Trash Panda Enthusiast.

Every year Ezra makes a fuss about your birthday. For him, it’s indescribably satisfying to know the exact date and time when the clock - attuned specifically to your body - ticks its last second away, completing another lovely cycle around the stars. It’s hard for him to believe that there was a time when you were living in the same universe as him, going about your daily routine as if it were nothing spectacular, and he didn’t know of your wondrous existence. Yet, in the same vein, your life is his favorite mystery that he’s not sure if he ever wants to figure out, or if he’s meant to at all. He wonders what you were like before him, what you’ll be like after him; he knows you’ll out-survive him, you’re much too clever and precocious. 

Ezra doesn’t have such a privilege of celebrating a birthday. Being born in the unfavorable atmosphere his mother had been chained to for work was a miracle in itself; officially documenting such an accomplishment was an afterthought. On January 1st of every year, he just sort of mentally scrawls a tally mark next to the others; ones defined only by blackened violence, ones that still screamed red with torture, ones that were so muddied they blurred into the next and became one big smudge that his nervous system tries its best to repress in order to protect his heart from collapse. 

But then you came along. Now, all Ezra wants to do is record, catalogue, remember. Every tiny moment, every colossal feat, it’s all worth it to him if it has your signature. 

So this year, Ezra stealthily unfurled his arm from around your head and reached over your body to tick the switch on the alarm clock to the ‘off’ position before your usual rising time. He wanted to have everything ready before you woke up, wanting to show you a culmination of his love since he met you years ago. Today, on the exemplary day when the universe gave your lovely soul a physical body that he has the blessing to communicate and share a relationship with, you won’t lift a finger.

Ezra leaned down, pressed a kiss to your forehead before billowing the sheets up, silently escaping their cover, and watching them settle back down over the dip of your waist, the rise of your hip. He smiled to himself as he caught one last gaze at you from the doorway before he disappeared around the corner into the small kitchen quarters.

He still curses himself that he didn’t save enough from his last job to rent a better pod for this cycle; a new casino back on the Pug and the bets he kept on fights in its back alley nearly emptied his wallet — thank god you stashed something extra in the safe at home. You deserved better than one bunk with no sound system, a bathroom you had to share with his sticky, disorganized tubes of pastes and gels with various uses (for wounds he incurred on other jobs and didn’t dare tell you the details of), a kitchen no bigger than a small closet. But the glorious part with you is that there will always be a next time. Ezra has made good on chances to redeem himself for stupid mistakes that he had skirted accountability for for years all because you became a constant in his life to set him back on course when he veered too far off in one direction or another.

Infinitely resourceful, Ezra will find a way to celebrate you no matter what he has to work with. If he dove to the bottom of Lau’s oceans and braided the seaweed into a crown, adorning it with shells and vibrant pink and purple wildflowers that sprouted along the driftwood that littered the grey beach, then he could make do with the first kitchen you’ve had access to in over a year no matter its size. 

A little while later, you stir at the smell of something delicious wafting down the hallway. Small particles dance in the air, creamy white against the dark blue metal sheets that comprise the interior of your pod. You look down to the other side of the bed — Ezra’s gone. Your question is answered before you can even ask it by a small metallic clank in the kitchen, followed by a gruff, “Damnit.” You creep quietly to get a peek into the other room with a smirk on your face.

There, you see Ezra. Tongue tucked into the corner of his lips, he meticulously uses the edge of a jagged knife to drop a small pile of thick chocolate frosting onto a buttery yellow cake and carefully spread it. His disapproving utterance from before can be explained by the glob of icing dropped on the counter. Ezra leans in close to get a better look at his sculpture with his poor eyes, but he plants his elbow right in the accident on the counter and nearly slips face-first into the cake. 

You put your hand over your mouth in an effort to hide your giggle, but it’s unsuccessful as Ezra’s gaze shoots up at you. He positions his burly arms like a cage around the cake, “No, no, no. You’re still supposed to be sleepin’.” 

“I can’t sleep in a cold bed,” you tease, earning a soft sigh from your partner that deflates his broad shoulders. He straightens up, glancing between his confection and the object of his affection. A crooked smile lifts his cheeks, “Happy birthday, stardust.” 

Something beats louder in your heart than butterflies, maybe doves. Your cheeks warm as they always do when Ezra displays his love for you so transparently. He might have a reputation of being suave, but he was a tough nut to crack the first few months you knew him. It never gets old when the man you found in the middle of a brawl all those years ago, covered in scars whose stories you still don’t know the full breadth of, is the same one who hugs you close at night and hums sweet stories to until you fall asleep. 

