[man-of-sea]

Here is a new one I have rewritten it three times now  hope you enjoy
Where We Land (Again)
The humid Miami air hung heavy, clinging to Zoey like an overzealous fan after her sets at the gym.  She tugged impatiently at the collar of her tank top – a black muscle tee with "IRON WILL" emblazoned across the chest in chrome-plated letters - as if it could somehow catch a breath for her. Forty-five was no time to be this damn hot, mainly when that heat stemmed from six weeks’ worth of simmering anticipation and pent-up desire that threatened to boil over like a forgotten pot of grits on a back burner. 

Brad.  The thought of him sent an electric current skittering across her taut stomach muscles, making them flex involuntarily. Her phone vibrated against her thigh – another text from the man who still knew how to make her feel like a teenage girl with braces and a bad haircut. “Touchdown in 15! Can’t wait to see you.” The stupid emojis he always threw in were so him – two thumbs up and a flexing bicep –  and they made her want to grind his teeth into dust before she even got near his damn good-looking, seventy-year-old self.

His office had been the scene of their last big fight. He'd been sprawled on his mahogany desk, laptop propped open on a pile of financial reports that looked like hieroglyphics to her, eyes closed and lips parted just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his white stubble in the dim light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.  He hadn’t even bothered with the blinds when she burst into the room – late one Thursday evening after deadline – smelling like chlorine and frustrated by another article on some washed-up tennis player whose backhand slice was as revolutionary as last week's banana bread recipe.

She'd found him jerking off to a porn video of two women wrestling topless.  The way he’d looked up at her, startled, but not unpleasantly so, his hand still clutching the base of that too-familiar “executive stress reliever,” had been enough to make her snort with laughter before she'd even registered what was playing on the screen. Then came the embarrassed stammering and her sharp intake of breath as he tried to explain it wasn’t just any old porn, oh no, this was a documentary about professional female wrestlers called "Iron Maidens" –  and that he was researching a potential investment opportunity!

“Right,” she’d said, pushing the laptop back at him and cracking her knuckles. “Well, honey, you might have found your new muse.”


Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a picture - Brad in his usual grey linen suit, leaning against a pillar at the gate, looking as though he’d stepped straight out of an old-fashioned travel ad.  A cocky grin stretched across his face, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his impeccably tailored trousers – she could practically feel the silk lining against his tanned hip – the other holding up a bottle of what looked suspiciously like Moët & Chandon.

"See you soon, sweetheart," he’d texted underneath it.

Zoey grinned back at him, tugging her tank top lower over her swollen biceps. “You bet your sweet ass I will, old man,” she muttered to the phone before shoving it into her gym bag and heading towards the sliding glass doors of the airport. The basement was waiting. And so was a particular kind of wrestling match. 

The airport exit door hissed open, and Zoey practically threw herself onto Brad’s already outstretched hand. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and something vaguely citrusy – his “executive blend,” she’d dubbed it – hit her like a shot of adrenaline straight to the thighs. She squeezed his palm, feeling the reassuring solidity of his bones under his tanned skin, before hauling him down from the curb with surprising strength for someone barely five-foot-two. 

“About time you got your dusty old ass back here,” she said, her voice husky enough that even she could hear the tremor in it. He let out a low chuckle – deep and rumbled like an engine idling too long in traffic – as she hauled him towards her battered Jeep Wrangler, its faded green paint job starkly contrasting to his impeccably tailored linen suit and scuffed brogues. 

"You know," he said, leaning into the curve of her neck with the scent of airport airspray still clinging to him like cheap perfume, "Miami traffic's gotten atrocious." He patted her ass casually as he settled into the passenger seat – an old habit she’d never entirely managed to shake. “But it beats sitting next to that insufferable woman who kept talking about organic kombucha on the plane.”

“Glad you got out of there,” Zoey said, sliding behind the wheel and letting the air conditioning blast frigid relief onto them both.  She popped the Jeep's ancient CD player – a relic from the dawn of time when she’d been too broke for Spotify – and turned up some old-school hip hop to match his wrinkled linen suit with her brand of Miami grit. 

“So,” Brad said, unfurling himself in the seat like a lazy panther and finally letting those impossibly good blue eyes settle on hers, “you’ve been busy?”

"Busy enough," she confirmed with a smirk. "You know what they say about idle hands…" She tapped her knuckles against the wheel in a rhythmic tattoo over his suit jacket as she maneuvered them onto I-95 South.  “Especially when those hands belong to a woman who can bench press half your weight."

"Well, I always admired your...commitment," he drawled, tilting his head and studying her with an eyebrow lifted just enough that it was almost lost in the faint wrinkles around his hazel eyes. He’d been doing much more of that eyebrow thing since they'd gotten together – probably another trick she’d picked up from watching him on those "Iron Maidens" videos he secretly worshipped.

"Commitment, huh? And what about your commitment to me, Mr. Retired Executive?” She let her gaze linger over his mouth – full lips still kissable after all these years, even with the faintest hint of lipstick-stained stubble around them.  “Was that flight back across the Atlantic just another business trip, or did you miss this body too much?"


"You know me," he said, chuckling again and leaning forward to tuck a stray strand of her blonde hair behind one ear – a gesture both possessive and infuriatingly tender all at once. “Always up for a good deal."  He paused, letting his hand linger on her neck as if checking the temperature before settling back with a sigh that ruffled the tight curl at the nape of her throat.

"Speaking of deals," he continued, "I was thinking about how we haven't had one of our…uh..." He struggled momentarily with the euphemism she knew he loathed but couldn't quite bring himself to drop like it wasn’t necessary. “How about ‘wrestling matches’? In that basement of yours, I mean."

"Speaking of wrestling," Zoey countered, "You haven't seen anything yet." She let her hand fall away from the wheel just long enough to flex her bicep casually. The veins there were thicker than his carotid artery.

“It’s been a while since you took me down in that basement,” she said, tilting her head at him with that infuriatingly knowing smirk.  "Juliya and I have been doing some pretty serious sparring lately. You know how much you like those topless wrestling chicks?" She let the question hang between them long enough for his eyes to widen. “She’s got moves, Brad. Real good ones.”

“Topless, huh?” He repeated, that slow grin stretching across his face like silk over expensive china. "Maybe this weekend we can have a little...viewing party?" he offered, the twinkle in those blue eyes making her want to park the Jeep on the side of I-95 and grab him right in the middle lane.

“You've been watching more Iron Maidens than I realized?” she said, letting that slow grin mirror his own. 

"Always a student," he murmured, settling back against the leather seat with an air of well-practiced casualness that didn’t quite disguise the heat radiating off him. "And there are so many things I'd love to learn from you." He sighed and leaned closer again, his voice dropping low enough to vibrate against her skin.  “Especially when it comes to those muscles.”

He was already braced for it – that unfettered hunger in her gaze, the way her fingers trailed down his chest like they were mapping constellations he'd never seen before – but nothing quite prepared him for how she took the reins of the night. It started with a muttered "Shut up and stand still" thrown over one shoulder as if the words themselves could somehow anchor the tremor in both their legs, then escalated to her practically ripping that linen shirt off his back.

His hands went reflexively to her hips, anchoring himself against her when she didn't just pull him close but shoved him backward with the force of someone vaulting a minor obstacle. She wasn’t going gentle tonight. Not that he ever minded gentleness, exactly – six years together meant there were plenty of evenings spent wrapped up in each other like two overstuffed cushions on a worn sofa – but this was something else entirely.

