oceans of time

"Hi," you say, and stand up to shake his hand. He hesitates, a slight frown drawing his eyebrows together, but then he reaches out and takes it.

"My wife is out of town," he says by way of explanation, and you nod. She told you as she was asking for permission to take Wally out of school for a week. You both sit down, and he smiles a little ruefully. "I'm sorry, I've never done this before. Am I supposed to ask questions or—"

He lets the sentence hang in the air between you, and you can't help but laugh at his helplessness. "Let me check my notes," you say, then pretend to be confused. "Oh no, I think I must have misplaced them. Well, in that case you should tell me some things about Wally."

You wait for him to reply, but he just looks at you, as if he can see right through you. It's not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

"I'm kidding," you say, to fill the silence. He takes a moment to smile, but as soon as he does, something inside you shifts.

***

The bar is mostly empty when you walk in a few days after the parent-teacher conference, and Martha greets you with more enthusiasm from behind the counter than you're used to. You chat for a moment, her filling you in about her dogs and her latest string of unsuccessful dates.

"Maybe you should try one of those dog owner apps," you say. "I heard they work wonders."

"Honey, don't you give me any advice about men. You look like you just got out of college, and I'm practically an old maid by now."

Suddenly, someone clears their throat a few feet from you. "In her defense, dogs are great judges of people."

You turn to see Mr. Graham sitting down at the other end of the bar, a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. He greets you but doesn't get up. You wait for him to say more, but when he doesn't you walk over to him, ignoring the little burst of butterflies that filled your stomach for a moment there.

"Hi again," you say, trying to make your tone light and unassuming.

He looks softer around the edges in the light of the bar, and the sweater he's wearing matches his eyes, makes them look a deeper shade of blue than before, in the classroom. And his hair seems different; tonight, you can just make out a slim white line peeking out from underneath it on his forehead. A scar, you guess.

You get to talking, hesitantly at first, but after a while he lights up a little, and when you make him laugh for the first time, you feel warmth curl inside your belly. His attention is on you, body turned in your direction, but you still feel as if mentally, he goes somewhere else for a few seconds at a time. As if part of him is thinking ahead, or maybe back.

You look at his hand, at the wedding ring gleaming on his finger, then away.

***

"Fuck!" you shout three hours later, as you're both leaving the bar and you see your last bus of the night round the corner, its taillights blinking merrily in the night. Behind you, you hear Will laugh softly. He told you early to ditch the 'Mr. Graham', so you did.

"Sorry," he says when you turn around and glare at him, or try to. Then he cocks his head. "Is it far to your place?"

"Ten minutes by bus, but on foot? And in this weather?" You look up at the sky, grey clouds obscuring the stars. It's late November, and you shiver in your thin coat.

He seems to weigh his next words very carefully. "I can drop you off, if you want. We just have to walk back to my house."

My house. Not ours.

You open your mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. You barely know him. His son is your student. Stepson, you remind yourself immediately. A stepson who is currently in Iowa visiting family with his mom.

"Thank you," is all you say, and you swallow at the gleam that comes into his eyes at your response.

***

The house is cozy, there is no other word for it. A few lone embers are still smouldering in the fireplace, and there is a warm smell in the air, woodsy and comforting. You feel his eyes on you as you look around, and when you turn to him again, he's not smiling. His eyes are intense, fixing you in place, so you don't budge when he comes closer. Instead, you shift until you feel the dining table beneath your palms when you reach back, lean against it as he steps into your space.

"Do you need to be home by a certain time?" he asks, voice low. You can't help but stare at his lips as he speaks.

"No," you whisper, tearing your eyes away. "I live alone. No roommates, no pets, no—fuck," you gasp, because before you know it, he grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against him, and then he is mouthing at your neck, his beard scraping against the sensitive skin making you shiver violently.

You cling to the front of his sweater, digging your fingers into the soft material and just holding on while he moves higher, nuzzles at your jaw before he cups your face in both hands and kisses you, full on the lips. The hunger with which you meet him surprises even yourself, and you groan into his mouth as he sucks on your tongue with a low sound deep in his throat. He tastes like whiskey and smells as if he uses an overpriced cologne, dark and rich in its layers of scent.

