Lovely

You hear his keys hit the bowl in the entry, then nothing — and you know, you know, he’s standing back there doing the thing he does, taking the whole room in before he says a word to it. The TV’s on something you stopped following twenty minutes ago. There’s a glass of water sweating a ring into the coffee table and his tin sitting open right beside it, lid off, grinder out, the whole scene about as subtle as a crime.

Footsteps. He comes around the back of the couch and stops, and you tip your head back against the cushion to look at him upside down — and lose it. Caught, giggling before you can stop yourself, hand coming up too late to do anything about it.

“Hi,” you manage.

Joe looks at the tin. Looks at you. The laugh’s already in his voice when he drags a hand down over his jaw.

“So this is what I come home to.”

He toes his shoes off where he stands, nudges them toward the wall, and comes around the front of the couch. Picks up the tin. Tilts it toward the lamp to see how much you’ve gotten into without him, and the look he gives you over the top of it could not be drier.

“You didn’t even text me.”

“You were working,” you say, like that’s reason enough.

He doesn’t dignify it. Taps the lid back half-on, sets the tin down, and drops onto the cushion beside you — close, so you have to fold your knees up over his thigh to make room. His hand lands on your shin like it lives there.

“Scoot.”

“I am scooted.”

“You’re sprawled.”

You giggle again and he reaches for the grinder, slow about it, like the whole evening just got rearranged and he intends to take his time. You walk your fingers up his forearm while he works, smug as anything.

“That was good,” you tell him.

“Babe.” He doesn’t look up from the grinder. “I don’t buy mid.”

By the time he's caught up the room's gone soft at the edges and so has he. Sunk low into the couch, head tipped back, one arm slung along the cushion behind you, the other hand still wrapped loose around your ankle.

You're not doing anything with your hands. That's a lie. Your hands have ideas — the hem of his sleeve, the line of his collarbone through his shirt, the spot under his jaw where his pulse is. He lets you. Eyes half-lidded, watching you do it.

“You’re being weird,” he says, no heat in it.

“I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being weird and affectionate.”

You press your palm flat to his chest just to feel him breathe, and he goes quiet under it. When you look up, his eyes are already on you, and they’re not lazy anymore.

His hand leaves your ankle. Travels up. Stops at the back of your knee.

"C'mere," he says, lower now.

You come. Knees planted on either side of his thighs, you settle your weight and feel exactly how hard he is through his sweats. The sound he makes is low, almost a growl. Both hands slide under your shirt — one spreads wide at the small of your back, the other fists in your hair and tips your mouth down to his.

He kisses you slowly. Tongue, teeth, the faint taste of weed still on him. You rock against his lap, and his grip tightens, fingers digging into your hip like he's deciding whether to let you keep control.

"You started the night without me," he murmurs against your lips. "Figure you owe me."

"That how it works?"

His laugh is rough. "That's how it works."

His hands find the waistband of your shorts. You lift up just enough for him to drag them down your thighs along with your underwear. Cool air hits your skin for half a second before his palm is back between your legs, two fingers sliding through how wet you already are. He curses under his breath, presses them inside you once, slow and deep, then pulls them out and brings them to his mouth.

You're the one who gets his sweats down. He's heavy in your hand, hot, the head already slick. You line him up and sink down in one slow glide. The stretch pulls a broken sound out of you. His head drops back against the couch, jaw tight, one hand locked on your hip to keep you right there while he throbs inside you.

You move. Lazy rolls at first, grinding deep, letting the haze stretch every second. He watches you — eyes heavy, lips parted — thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight little circles that make your thighs shake. Every time you take him all the way, his fingers flex harder.

When you start to lose rhythm, he takes over. Arm banded around your waist, he fucks up into you with these slow, filthy thrusts that punch the breath out of your lungs. His mouth is at your neck, sucking a mark you'll feel tomorrow. "Right there, baby. Fuck."

You come hard, clenching around him, forehead pressed to his as his name fractures in your mouth. He follows right after — hips snapping up once, twice, burying himself deep, both arms locking around you. The groan he lets out vibrates against your skin, low and open-mouthed.

After, you stay exactly like that. Still joined, boneless and sticky, his heart hammering under your cheek before it starts to slow. He's still half-hard inside you, twitching every so often with the aftershocks. His hand runs up and down your spine, fingertips dragging lazy lines over your skin. The room smells like weed and sex and the blanket he eventually drags over your bare ass.