The tip of his tie still clung to her teeth as she shoved the rest of it loose with a muffled curse before letting go of him just enough to yank that damn linen shirt free and toss it across the entryway, landing in a crumpled heap near where the dog-eared copy of "The Great Gatsby" lay open on the worn floorboards – abandoned from one of his weekend reading sprees.

He didn't bother with a retort beyond grunting as she looped her arm around his neck and pulled him back into that proximity again, his head resting against her shoulder blade. The chlorine scent was more pungent here, mingled with something else he couldn’t quite place – sandalwood maybe? A new gym lotion she hadn’t tried before. Then it hit him: the faint tang of grapefruit essential oil from one of those fancy soaps they kept in their guest bathroom. She liked to shower in that stuff when he wasn't around, claiming it made her feel "rejuvenated." 

And right now, well, rejuvenated was putting it mildly. He could practically taste the damp heat of her skin against his cheek and smell it, too—a mix of salt, sun, and something faintly musky that always set him on edge when she was this close. The air seemed to crackle with it, making him ache for a touch more than just leaning there like a pair of old bathrobes tangled together on a rack after the dryer finished its cycle.

His fingers fumbled at the clasp of his loosened tie – her doing, not his – and he was rewarded when she let out that low moan as he tugged it free. It landed somewhere near the dog-eared Gatsby copy before he could even get a grip on his shirttail. That didn't matter much. He’d seen enough of Zoey naked to know this was going beyond formality anyway.

He braced himself against her, letting out a low rumble in his chest that might have been laughter or something closer to a purr as she shoved him back again with the force of someone clearing their throat and moving on. The front of his shirt came undone next – buttons ripped free more than they were unfastened – then it followed its predecessor onto the worn floorboards.  Zoey didn't give him time to think about how that was starting to feel like a goddamn ritual in this house. There wasn’t even time to register the heat radiating from her bare shoulders and across his chest before she had one hand snagged in the waistband of his boxers and the other tugging at the thin cotton of his undershirt.

"Don't tell me you’re wearing that stupid thing tonight," he murmured as the fabric came free, feeling her grin against the side of his neck even if he couldn’t see it yet. The faint tang of grapefruit soap was now a full-on citrus wave. He loved how she could turn something mundane into an event –  how everything with her was somehow more intense than what other guys would call “normal.”

He didn't have time for normal anyway. Not tonight. Not after the past two weeks spent watching his reflection in the mirror and wondering if the humidity or him had started looking a little like one of those faded silk robes they used to serve cocktails in back in the day at his old office building.

"You're just jealous," she said into the crook of his neck, her voice muffled but still carrying enough of its usual bite to send a pleasurable shiver down his spine, “that you don’t have biceps like these."

She pulled him upright with one hand on his hip and shoved his boxers down before he could even protest. The familiar way she handled him – not gentle, not rough, but just *hers* – sent a jolt of something that tasted like lust and longing straight into his gut. It wasn't the first time she’d stripped him bare in their hallway; it wouldn't be the last, he was sure. But there were nights when this little ritual felt more charged than usual, and tonight smelled like one of those nights.

"I'm not jealous," he murmured back into her damp shoulder skin as she finally let him go and leaned down to tug off his socks – the way she did it – all quick motions and efficient angles that made him think she’d been born in a goddamn locker room but somehow managed to keep a rose garden on their patio anyway.

"I'm just…" he paused for emphasis, then let himself be pulled forward by her hand until his hips were flush with hers. "I’m just happy to have someone who knows how to appreciate what I’ve got left."

And damn if that wasn’t the truth.  The heat of their bodies pressed together was like a switch flipped in mid-air. It sent a tremor through him, not just because he enjoyed being seen like this – naked and unashamed – by a woman who liked to make love with his hair tucked behind his ears and her hands roaming over places she’d never called ‘pretty,’ but also because that wasn't some new development. He was used to it.

Zoey wasn't just stripping him bare tonight; she was pulling back the years, letting them both get a little drunk on the way they could still make each other feel like something brand-new under this leaky roof of hers and despite everything that had happened since she’d started working out with those goddamn iron weights.

And then came the sound of her soft laugh against his skin when he leaned forward to tug at the knot of her tank top – a sound that always reminded him that no man on Earth'd ever been as lucky as him to be given this much space in which to make love with Zoey’s body.  He knew, though, that she wasn’t done yet. He could practically see how she saw him through those dark eyes – and he hoped for hell if he was wrong – that there were still things left undone in this ritual before either of them was ready for sleep.

She always looked at him as if he were some antique clockwork mechanism with a dozen gears grinding away beneath her touch, each one a little bit rusty from age but somehow working just fine when it came to her.  “Well, don’t you go getting all sentimental on me,” she murmured, leaning back against the wall behind them as if his question about appreciation had actually landed and settled somewhere in their usual way of making love – which was with an abundance of words and an even more significant lack of decorum.

His hand tightened around the strap of her tank top, and he grinned, a little hoarse from the heat rising to tangle itself with whatever else this was that she’d started stirring up inside him.

“Sentimental? Darling,” he said back at her – the way she always liked it when he called her ‘darling,’ even though he wasn't sure if she ever got tired of hearing him say it – “I’m just getting warmed up."

"Grandpa, huh?" he managed back, his voice rougher than necessary because even that little jab at him had set something loose down below that wasn't quite ready to be measured against her goddamn garden. He tried not to sound like the old bastard she sometimes claimed him to be when he started gruff and didn’t mind a bit if she thought so.

But it was also true – he couldn’t remember the last time he'd felt this much of a charge in his gut from just the sight of her standing there, that damned tank top hiked up on one shoulder to reveal the curve of her tits and the way those damn muscles flexed when she shifted her weight against the wall. "You're telling me," he said after another minute of mostly silence. At the same time, her hand went to the slight but still-solid bulge swinging free –  a little lower than usual, thanks to all that time spent bent over dumbbells in the gym, and a helluva lot more responsive than it had been two weeks ago when she’d last stripped him down on this same damn floorboards.

"That’s one thing about old guys like me," he rasped out – "we know how to keep things interesting." He wasn't sure if he meant the size of what was currently trying to peek past his boxers as they are around his ankles or if it was just the fact that after all these years, he still knew a damn good woman when he saw one.

"You’re forgetting about your ‘strong young man’ routine,” she murmured back at him as she shifted her weight – a little too much of an angle there for what felt like his own personal anatomy to take in without some bracing maneuver from the other side of the room.  He knew it wasn't just the way she liked to run those fingers across the small scar he had under his left eye when she was feeling affectionate, either – not with that one-eyed stare and a slow blink that made him feel like some goddamn prize animal at the county fair.

“Strong young man?” He echoed back as if she’d asked about the weather or something equally mundane.

He let out another low rumble in his chest, half chuckle, half groan, as he ran one hand down over the front of her hip. It was a little high for most women he’d known in his younger days. Still, Zoey always seemed to have a knack for making sure she reminded him that it wasn't just the size of whatever was still good and working at this point in their lives –  and hell, she didn't mind reminding him about other parts of her body that had learned to make use of what she’d been blessed with.

And blessed they were. Damn if those weren't the most incredible things he'd ever seen. They just hung there so full and firm beneath the stretch cotton of that faded tank top, a perfect pair of plump globes straining against the fabric like some rare breed of fruit about to burst from its skin. He loved how they dipped down between her breasts, those thick, dark areolas circling each nipple – little pink islands in an expanse of raven ink. He knew she'd probably just been standing there for a minute, letting that tank top ride up and settle into place before it finally felt like his turn to see them again.