When he pushes one thigh in between your legs, you let it happen, and gladly give him a little space before you grind down, squeezing the muscles together until you see stars for a second. You briefly congratulate your past self for putting on a skirt and tights, because Will doesn't hesitate. As soon as you start moving, he breaks the kiss, panting heavily against your cheek before he licks across your skin and whispers in your ear, "Go on. Show me how desperate you can get just from this."

And when you do, he gently bites down on your earlobe, pulls it with his teeth every time you shudder and cling a little more to him. You can feel your panties getting soaked but you don't stop, not even when you look down and see a dark stain on his trousers. Instead, you moan, and when he follows your eyes he lets out a breathy laugh, and finally, finally stops you with his hands on your hips again.

"Good girl," he cooes as he pushes you down onto the table. "Getting yourself so wet for me. You wanted this as soon as we met in the bar, didn't you?"

"Yes," you force out, and close your eyes when he reaches forward to cup one of your breasts. He fondles you gently, sparks flying down your spine with every move he makes. He's standing in between your legs, pressing his crotch against you, and you grin when you feel how hard he is. "But so did you."

"I did," he says, and begins to unbutton your blouse. You mewl when his cold hands touch your belly, and you don't know if you want to grab them and suck at his fingers or push them up towards your tits again. As if he can read your mind, he caresses the side of your face before he leans down and kisses the space between your breasts, sucking a wet mark into the skin there until you are squirming underneath him.

"Please," you manage, and feel him smile against you.

"Please what?"

You let your head fall back when he nips at the top of your breasts, lightly pulls the fabric of your bra aside with his teeth.

"Please fuck me, please, I—ah," you breathe, because he chooses this moment to push against your cunt again. He straightens up with a smile, holding you in place while he presses even closer.

"That's it," he says, and you both reach out at the same time, him pulling your tights down your legs while you bunch your skirt up and hook your ankles behind his thighs. You watch with hooded eyes as he slowly unbuckles his belt, takes his time with his pants and underwear.

"God," you say and laugh, because of course his cock is perfect, thick and pink and leaking. You'd love nothing more than to tell him to let you suck him off; some other time, maybe.

"Relax," he murmurs and rubs the tip against your folds, over your clit, and you obey, or try to.

"Fucking hell, just like that, please, please," you babble, because this is already damn near perfect, his length sliding along your pussy and getting you both even wetter until you clench around nothing, and he must see the desperation in your face because he grabs his cock and pushes inside you, just the head, but you take it like your life depends on it.

"That's it darling," he says again, "how does that feel?"

"So fucking good," you say, voice low, because it does, the pressure minimal but delectable, heat already pooling deep in your core. You try to push closer towards him, but he stops you with one hand on your stomach, and does it all himself, opening you up inch by inch, until you think you might cry with pleasure; and one single tear does escape as soon as he is buried inside of you, and he leans down to kiss your cheek, so softly you barely feel it.

"Will," you moan out, and he understands. He fucks you as if you did this all the time, perfect from the start, his slow, controlled movements making your legs shake almost embarrassingly fast, but you don't care. One of his hands is cupping the back of your neck, holding you in place for him to kiss you, the press of his body against yours only adding to the friction between you. You feel him everywhere, but it's still not enough.

"Can you come just from this?" he asks between kisses, "or do you want me to play with you a little?"

The noise you make at this should open up a hole in the floor for you to sink into, but he laughs and says, "I know, sweetheart. I know." His other hand slides down your body until his thumb grazes over your clit, again and again and again, and you have to screw your eyes shut and bite your tongue to keep yourself from coming already. This can't end just yet.

But Will seems to have other plans. Sucking a mark into the skin just above your pulse, he fingers your cunt where it's stretched around him, and you cry out, your orgasm so sudden that it leaves you breathless, thrashing underneath him while he coaxes you through it, pressing as deep inside you as he can.

"Oh fuck, Will, god, please don't fucking stop, please," you force out, clenching down on him so hard it's almost painful. He bites down on your throat as he follows you over the edge, then murmurs something you don't catch as he empties himself inside you, and you smile through the fog that's beginning to settle over you.

Before he can pull out, you slide your fingers into his hair and kiss his temple, relishing in the way his breath hitches when you tighten your grip for a second.

"Thank you," you whisper in a hoarse voice you barely recognize as your own. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."