The cold tile bites into my knees as I lay her down, her body still trembling from the first wave I pulled out of her. The kitchen floor is hard and unforgiving beneath us, but she doesn't flinch—she just looks up at me with those hazel eyes, pupils blown wide, her honey-brown hair spilling out of its messy bun and fanning across the linoleum like a halo made of desperation.
I settle between her thighs, my hands finding the inside of her knees, pushing them apart until she's open to me. The grey light from the window falls across her like a benediction, painting her skin in shades of silver and shadow, and I can see everything—the slick, swollen petals of her cunt, still glistening from my mouth, still pulsing with the aftershocks of what I gave her.
"Laura." Her voice is a broken thing, barely a whisper, her hands fisted in her own hair like she's trying to hold herself together. "Laura, I—"
"Shh." I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling the muscle jump beneath my lips. "I'm not done with you. I told you that."
She whimpers, a sound that goes straight to the ache between my own legs, and I breathe her in—the musk of her arousal, the salt of her skin, the faint sweetness of the soap she uses. It's intoxicating. It's everything I've been starving for, watching her from my window all those weeks, memorizing the curve of her ass through those sheer tights, the way her bare breasts swayed as she moved through her sun salutations.
Now I have her. Now she's here, spread open on my kitchen floor, and I'm going to take my time.
I trace my fingers along the line of her hip, feeling the bones beneath her skin, the way she shivers at my touch. "You've been watching me," I say, not a question. "For weeks. You knew I was watching you back."
She nods, a jerky movement, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. "I—I couldn't stop. Every morning, I'd set up my mat in the yard, and I'd feel your eyes on me, and I'd get so—" She breaks off, a flush spreading across her chest.
"So what?"
"So wet." The word comes out like a confession, like she's giving me something sacred. "I'd be doing downward dog, and I'd feel your gaze on my ass, and my thighs would start trembling, and I'd have to press my legs together just to—"
I press my thumb to her clit, slow and deliberate, and she gasps, her hips bucking against my hand. "Just to what?"
"To feel something," she breathes. "To pretend it was you."
The hunger in her voice matches the hunger in my chest, and I lean down, my mouth hovering over her cunt, not touching, just breathing her in. "Tell me what you pretended."
Her hands leave her hair and find my buzz cut, fingers threading through the short bristles, pulling me closer. "I pretended you were behind me," she says, her voice dropping to something raw and honest. "That your hands were on my hips, guiding me deeper into the stretch. That your mouth was on my neck, biting down, claiming me."
I lower my head, my tongue tracing the seam of her cunt, tasting the mix of my own saliva and her arousal. She's still swollen from before, still sensitive, and every flick of my tongue makes her gasp and arch.
"And what else?" I ask, pulling back just enough to speak.
"I pretended you were inside me." Her voice cracks. "Your fingers. Your mouth. Anything. I was so—" She stops, and I see it—a tear escaping the corner of her eye, tracking down her temple into her hair. "I was so lonely, Laura. I didn't know it could feel like this."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest, and I pause, my mouth still inches from her heat, my eyes finding hers. There's something broken open in her face, something raw and unguarded, and I realize this isn't just about the sex. This is about being seen.
"Like what?" I ask, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
"Like someone actually wants me." She laughs, a wet, broken sound. "Not just my body through a window. Not just the idea of me in my tights. But me. This messy, desperate, lonely version of me who touches herself every night thinking about the girl next door."
I press my mouth to her cunt, not in hunger but in reverence, in worship, and I feel her shudder. I feel her break. My tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles against her clit, and I let my fingers find her entrance, sliding inside her with the kind of patience that comes from wanting something for so long you've forgotten how to rush.
"You're not lonely anymore," I say against her skin, the words vibrating through her. "You're not going to be lonely ever again if I have anything to say about it."
She cries out, her hips rocking against my face, and I feel the tears tracking down her cheeks, feel the way her body tenses and releases, tensing and releasing, like she's learning how to let go for the first time. My fingers curl inside her, finding that spot that makes her scream, and I press my mouth harder against her clit, sucking, licking, devouring.
"Laura—" Her voice is a plea, a prayer, her nails scraping against my scalp. "Laura, I'm—"
"I know." I don't stop. I don't slow down. I give her everything I have, every ounce of hunger I've been carrying for weeks, every fantasy I've jerked off to in my own bed, imagining what she would sound like, what she would taste like, how she would fall apart beneath me.
She falls.
Her orgasm rips through her like a storm, her whole body arching off the cold tile, her mouth open in a silent scream that finally breaks into sound—my name, over and over, like a prayer she's been holding in her chest for years. I work her through it, my tongue and fingers not letting up until she's shaking, until she's sobbing, until she's grabbing my wrist and pulling me away because she can't take any more.
I crawl up her body, my lips finding hers, and she tastes like salt and surrender. She tastes like home.
"I've got you," I whisper against her mouth. "I've got you, Lisa."
She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me down onto her, and I feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and wild and alive. The grey light shifts as clouds pass overhead, and the rain starts again, a soft patter against the windows, sealing us in this moment like a confession box.
"I didn't know," she says, her voice thick with tears, "that someone could want me like this. That I could want someone back like this."
I press my forehead to hers, my breath mingling with hers, and I feel something shift in my chest—something I didn't expect. Something that feels terrifyingly close to the word I've been avoiding since the first time I saw her through the window.
"I've been watching you for months," I admit, my voice rough. "Not just your body. You. The way you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening. The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. The way you look at the sky during savasana, like you're asking it for something."
Her eyes widen, fresh tears spilling over. "You saw all that?"
"I saw everything." I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb. "And I wanted everything. But I didn't think—" I stop, the words catching in my throat. "I didn't think someone like you would ever look at someone like me."
"Someone like you?" She reaches up, her fingers finding the short bristles of my hair, her touch so gentle it makes my chest ache. "Laura, you're beautiful. You're strong and rough and real, and you make me feel like I'm the only person in the world when you look at me."