But still, there was something about the way Zoey moved when that tank top finally came off – even when all she did was push her arms up past her shoulders and let it fall away from those goddamn muscles like some forgotten robe. Her firm tits were so amazing. She had a way of moving that always looked like she’d just gotten out of bed, but somehow also like she could throw him over her shoulder and carry him upstairs to the main bedroom if she felt like it.

He couldn't remember how many times he'd told her this. Still, he was pretty sure it would have been more than enough for a normal couple: that she didn’t need any goddamn yoga pants or whatever else they were selling these days with those stupid little pockets in them –  all she needed to wear was some thing that kept the rest of him from getting lost in what he had come to think of as her damn "garden."

"Well, look at me now," Zoey continued as if reading his thoughts. She had that same way of talking to him sometimes – like they were finishing each other's sentences even when she didn’t sound like it.  "What do you think?" Her voice was a low rumble against the silence of their hallway, and he could practically feel her hipbones digging into that damp spot where she leaned against the wall as if the damn thing had been waiting for her to use it just this way all along.

“About what?” He asked back – because hell, how else was he supposed to get at least another goddamn minute out of this before she decided to start pulling on his cock and maybe even get in a bit of light sparring before dinner.

She lifted her arms high enough for him to see the curve of the underside of twin beauties. There were probably muscles down there that would have been strong enough to do a fair amount of damage with just their weight, if she wanted them to be –  and he knew it was all just for show because she’d spent as much time on this damn hallway floorboards as any of the places they used to make love.

“This,” she said back at him. “Right here.”

She leaned a little harder against that wall, and her whole body tilted with the shift – not in a way that made him think she would fall anytime soon. Just enough to show off the fact that it wasn’t just muscle she had to work with down there; she'd managed to keep everything else toned up, too.

"And about time," he added back at her; this time, he meant it.

He took a step forward because even if he was still feeling like some goddamn prize animal himself –  well, that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to get into the ring with his damn opponent. And for God's sake, she wasn’t just any opponent; this was Zoey and her whole routine around letting him know how much she liked showing off what she’d been working on.

And this time it was a good thing too – because if he didn’t get into the ring with her soon enough, he might have forgotten how damn hard he still got when he looked at that little thong of hers riding up against the inside of her thigh as if it were going to be the last goddamn place on earth.

She had been right about him being all set for this match; even after six years together, she’d never managed to tire him out enough to forget what those damned muscles and curves could do to a man when he was still feeling like he'd got more than enough of everything left in him yet to make it worth fighting over.

He ran a hand down the smooth curve of his bare thigh and pulled at the waistband of her thong – just that one fingertip under there, trying to get a read on how much she wanted him to give her whatever kind of wrestling match was going on in her mind tonight.

"Well?" She asked back at him - with an impatient little twitch of one eyebrow, which he’d always found the most disconcerting thing about her – "Think you can handle that? Or are we just gonna stand here arguing while I wait for your approval again?”

He didn't have time to come up with something witty because she was already pulling back on his shirt and tugging him forward as if it was all decided.  She’d been doing this kind of thing since the day they met – taking charge of things like that, but he liked it and thrived on it. It meant she wasn't afraid to get what she wanted from him, sometimes even more.

It was just another goddamn chapter in their love life with Zoey – except this time it felt like something out of those old movies they used to watch together when his knee hadn’t started acting up so much that he couldn’t quite sit on the damn floor anymore to make himself comfortable for one of her movie nights. The kind of movies where everything seemed a little bit more… physical than what either of them had been managing lately, and hell if she wasn’t looking at him like he was supposed to know precisely what this chapter called for.

"Let's see about that," he rasped back at her – because as long as his knee didn’t give out on him right there in the hallway,  he was pretty sure they wouldn’t be arguing about it much longer anyway.   He took a breath and let himself lean into whatever she was going to throw at him next, figuring that if this was her idea of gentle lovemaking before dinner then he had better find out just what goddamn shape those thighs were in these days before he ended up trying to keep up with them all night long.

There was something about the way she looked at him right now – like a woman who knew exactly how much pressure she could put on his shoulder blade with one of those damn hands if she wanted to; that knowing look combined with what must have been her goddamn version of hell-bent determination made him want to see just how well he could keep up with her. At this point, all bets were off.

“Here’s what I think,” Zoey said back at him – and the way she drew out that first word meant she was about ready to lay down some ground rules for their lovemaking if she didn't get a better answer from him real soon. “I think we need to get going before dinner gets cold. And by 'going,' I mean getting this damn show on the road."
The worn nylon of the Lucky Charms Speedo felt like a second skin, stretched taut across decades of accumulated history. It clung stubbornly to his gut, refusing to quite settle into that familiar valley he’d once described as “a canyon carved by time and too much scotch.”  Brad pulled the elastic band around his hips, trying for nonchalance as he turned in front of Zoey.

She stood naked, arms crossed over her flat stomach, a predatory smirk on her full lips that always made him forget about his junk straining against his Speedo.  Her eyes were locked onto *him*, not just how it rode up at an impossible angle with every shift he made trying to settle into this ridiculous thing. He'd almost convinced himself she hadn't noticed when he finally wrestled both legs into the damned leg holes, but it was hard to tell if Zoey practiced pretending to be interested in anything but herself.

“Well?” She said, and there was no denying that voice sounded like someone who had decided they were the head referee for whatever kind of circus act he was doing for them now.

He cleared his throat because there always seemed to be too much dust in that spare room when it came time to do these kinds of things –  and she looked up at him with that damn shark grin of hers, as if he hadn’t known what she was going to say before the words even came out of her mouth.

“Three rounds, old man,” she said - and then he heard that little click in the back of his neck like when he turned too fast trying to get away from something he couldn't quite catch up with –  but it wasn't one of those goddamn cats she was always worried about getting knocked over by.

It was more like some internal clock starting its countdown because that’s how Zoey seemed to make him feel a lot of the time lately –  like he had this whole new set of rules for being in love with her and there wasn't enough goddamn caffeine in the world to keep up with all the changes.

"Three rounds,” He echoed back at her - but then he stopped because she hadn't looked away from him like that, not since he’d come back into this damn house and started trying to remember what it felt like to be seventy years old again without worrying too much about how long those memories were going to last.

“Round one,” She said –  and then he had to say something before she took off her bra or something, because that was how they did things these days - just a whole lot of goddamn standing around watching the other person trying to decide what to do next.

"Pin," He managed to get out, and he knew it wasn't even a complete sentence because he hadn’t gotten any further than making sure he could still remember how to breathe without forgetting about that damn speedo and everything else that was supposed to go along with getting old in this house.

“Correct,” Zoey said, and then she moved just slightly, one of those little shifts they seemed to make a lot these days. It was like the floor was trying to decide where it wanted them standing before they got used to being anywhere for more than five minutes at a time.

"But," She added, and he knew from the way her eyes looked up at him with that goddamn shark grin that there was something else coming –  like some addendum they both had to sign their names to before it could be official.

“No penetration,” she said - and then he remembered what had been going on in his office when he’d gotten caught jerking off to those two women wrestling with nothing but a couple of black shorts on.

He didn’t say anything about that, because Zoey was already moving again –  and by the time he realized he should probably try for something like "thank you" or maybe even "I get it," she'd moved clear across the goddamn room and had one foot propped up on a stack of those old gym mats they’d never gotten around to taking out of the garage.

“Round two,” She said –  and then he thought about trying to remember if this was how long it took her to explain things or if she just liked making him stand there in this goddamn speedo until he started feeling like a damn flamingo at one of those high school parties where everyone else had brought their booze and parents hadn’t cared what they did with it.