You step up to his side and he kneels before you, draping his arms around your waist and looking up at you like you created all the best parts of the universe. You knight him with kisses to his forehead and both cheeks. A kiss on his lips is in order, but upon closer inspection, you notice a swirl of fudge frosting nestled amongst his scruff of the same chocolate hue — make that mocha, as you swipe it off of his prickly skin and pop your fingertip into your mouth. 

Raising an eyebrow and dusting off a patch of flour from his temple, you tease, “If you love me so much, you should know that my favorite is vanilla.” 

The chocolate fiend’s cheeks fill with embarrassed blood as the infinitely eloquent man stammers under your interrogation, “W-well you see, I know that about you, stardust. The moment you told me I wrote it down and filed it away in my brain, in the corner I keep just for factoids about you. But at the market, they had this cocoa powder all the way from Spiria — you know that the only thing they’re good for is their weapons manufacturin’ and their powderizing plants — and I just had to get it. I scooped up a bit of that coffee you like, too, they just had an open sack and I…” Ezra trails off, realizing that he’s admitting his crime to you. He soldiers on, with a white lie soldering his truth, “I threw an extra token at the cashier. He had this little kit on sale at the front, cake mix and a pan, and I wasn’t sure if it’d fit in our oven but I figured I’d come home to try it before I gave up givin’ you something special for your big day, and—” 

Your lips, soft and understanding, cut your rambling partner short of his explanation. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” 

And suddenly, the fugitive has shy eyes. He mumbles, low and sweet, “Anything for my center of the universe.”

Ezra sticks one of those candles that are poured into a squiggly shape into the center of the cake and the frosting makes a soft squishing sound at the intrusion. His brow furrows when you take it back out, moving it to one edge of the cake. “I want you to have a wish of your own, too,” you explain. Taking another bright blue candle from the pack, you place it on the opposite side of the cake and Ezra sits parallel to you so your breaths don’t get caught in a crossfire while making your wishes. 

Ezra strikes a match and lights them both. You close your eyes, conjuring up your biggest, best wish, and Ezra watches the way the small flames dance across your cheeks and the delicate flickers of your eyelids as you think hard. He only closes his eyes after he rests his hand atop yours on the table.

His raspy, gentle voice breaks the silence in the room. “Ready?” 

You nod. Together, you direct a steady stream of air to your respective candles. When you open your eyes, all that’s left of their flames are two thin lines of smoke.

While Ezra steadies the knife between both hands and pushes it down gently, cutting a crescent from the cake, he asks, “What’d you wish for?"

You chuckle, “Nice try. If I tell you, it won’t come true.” 

Your bed-frame and mattress arrived today, hauled up three flights by a pair of delivery men who eyed you with something like pity, top floor in a victorian converted to apartments, old attic space with sloping ceilings, could maybe slide a credit card between the toilet bowl and tub, stove and fridge in beat to shit landlord white, state of the art circa 1980.

You lay in your newly assembled bed and stare up into the rafters, muted green glow of several hundred tiny plastic stars that some previous tenant applied. Across town from your old life, but it might as well me on the far side of the moon. Still have to work, still have to pay off your credit cards and child support. He used your insane work schedule against you in the custody fight, never mind that you did all that for them, used a DUI from a decade ago as a reason you were a shit parent. You have to pay your partner support which is fine, you only have Bug every other weekend which hurts like being cut every time you have to give her back.

He can’t even be bothered to pick her up most times, sends his shiny new girlfriend who always grabs Bug a little too hard by the elbow to pull her towards the car.

Music thumps up from below and the highway screams a few blocks over, and this is not where you ever imagined yourself, but it’s yours, new place, new you.Thirty minutes separating you from what you thought was going to be the rest of your life, but looking up at some college kid’s glow in the dark stars, you feel something that might become peace over time.

The day is for exploring, for seeing what’s in walking distance. The library seems like a good place to start, shares a building with the rec center, tennis and pickle ball courts tucked against the parking lot.

It’s hot for spring and the air conditioning hits you all at once, prickling your arms in gooseflesh, relatively dim cave of the lobby offering relief from the sun’s light sizzling up from the sidewalks, baking up from the asphalt.

