of me and we're both gasping, and I can feel his heart going against my chest, and his cock still twitching inside me.

On the nightstand, the red dot is still blinking.

I don't close my eyes. I watch it.

His breath is hot and wet against my shoulder and it takes a long time to slow down. My hand is still flat on the headboard. I can feel the grain of the wood pressed into my palm, the little ridge of it, and I don't move it. My legs have gone slack around his waist and slid down to the mattress and one of my heels is up by his knee, useless.

"You're heavy," I say.

"Mm." He doesn't move.

"David. You're squashing me."

He grunts and rolls, and the loss of him is sudden and awful and then there's the warm slow slide of what he left behind, and I feel it start to move. I clamp my legs together out of instinct and that just pushes it out faster, down the crease, onto the sheet.

"Look at you," he says, watching. "You're making a mess of the sheets."

"You made the mess."

"You asked for it. All night. You asked for it."

He's on his back with his arm over his eyes, chest still heaving, one foot hanging off the side of the bed. His cock is going soft against his thigh, wet and shining, and there's a smear of me on his stomach where he pressed against me after. The lamp makes all of it amber.

"Was that on camera," he says, from under his arm.

"All of it."

He lifts the arm and looks at the phone, and then at me. "It's still going."

"I know."

I sit up. There's a pull in my low back and a tenderness in my cunt and I feel both of them and I like the way they feel, like evidence. I reach over and hit the red button and the dot goes dark.

"Now what," he says.

"Now I watch it." I pull the phone into my lap and thumb back to the start of the clip. "To make sure it's good."

"Jodi — " He props himself up on his elbows. "You're not serious."

I hit play and turn the screen so he can see.

There we are. Grainy and gold, the angle low and mean, the water bottle cutting a slice down the left side. The sound is the thing — I didn't expect the sound. It picks up everything: the creak of the bed, the slap, my own wet noise, and his voice, his voice right there at the front of it, saying, "You feel how wet you are?" and me saying I feel it, and both of us sounding like people I've never met.

"Oh my God," he says.

"Shh."

"Turn it off."

"No." I hold it away from his reaching hand. "Watch."

And he does. He lies back down and watches, and I watch him watch it, the way his jaw works, the way he swallows when the recording gets to the part where he puts his forehead on mine, and I see his throat move and his hand come up and rest flat on his own chest like he's holding something in.

When it gets to the end — to the raw sound of him, the last grind, his grip on my hips — he turns his face away from the screen.

"That's enough," he says.

"That's the best part."

"Jodi." He's not laughing now. "That's my face. My — you can hear me. That's — "

"It's a good sound, David." I set the phone down on the sheet between us. "It's the best sound I've heard you make in years."

He's quiet. The ceiling fan ticks its one bad rotation. Down the hall the fridge cycles on and hums and I can hear the whole house around us, settling, the way it does at this hour.

"You're really going to send that," he says. Not a question this time. A man checking the ground under him.

"I'm really going to send it."

He rubs his face with both hands. Then he laughs — a short one, punched out of him, disbelieving. "Karen's going to — she's going to watch that and she's going to know exactly what I sound like when I come."

"She already knows what you sound like when you come."

He stops. He looks at me. And then the laugh comes back, bigger, and he pulls the pillow over his own face and says something into it that I can't hear.

"What?"

He takes the pillow off. "I said, you're going to ruin me."

"I'm going to brag about you." I lean over and kiss the corner of his mouth. "There's a difference."

He catches my chin before I can pull back, and holds me there, and looks at me for a long second with the lamp in his eyes.

"You're sure," he says.

"I'm sure."

He lets go. He lies back and puts his arm behind his head and stares at the ceiling, and his mouth is doing something that isn't quite a smile yet. "Then send it," he says. "But not the first part. The first part's got my stomach in it."

I laugh so hard I have to put my hand over my mouth. I open the clip and trim it with my thumb — the first fifteen seconds gone, the angle cleaner — and I save it, and the little icon spins and then it's there in my camera roll, a minute and forty seconds of us going at each other in amber light.

"Ready?" I say.

He doesn't look at me. "No."

I add it to the group chat with Karen and the girls and I type: rematch preview. bring the cooler. And I hit send.

Then I put the phone face down on the nightstand and lie down on his chest and we both listen to it buzz.