She didn't wait for him to catch up, not that there was much catching up to do when she was already standing over there on her goddamn mat like some kind of goddamn prize bull about ready to take a shot at whatever he had managed to get through all this damn preparation and still call his own body.

“Pin,” She said again –  and then he started wondering if that meant something different the second time around, or maybe it was just that she liked saying things twice when she wanted him to start remembering they weren’t talking about some goddamn stock report anymore.

“And this time,” Zoey added, with one of those little shifts of hers –  the kind where she seemed to be trying to decide if there were enough shadows in the room for her to get away with not wearing pants and still looking like a woman who had at least two good legs worth showing off.

He stopped shifting from foot to foot because he was pretty sure that was what she liked about those tight shorts, how they always looked a little too small when they were trying to hold everything in.

“Tit torture,” She said –  and then there was this long pause where it seemed like she might start laughing at him for standing there with his shirt pulled over his head and the thing wedged into his crotch looking like he was about ready to give up on being seventy years old altogether.

He cleared his throat again because that goddamn dust in this room was starting to feel like something more than just particles of drywall; it was like sand, gritty enough to make him wonder if maybe they should have used those damn gym mats for some goddamn beach party when he’d gotten back here last time. She hadn't been all over his goddamn legs with those damned clippers.

"That's the round two rules," Zoey said –  and then she finally looked away from him long enough to reach out and grab that stack of mats like it was supposed to be something other than just a couple of pieces of rubber they’d probably had to buy because his son had taken theirs home after one of those damn high school parties where the parents hadn't cared what they did with anything in the house.

He took a deep breath and tried to make himself remember what he was supposed to say next -  or maybe even what she was expecting him to do now that this whole round thing seemed like it wouldn’t be all about standing around. At the same time, she decided how much of her body she wanted showing off at any given moment.

“And then,” She said, and he realized she’d moved back over to the side of the room where his goddamn lucky speedo was still hanging there trying to decide if it was supposed to be a swimsuit or maybe one of those things people wore for charity walks.

He didn't say anything because he wasn't sure how much longer he could get away with standing here in this damn thing, especially after she’d decided that the best way to deal with his getting too excited about whatever was coming next was to start talking like a goddamn sports commentator at one of those college wrestling matches they used to watch when he still had some sense of what "getting old" meant.

She tapped her fingernail against one of the hooks on the wall –  the same ones she used for everything from hanging his shirts and socks to that goddamn set of keys he couldn’t seem to remember where he’d left them last week.

“And then,” She said again - and then she looked up at him, her eyes all dark brown like a couple of goddamn horseshoes they’d found in the barn when he was still able to go out there and check on the damn place before everything started getting too much work for his old bones.

“Round three,” She said –  and then that shark grin came back, stretched across her whole face like it had decided there wasn't going to be any more goddamn waiting around in this room; she was ready for whatever he could do and he knew she wouldn’t let him forget about it once the time came.

"Penetration," She said –  and then he finally remembered what those women on that damn video were doing with each other before he got caught trying to watch them get all tangled up in those black shorts while pretending to be interested enough to work out where he’d put his goddamn glasses so he could see the whole thing.

And she was watching him like a goddamn hawk, waiting for him to figure that part out -  because Zoey always did this –  made you feel like the dumbest goddamn guy in the world just because she liked seeing if you could still remember what it meant to be turned on by something other than the way the damn lights looked at dusk when they were going through one of those thunderstorms that left everything smelling like wet wool and rain-soaked dirt.

He cleared his throat again -  and then he said, “Alright,” as if he hadn’t known this was coming all along –  as if it wasn't like trying to remember which way the goddamn coffee pot was supposed to face before you even got around to figuring out where you left your goddamn keys.

He could feel that familiar heat rising again - and then she gave him one of those little nods she did when she’d gotten exactly what she wanted –  the kind that made it seem like they were both talking about some goddamn secret agreement he'd forgotten about until now.

“Get ready to rumble, old man,” she said. Then she turned back around and started moving her hands over the top of the tight thong, as if trying to decide if this wasn’t one of those days when you should go ahead and take them all off for good measure.

He knew she liked teasing him with the way his goddamn speedo tried to hold everything in –  that he'd seen it a thousand times before, mainly after they got back from some party or other event that had her wanting to show off those legs more than usual.

This time wasn't just about routine. The air itself thrummed with unspoken tension.  He couldn't even look away from her naked body, that sliver of thong clinging to her hips. It was more than the dust in the light, or his damn age. His cock throbbed hard – remembering how to 'rumble' felt like a forgotten muscle.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other –  trying to decide if maybe he should try taking off that damn shirt altogether before this whole thing got away from him; before she decided what those two women on the goddamn video had been doing with each other was just a warm-up for whatever it was they were going to do in this room after one of these rounds.

He cleared his throat again and then said, "Alright," as if that was all there was to it—as if somehow saying that word was enough to ensure the rest of it would fall into place.

"Good," Zoey said –  and then she turned around again, her back smooth and tanned except for a couple of faint lines running down each side from where those damn clippers had gotten too close during one of their last goddamn trips up to the beach.

She didn't look at him –  didn't even seem to be breathing much harder than usual –   just stood there with her shoulders squared. Those goddamn tight shorts stretched across her hips like they were trying to hold everything in place just a little longer before it decided that maybe this whole thing was too damn hard for them anymore.

He took a step toward the mats, his joints popping like old pennies underfoot -  and then he stopped because he’d gotten all tangled up thinking about how much older those goddamn shorts were than he remembered –  how they’d probably been in her closet before she even met him and just kept getting pulled out for these little wrestling matches whenever the mood struck.

He wanted to say something else –  wanted to try again with that "ready to rumble" thing before it got lost somewhere between his ears and whatever part of this house was supposed to be responsible for keeping track of all the goddamn words he'd learned in the last sixty years.

But she didn’t wait around -  she just turned her head back a little, one of those slow turns that made you wonder if maybe she wasn’t even sure anymore what part of this whole thing was supposed to be for show and which parts were accurate enough to matter once they got past all the goddamn dust in the room.

"Ready?" she said, her voice like a whistle blowing over a field. This made him wonder if he’d forgotten about being on time for something before this whole thing started.

He took another step forward and finally nodded because that was all he had to say before whatever happened next happened.

“Good,” She said again –  and then she gave him one of those little nods he’d been trying so hard to remember what the rest of meant - and this time it felt like she wasn't talking about something that had already decided its goddamn course, but something they were both still trying to figure out how to get back into before it was too late.

And then she gave him that look –  the one where her eyes narrowed up at the corners and you could tell she hadn’t forgotten anything he’d done wrong since the last time he’d gotten caught jerking off to those goddamn women wrestling on that video.


“Round one,” She said –  and then she moved toward him, her whole body swaying like something alive and dangerous instead of just a woman with a couple of good legs and a goddamn tight micro-thong.

The air hung thick, a damp shroud woven of chlorine from the pool, old sweat clinging to bare skin, and that tang of anticipation Zoey always seemed to brew like some heady perfume. She loved how tight the speedo rode him, felt the satisfying stretch across his ass cheeks as he crouched low, warming up on the mat. He looked good in it - taut, tanned, a vein throbbing stubbornly along the length of one thigh – like a goddamn redwood straining against the sun for another inch of sky.