The lobby is lined with signs thumbtacked to cork boards, fringed in tear off tabs with phone numbers, a missing cat, a lawn and landscaping service, gentle tai chi lessons for seniors, dotted with QR codes, summer sci fi book club, seed exchange. Flyers and tacked up menus. Schedule of classes offered at the rec center next door. They look like a pair of riotous quilts, shouts of competing text and color. You take a picture on your phone, one side and then the other.

“Well, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in-" Soft, southern drawl rising to a growling crescendo and squeals of little kid laughter. Bug would eat this right up, you think as you head towards the sci-fi section. Bug loves when you do voices.

you shouldn’t call her bug. what if it sticks? she’s four. still.

“Well that is an impressive armload of stories.” The man with the drawl grins at you from behind the help desk.You plop a good stack of science fiction bricks on the counter. Your eyes find his, deep and warm and bracketed in crows feet, all scruffy cheeks and dimpled smile, errant streak of brilliant white among his dark curls, like a splash of cream in black coffee. “I’m guessing you need a card before we get down to business.” “Yeah. How’d you know?” “Haven’t seen you around before,” he says, “Library patrons tend to be creatures of habit. And folks who are new to the library system or are returning after a long absence tend to grab as much as they can carry.” “Guilty. I’ve got more time to read these days,” and you feel your eyes drop from his, catch on his badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, thundercloud eyes, and bright red scar across one cheek. Ezra Broussard.

“-a photo ID and proof of-Miss? Ma’am?” You shake your head. The time you don’t have with Bug opens up in your mind like a gaping maw, a black hole that can drink you down if you think about it too much. “You went somewhere just now,” says Ezra, “Are you okay?” “Yeah. Sorry. It’s been a week. Here.” You hand him your driver’s license. He reaches across his body to take it, and you see the sleeve of his rust-colored henley tied in a knot where his right arm ends, just below his shoulder. “Hmmm. Out of state. You really are new to these parts, huh?” “Is…” you raise your eyes to his, “Is that a problem?” “Do you happen to have a utility bill with your name on it? Some proof of residence?” “No, not on me,” You shake your head, slide your stack of books towards him, “I’ll come back some other-“ “Write your info down for me, darlin. Mailing address and good phone number if you don’t mind.” He slides a sheet of printer paper across the counter, “It makes my hunting and pecking less tiresome.” “I don’t want to get you in trouble--“ “You won’t. I’ve been known to pull this trick a time or two, and the most blowback I get is a gentle ‘Now, Ezra, you know you’re not supposed to do that.’ Accompanied by some rolling of eyes.“

You write your address down, have to open your phone and look at your maps, it’s all too new, street number, apartment number, none of it has had time to stick-- “Sorry I’m so discombobulated,” you say, sliding the sheet of paper back to him, “This isn’t where I thought I’d be, you know?” “No need for sorrow,” says Ezra, “Especially not when you’ve got all these science fiction yarns to keep you company. Sorry if this takes some time. Before my mishap I had more hunters to peck with.” You snort laughter despite yourself, an apology spooling up in your throat but when you meet Ezra’s eyes they glitter with mirth, lopsided grin sinking a dimple in his stubbled cheek. “That’s terrible,” you say and feel yourself smile. Ezra’s grin widens. “When the littles inevitably ask why i’m down a limb I tell them something different each time, depending on what I’m reading that day.” “What did you tell them today?” “That I too was fool enough to build a house of straw and the Big Bad Wolf blew my house in and bit my arm clean off. It gets them real invested in the story. With the older kids I just make stuff up because they’re smart enough to know that i most certainly did not attempt to wrestle an alligator because i lost a bet or get struck by a falling bit of space junk on my way to work. Here’s your card. This is good for our entire library system.” He hands you a bit of perforated plastic, one for your wallet, one for your keychain.

You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.

You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.

The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.

“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”

He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.

“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”

“Didn’t think it was that loud.”

“Could you turn it down at least?”

A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”

There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.

“I’d… appreciate that.”

“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.

You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.

The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.

He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.

At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?

God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.

—-

Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”

So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.

A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.

You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.

The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.

And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.

You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.

—-

The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.

Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.

By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.

You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.

He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.

“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.

“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”

You snort. “So why that song?”

His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.” You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”

He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”

You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.

He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.

He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.

Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.

His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.

Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.

His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.

You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.

"You want to try to play?" he asks.

You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.

He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.

He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.

You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.

“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.

“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.

There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.

He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”

You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”

“Then set the bow down.”

You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.

You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.

He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”

“Fuccck,” you manage.

He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.

He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.

He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.

You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.

It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.

He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.

You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.

He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand finding your moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.

He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.

The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.