He shifted, and that familiar coil pulsed taut between his legs, hot and insistent. Zoey’d dubbed it “The Rubber Hose” after they started this whole wrestling thing; she liked the image, the way it felt somehow less fragile than just "hard." It was always so goddamn hard against her when he pinned her –  like trying to hold a section of garden hose still while water gushed through it.

He looked like one of those statues in museums - stiff and serene with his arms stretched out on either side, hands gripping the mat edges to keep himself anchored to the damn floor before they started moving. It was cute. A little pathetic after six years of this thing. She wanted to grab that hose and shove it right up her snatch, to see him scrunch up like a goddamn fistful of wet rag. 

"Good," she said, and let it hang in the air between them before she added, "Don't get stiff."

It wasn’t fair. She knew he could feel it – that damned hose pressing against his thighs even with those shorts stretched thin across the front like some goddamn origami bird trying to hold everything together.  He was good at waiting, though. Goddamn patient - just like her momma used to tell him about when they were dating and she’d ask him how he could stand all that time before he got around to making love. He had this whole "slow burn" thing going on, which was fine until the goddamn match started and then it became more of a slow smolder trying not to set his ass hairs ablaze with every damn inch he couldn't get near her.

But right now? Now, she just liked watching him wrestle with that patience, waiting for her signal - like some kind of prize bull ready to charge at the gate once she swung it open.

He was good at this game they played, too.  Not so much good as used to it. The way he’d learned to keep his gaze locked on hers, never letting even a stray flicker travel past those goddamn blue eyes and down to where her hand rested, casually but deliberately, on the top of her shorts' band. She could feel that heat radiating off him like a furnace - how close he was trying to hold himself to the line before he launched into whatever this round was supposed to be about.

The timer clicked over, a soft thunk from the corner of their darkroom where she’d rigged up some old equipment for just these damn matches. It wasn’t time yet –  just enough light coming through that cracked window in there to see her when they were close enough, but not enough for him to know if she was already slick with sweat or just trying to look like she hadn't been working the goddamn hell out of herself getting ready.

She gave him a little nod and pushed off from the mat –  a couple of slow squats before launching into those quick arm circles he always tried to copy when they were done in the pool and all she’d wanted was to see if he could keep his goddamn lips sealed while she went after that tan line on his back with her goddamn fingers.

He mirrored her, moving like a goddamn well-oiled machine for an older man –  arms swinging wide, legs pumping slow and steady. The speedo rode high enough that it felt like she was practically tracing the outline of those damn nipples whenever he bent over to reach for another squat. He hadn’t even started sweating yet – not bad, considering how long this goddamn routine took him each time before he got around to trying to pin her down in something other than just a goddamn red speedo.

He was good at all that waiting business, though.  She could practically feel the way his dick pulsed against his tight shorts as he watched her -  like it was getting ready to launch itself out of that damn fabric every time she twisted too close, or let one of her arms come loose for a second and brush past him. The rubber hose throbbing with its goddamn rhythm - consistently so damned strong she could feel the heat from it even through the thin cotton of his briefs.

It drove her crazy. It always had –  the way he held himself back, trying to make sure some goddamn accidental touch didn’t waste all that waiting before they were ready for real. She liked taking those few minutes with him, watching him get impatient while she stayed calm and collected in the middle of it all - like she was the one who had all the goddamn time in the world.

She bounced lightly on her toes –  that little muscle twitch at the base of her spine always went crazy when he got that close to being ready.  He tried not to look down there, but you could tell by how much tenser he was getting around the shoulders -  the way his neck strained against the collarbone like he didn’t want his head to snap back and give him away before she even let him get a move on her.

“Ready?” She asked –  and then she laughed, low in her throat, because he had that damn tight little frown etched between his brows again, trying to make sure those goddamn blue eyes were still fixed on hers as if the rest of him wasn’t practically vibrating in place waiting for permission to start moving like one of those goddamn mechanical toys he used to collect before they'd gone through all this.

“Ready,” He rasped –  and then his hands shot out, fingers closing around her waist with a sudden grip that surprised even her. She’d been expecting something smooth and controlled -  maybe even a little hesitant since it was round one, and he liked to make sure they both had their footing before things got too wild.

But not tonight. Tonight he just came at her like some goddamn bull out of the gate. Snatched her up –  not entirely carried, but more like she’d gotten caught in a sudden riptide and was dragged forward by the force of it all –  and slammed them both onto the mat with his thigh pinning her down hard enough to make air whistle out of her lungs.

She wriggled against him, though -  didn't let him pin her entirely until she got that angle just right. It felt like a goddamn featherbed compared to how tight he usually went when he finally lost control and gave in to the whole damn hose thing –  but it was enough. Enough to hear his breath rasping hot over her cheekbone, smell the sharp tang of him, feel those fingers digging into her ribs with something that wasn't quite possessiveness but more like a goddamn vice grip trying to keep her from slipping away entirely.

“Good,” she said –  and let out a little grunt as he shifted his weight, letting one leg slide over hers so he was pinning her flat on the mat and just barely holding her back with that rubber hose against the small of her back - like he was afraid if he moved any closer it would turn into a goddamn firehose.



The timer clicked again –  and she knew it meant something because she could feel him tense up, those damn fingers digging deeper into her ribs as if trying to anchor himself against whatever this second round held for them. The light in the corner of the room turned on with that same soft thunk he’d let out when he finally pinned her down. It wasn't time yet, but it was close enough.

And then she heard him sigh, a long rasping thing like some older man letting go of all the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since they started wrestling. The way his hand came to rest on top of hers, not quite touching but still so damned near it –  made her think about how much skin they'd gotten used to sharing over six years and maybe that was why she couldn’t help the little whine escaping her lips when he finally got that damn hose situated right between his speedo.

The way his fingers curled around hers, not quite a grip but more like holding onto some goddamn life raft in the middle of an ocean of need –   made it easy to see what he was trying to do. He wasn't going to wait for this round to get started -  not with that hose throbbing against her like a damn metronome. That hand resting on top of hers, fingers just shy enough to brush his palm against the inside of her thigh while she lay there pinned down waiting for him to find whatever it was he needed.

It wasn't quite time yet – but then again, sometimes Zoey decided what "time" meant in their matches. She didn’t move a muscle –  just let out another little moan when one of his goddamn fingers finally brushed across the top of her thigh and felt that whole hose thing start to pulse even harder against her skin as if trying to decide whether it was going to burst or explode its way through the goddamn thong.

He looked down at her -  finally broke from that lock with his eyes, letting them fall to where she knew they’d be heading next: the way he had this habit of looking at her like she was some goddamn mystery novel every time he let himself get close enough. And then – damn near instantly after –  he turned back up. He tried to kiss her again before he lost his nerve or that timer in the corner finally decided it wasn’t just a goddamn suggestion anymore, but something that needed to be obeyed.

He went for that open mouth thing they both liked -  the kind that felt like being sucked into him headfirst rather than just meeting halfway – and then he paused again, pulled back just enough so he could suck the air in between his teeth and ask, “Is it time?”

It was never a question. It was more like one of those goddamn little rituals they had going on -  him needing to hear her say something that permitted him even if she wasn’t sure what the hell "time" meant anymore since the last couple rounds always seemed to bleed into each other anyway.

“It is,” She said –  and then let out a little huff of laughter because he was already back down, trying to shove his damn lips onto hers again before those timer lights got going and the whole thing started for real. It wasn’t exactly how she liked her goddamn lovemaking - all rushed and frantic - but he never seemed to notice much after that first push in and it always ended up being good enough for both of them anyway.

The timer clicked on –  a little blue glow spilled into the room just as his lips finally found hers.

 The kiss was all frantic tongue and hot, hungry breath, his fingers already scrabbling at the elastic of her speedo as if trying to rip it clean off before they even had a chance to get their bearings in this second round.  He tasted like chlorine and that cologne he’d worn since college – something about pine needles and woodsmoke – but mostly just like need, like desperation to close the damn distance between them before it could stretch out again like some goddamn elastic band snapping back against the wall after a good tug.

She let him get most of the way there –  let him suck a ragged breath in through his teeth as he tried to yank those damned shorts down over her hips. Still, then she stopped him with a hand on his chest, holding him back just enough that it made him tilt his head up and give her this half-mad look all tangled up with some goddamn desperation that was probably the closest thing to pure joy he ever managed anymore.

“Hold on,” She said –  and then let out one of those little wheezy breaths she did whenever things got too much for her, which was always when it came to him getting this close and still not being able to put his goddamn hands where they belonged. “Not yet.”

He nodded –  like he wasn’t even sure what else there was left to do after six years of these goddamn matches. Let her hold him back just like that, with a hand on the front of his chest that felt damn near hollowing out against his ribs, and then waited for whatever it was she wanted from him before he could try again.

"Second round," She said –  and let out another little grunt when his thumb found its way under the elastic waistband of those shorts to scratch at her thigh through the thin cotton there. “Round two, remember?”

He went to speak –  probably going for one of those “good”s she knew were supposed to mean something but never quite did in this whole thing between them - but then he stopped himself again because he’d gotten so used to waiting on her cues that now the only goddamn sound coming from him was that bit puffing noise his lips made whenever he had to hold back all those words about how she looked too damn good, or how much she smelled like chlorine and sweat and whatever the hell else she kept getting into out by the pool –  or just plain old “yes.”

“This time,” She said –  and then took a slow breath that seemed designed to make him tense up even more because his hand was already starting to creep under those damn shorts again, trying to get closer and closer with each of those little fingertip scratches against her skin.

“I want you to grab them.”

She made sure to say “them” –  so it wasn’t just about the goddamn way he always had his hand on one of them whenever they were doing that damn slow-motion wrestling thing in their bedroom, but those two whole mounds she'd worked so hard on over the last six years. She liked the way the fabric shifted against her skin when he finally got both hands under there –  like she was trying to hold onto something and had gotten caught in a goddamn riptide of wanting him too damn close for comfort.

“Grab them good,” She went on –  and let out another little huff, like it was hard work just getting the words out because that’s what he did when he got close enough. He squeezed those hands around her boobs and she wanted to tell him how much better he’d gotten at this in the last year or so - but then he started tugging on one of them –  and that always made her want to stop talking altogether.

"Suck them good too," She said –  and then added, "Make me scream."

It wasn’t like she needed him to get rough with them to make a sound -  she was a goddamn hurricane out there when he finally got close enough to use his mouth correctly – but it was the kind of thing he had this habit of doing before they moved onto whatever else they were going to do next. Like some weird ritual about making sure she could still cry out loud even after all these years together and how much time he’d been taking from her now that she was so goddamn big around the middle.

He went for it then –  one hand holding tight on one of her breasts like it was going to burst free and escape his grasp if he let go too soon. At the same time, the other hand came up to grab at her ribs just below the shoulder blade and tugged back against that same muscle she felt tightening all over again when he finally got those lips onto hers.

He didn't try to suck them down into a kiss like they’d been doing before -  not this time – but went straight for that open-mouthed thing where you could taste the wet of his tongue and hear the little clicks it made against her skin as if he was trying to figure out which one of those goddamn tits was going to be first.

"Okay, so," He said –  and then let out a breathy sound like some sigh or maybe even a question when he finally had both of them in his mouth and started working on that tugging thing where he pulled at her nipples with his tongue. "Safe word?”

“Pineapple,” She managed to say between those little choked gasps that came whenever he got the rhythm going just right -  the one where he’d suck one tit until it felt like a goddamn drumskin, then switch to the other and repeat. “Say 'pineapple' if I get too loud for you.”

He kept his eyes on her face –  tried to keep them locked with hers even though she could see him getting all over those damn tits because they were so damn close together now. He liked to keep both of them in view at once while he worked on them like some goddamn artist who couldn’t decide which one of his brushes was the best for the job.

“Pineapple,” He said –  and then went back to whatever rhythm that was where it felt like she was going to explode with each suck and tug before he finally let go, just enough so those damn nipples could get some goddamn air, then grabbed them both again and went right back to trying to figure out which one he liked best.

“Pineapple,” He said again –  and this time there wasn’t that questioning note in his voice anymore –  just a little rasp like he was getting used to saying it while keeping those tits practically on their goddamn tour of duty around the inside of his mouth.

Zoey let out another one of those strangled moans and knew it meant she hadn’t made it to “pineapple” yet, which wasn't exactly surprising since he was just starting to get into whatever that second-round thing was for him. It wasn't so rough as it was all over the place –  like someone had thrown a handful of loose change in the air. He was trying to catch them with his tongue and teeth while keeping those damn hands moving like some goddamn conductor trying to make sure they were both going in the right direction at once.

She hadn't been wrong about what she liked -  he was making her scream – just not the one way or the other that meant anything before this whole thing started again on the floor of their basement wrestling room. It wasn't like he didn't know how to make her cry out for mercy –  it just took a little longer to figure out what kind of sound was right in this round and what she meant by “rough” when it came to those goddamn tits.

She could feel him getting more into it –  the way his lips moved faster, the way he’d suck one tit down almost to where it disappeared inside his mouth before switching over and trying to do the same thing again -  and then that little rasp of a laugh against her skin when she finally managed to get both hands up there and grip him by the hair at the back of his head.

"That's right, honey,” She said –   and let out another moan as he started to tug on one of those tits hard enough to make it feel like the whole goddamn thing was going to pull loose from her body if he kept at that rhythm too long. "Yeah, keep doing that."

She liked the way she felt all tangled up in him and still had some control -  enough control to tell him what he needed to do next while he tried to figure out what kind of goddamn symphony they were going to make with those two tits and his mouth and the sound of her damn breathing.

It wasn’t so much that she wanted him to hurt them –   not really. But there was something about getting them worked over good in a way where it felt like he was trying to find all the goddamn corners of her chest, all the angles he could get his tongue and teeth into before he finally gave up and decided one or the other was going to be the lucky winner of whatever this round had in store for it.

She liked the little grunts and clicks he made when she squeezed his hair –  the way he’d use his thumbs to pinch her nipple hard enough to make it feel like it was about to burst open at the seams, but not quite there yet. And then the way he always went back to sucking on that one tit just before she could get too used to those damn little pinches and started waiting for the next pull of the skin –   like he wanted her to forget how good a suckling could be until it was all over again, and then start counting down from zero with him.

She had plenty of time before it got loud enough that she needed to yell “pineapple.” It wasn’t like he didn't know how to slow down –   it was more about getting used to this new way of starting the match and not just jumping straight into whatever round-two thing they both did until one of them could get some goddamn air in their lungs.

And if she had any luck, tonight would be the night he finally figured out what it meant when a woman told him she liked it rough –  and that maybe this time, instead of just her yelling “pineapple” and then having to hold on for dear life until they both got tired enough to do something else besides trying to figure each other out with their hands and mouths.

The way he was working those tits right now -   the way his whole goddamn body tensed up like it was made of clockwork every time he went from one nipple to the other –   it felt like maybe this time there was a chance for him to get into something besides just trying not to break her in half with that first round kiss and then figuring out which tit was going to be his goddamn queen for the rest of the match.

Maybe tonight -  maybe tonight he’d finally figure out what it meant to make her scream before she even had a chance to yell “pineapple” at all.

The sudden sharp buzz from the corner of the room ripped through the symphony of sucking, tugging, and Zoey’s strangled little cries like a goddamn gong signaling the end of some ancient ritual.

The buzzer was their pretense – a goddamn light switch to signal structure when these matches had none. She didn’t budge; she only gave that breathy sigh he knew meant he could sink his teeth back in soon enough.  He wasn't hanging from one tit like some desperate sailor clinging to driftwood anymore. Not after all this time.

Round two had always been about something else anyway. Rough-housing with those hands wasn't quite clicking yet - he was still figuring out what that meant - but it didn’t matter. The second his lips moved from her nipples to her dazed, wide eyes, the air between them twisted. Zoey felt it.

The air in the room had thickened with damp heat that wasn't just from her being there but from whatever it was he kept doing down there on the mat when she finally let go and started to breathe again. And if there was one thing Zoey knew about this damn love affair -   it was that sometimes what you needed was less light and a goddamn lot more of those two things:  sweat and sighs, in no particular order.

"Let’s just skip round three,” she said – her voice husky like someone’s been running their fingers up the inside of a dusty record sleeve for about five minutes straight before finally getting it to play -   “and just get on the mat.”

That stare... hell, even after six years, he couldn't decipher it. It wasn't just wanting him hard enough to snap his spine in two – there was an edge, like she'd caught a new taste of him while pinning him down earlier. This goddamn room had always been her oven, heat radiating before they ever touched. But this time, how she looked at him meant something from those last few minutes when she was tangled around him and screaming for 'pineapple'.

She smiled -  that slow-spreading, teeth showing, tongue poking out between them kind that usually meant he was about to be eaten alive by something more than just his goddamn desire -   and said "Fuck me hard, Brad. That’s what I want.”

And even after six years of knowing her –   knowing how she liked it when the room felt like a sauna and there wasn't enough light left to see where they were going until halfway through round three anyway –  the way she said his name then made him feel like he was suddenly back on some goddamn first date again.

He didn’t even have time to answer -  not really –   before she was getting up off the floor and shuffling over towards him with a bit of hip sway that looked more like what the hell it was in this room than anything you'd see at one of her goddamn press conferences down by the stadium.

He stood, fighting the stiffness in his knees, trying to mask the hard-on he'd been sporting for minutes while she thought she was being subtle. But how could you not stand when she looked at you like that? Maybe that was it – make sure every inch of him remembered what was happening down there. At the same time, Zoey decided if he deserved a ride back to their little punching bag corner..."

She moved to sit between his legs -  not kneeling exactly –   but like someone tired of fighting gravity and had found a way to let it help her instead. She worked at that damn speedo with those long goddamn fingernails, the kind you couldn't tell were real until they caught the light right just as he got too busy down there looking at where she’d been working them up into a frenzy before getting all tangled up in trying to decide what the hell came first -   the tugging or the sucking.

Then it was off and away she went –  sliding that goddamn red speedo down his legs like she was picking off layers of something he wasn’t quite ready to let go of yet, but somehow knew was part of some ritual they both needed for things to get going right.

And then there he stood -   naked and hard as a goddamn board –  the kind you can't precisely bend without someone yelling “pineapple” or something like that –  and wondering how the hell she could always make it look so easy when she was doing all of this, even when he was the one who’d been trying to hold her up against that wall in the kitchen while his shirt still had goddamn food stains on it from last night's dinner and they both knew what that meant.

"Ready for your best blow job yet?" She asked -   her tongue coming out to lick at those lips like a damn dog when he got close enough, or maybe like one of those goddamn lizards who eats flies –  and then started stroking him with the hand that wasn’t still working her way around his cock to get it ready for whatever she had planned.

He could only manage something like "Yeah," -   the kind of grunt you make when your chest feels all packed up with air and there isn't room for anything else, not even a goddamn question mark –   and let the rest of it settle down around his dick as if he was some goddamn water tower that had just gotten used to being empty. 

It wasn't like she needed him to do more, but it felt like that might be enough after all this time. Perhaps tonight they could skip past the light switches and the damned buzzers and get on with whatever was waiting for them over there in the corner where the old punching bag hung from those rusty chains and didn't mind if you had to wrestle each other around it before everything finally got too loud to hear what the hell either one of you was yelling out anymore.

She was working him pretty good –   he could feel her fingernails getting further down his shaft, not like she was trying to dig her way inside or anything - but more like she wanted to make sure he knew exactly where she was going to put that goddamn mouth once she'd gotten the rest of this damn show started.

He leaned back against the doorframe –   the one they’d always used for round two since it had those little dimples in the wood from when somebody hadn't quite figured out how to use a hammer straight and there was never any room to tell them about that kind of thing before they got too far along -  and tried to breathe without making any noise he wasn’t sure she wanted him to be hearing.

Because tonight it felt like maybe, just maybe, the air in this goddamn spare room might not be thick enough for all of it -   not with how much of her there was left on that mat and what little light they were using –  and if she kept looking at him like that when she got closer to his cock than he ever thought anyone could get without actually starting to suck, then he was going to end up needing a goddamn bucket for something more than just the sweat.

But he wasn’t complaining -   not exactly.

Not anymore.
“Don’t worry, sugar,” she murmured, her voice thick with something hotter than just lust as she finally got his cock in position – nestled against those big goddamn lips of hers like it was some prizefighter being lined up at the bell for the main event. “Gonna make you scream like nobody ever has before.”

There was that little pause where he’d always try to figure out what goddamn noise she meant, as if there wasn't enough variety in those things anyway –   the ones that came from his damn chest and the ones that managed to get all choked up when he couldn't quite remember which word of hers was supposed to be getting sucked back into her mouth. In contrast, the other one went on out.

“Gonna give you a show, Brad,” she continued -  that little hand still working its way down his shaft as if it hadn't already made sure he knew what kind of goddamn attention he was about to get –   “gonna make sure that head of yours doesn’t know which goddamn direction to turn in first.”

The tip of her tongue poked out from between those lips and swept over the base where things got all smooth and dark down there -   and she didn't bother with any of that light teasing bullshit he was used to by now.

“Like a little hot dog, ain’t it?” She said –   her voice muffled up against him but somehow still clear enough for him to hear every goddamn syllable like one of those old-timey radios where the announcer sounded like he was talking from inside a goddamn tin can –   “Just waiting for somebody to take a good bite out of it. And honey,” -  that little hand finally got around his cock, and not just to hold onto him now, but to make sure he didn’t get all stiff-legged on the floor while she worked at this damn thing like she was trying to pick apart some goddamn puzzle with her teeth –   “I’m gonna take a good big bite.”

Then it was down -  down past that head and those little bumps that always made him want to grab onto whatever he could find in the room, even if it meant starting to tear at one of those goddamn old shirts hanging up on the door. But this time she wasn't just sucking –   not really. Not with just her mouth. It was more like she’d gotten ahold of some vacuum cleaner down there and then decided to make sure every part of him knew about it at once.

She sucked him back into that soft darkness -  the one she always made between those lips, the one where he couldn't quite see her anymore but could still smell whatever the hell she was using on herself in between matches -   and his whole goddamn body started to feel like something somebody had poured honey all over and then left out in a windowsill too hot for him even to try getting away.

But there was this rhythm to it –   this way of working his cock back and forth against that little roof of hers, with the tip still buried under those lips and her tongue doing its own goddamn thing on the shaft like she was trying to make sure he couldn’t forget about what a goddamn mess she could make of him.  She had a hand at the base now –   holding onto him tight enough so it felt like she didn’t even want him moving, but loose enough that there was this little give when her head rolled back and sucked something up inside of him again.

It wasn’t just what she did down there either –   it was how she talked about it the whole time.  “Like a goddamn hot rod engine,” she said once -   her voice all husky and wet against his shaft –   “needs to be worked right if you want it to scream.”

Then, when he’d managed to get this much further up inside of her and wasn’t quite sure what was making him so goddamn hard in the first place: “See how that head throbs back there?” -   that hand had stopped at his balls now –   “Feels like somebody just slapped a good six-volt battery onto it. That’s what you get when you let me handle business.”

He didn't even know how to answer most of the time –  not without making some noise that was half groan and half laugh at the way she kept finding new words for the goddamn feelings inside him. He tried not to move too much, not with how good it felt just having her down there working on him like he was a goddamn piece of sculpture -   and yet, he couldn't help but shift his hips now and then, just enough so that she’d get this little hitch in her rhythm when she swallowed him back in and had to chase after him with that damn tongue again.

And the whole time -  even while he was busy trying not to sound like a goddamn strangled cat –   he knew she wasn’t just sucking on him because it felt good for both of them. He could see how much she liked watching the way his face changed whenever she got somewhere new with her mouth –  how she leaned back and held onto those stiff muscles that ran down from his chest to make sure he didn't let himself get too far away from what he was supposed to be listening to.

She wanted him to see it all -   the tightness in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked when her tongue found a good spot, how even though he never made any goddamn sound about this thing –   she could always tell when she’d finally gotten past that little wall he had built up somewhere around his bellybutton and he was starting to feel it. And with him like that, half-lost in the feeling of her mouth against him but still trying not to show his goddamn hand, she knew this wasn't just about pleasure –   this was about control.

She could take what little he’d let himself be vulnerable enough to offer up and make something more out of it than either one of them had thought possible back when they were both young enough to believe that kind of thing happened on the first goddamn date.

This was about making sure he knew how much she wanted him –   how completely she owned whatever little piece of him let himself go every time she got those lips around something new -  and how, just maybe, if she kept showing him what a good goddamn lover she could be then he’d learn to be one for her in return finally.

It wasn't just that he was hard –   it was that when she looked at him, even while all the rest of his body felt like it was melting into something soft and sweet enough to eat with a spoon, he knew she was watching him the same way a goddamn artist watches over her best work.

That room full of sweat and old boxing equipment was enough for Zoey. It was all she ever really needed to get started.

There wasn’t a lot of warning – not with the kind of rhythm she'd got going down there, anyway.

It just happened like one of those goddamn fireworks shows you see over some lake on the Fourth of July –   a slow build-up where you think it might be another fifteen minutes before anything bursts, then BAM! The whole goddamn sky’s lit up in a million pieces at once and there’s not much left to do but sit there blinking like an owl trying to figure out if something worth remembering just happened or if you were still half-asleep when they started the damn thing.

First it was that little hitch in her sucking -  like she'd suddenly remembered she wasn't just supposed to keep going with those slow, steady circles anymore –   and then a whole new kind of suck started happening: faster, hungrier, like he wasn’t just some goddamn pretzel she could wind around and unwind again whenever she felt like it.

Then came the little grunts -  not the ones that made him sound like somebody had put his head in a jar full of honey –   but these guttural sounds, low down in her chest like she was trying to suck something bigger than just him into that throat of hers and it was taking all damn effort to keep from coming apart at the seams.

And then it hit, not as a jolt anymore, but a wildfire wave starting in his balls and roaring up his legs. His chest was next – air pumped into his lungs like blacksmith bellows, a drum solo pounding against his ribs.

The hand that wasn’t already holding onto him tight enough so he could feel every muscle bunching and unbunching under his touch it snagged up at the side of his head. It pulled him back against her, just in time for whatever was coming next to hit with that force you get when somebody's been keeping their damn foot on the gas pedal too long and suddenly slams into reverse.

She sucked like she was fishing out every last goddamn echo from within him, not just swallowing.  He choked back a gasp somewhere behind his ears and braced himself as her hand squeezed tight on those straining balls – keeping him tethered while everything else went liquid.

Then came that sweet little quiet after it all -   the kind where you’re not quite sure if you can hear anything at all or if your damn breathing is making all the noise, and then there’s this smell –  like hot metal when somebody lets go of a piece that's been in the forge too long. But here it was coming from inside his head and he could feel the way she shifted against him as if she was trying to let her whole goddamn body catch up with what just happened down there.

There was something about that smell, though –  something sweeter than any old metal –   and he knew even before he opened his eyes that it wasn't just because of how hard he’d come and spilled some of himself all over those lips of hers.

He could feel the little wet heat of her tongue moving against his shaft, working at the base where she always seemed to find a way to make him shiver even when it was nothing but the back end of things that was supposed to be getting cooled down. And he didn’t have enough sense left in him to do more than groan and pull himself closer while she did this thing with her mouth –   this way of moving it over him like she was trying to make sure every goddamn drop of his sweat found its way back into the right place.

He smelled that sweet-hot tang again -   and he didn’t even need to open his eyes all the way to see what part of her head had finally made it down far enough to leave some of herself behind there on his skin.

“Damn, Zoey,” he managed after a while –  the word coming out like somebody had squeezed the air right out of him first before letting him say it.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that -   him leaning against her like he was half-spent and she still somehow managing to keep going with whatever rhythm she’d found in all this –  just sucking and tasting and humming little things under her breath that sounded more like a cat purring than anything else.

But then the hand at his head loosened its grip, and she pulled back just enough for him to look up at her face without moving his whole body around. He couldn’t say he’d ever seen anything quite like it -  not from any of those women he’d taken out when he was still chasing around what they called ‘the good life.’

Her hair was a mess –   tangled with sweat and strands sticking to that damp skin around her hairline. There wasn’t much blush left in her cheeks –   it mainly had gone back under that tan, but there were these little pink spots clustered around the base of her nose where it looked like she’d been trying hard not to smile for a minute or two before finally giving up and letting some accurate color come back.

He watched her swallow then—the whole thing with those dark lips coming together over that small white space between her teeth. He saw how her tongue went to the inside of her cheek while she worked on getting it all straight again.

Then she looked back at him -   and when she finally did smile –   it wasn’t just a goddamn curve of her mouth and nothing else. It was like something had opened up in the whole damn space around her eyes, like she’d let a little light leak out from somewhere deep inside herself where it hadn’t seen daylight for years.

“Well?” he asked finally –   because even with how tired his voice sounded, there wasn’t a single goddamn thing left to do but see what she was going to say about all this next.

She cocked her head back and gave him that little laugh that always made the rest of him feel like he should be in some trouble even if he couldn't quite remember what for.

"Well," she said –   and then came a pause -   then, "Brad?"  It was soft as if she was trying to decide if the word itself could carry all the weight of what she had to say about him and how much of it might be too much for some goddamn older man who’d spent half his life keeping things nice and tidy.

"You feelin' like I should get you a goddamn napkin?"

He laughed then –   a real, full laugh that rumbled up from somewhere down in his chest and took care of itself without any help from him -   and the smile just spread wider when she made this little frown at him -  the same way she always did when he tried to make light of something.

"I feel like I should be on my knees," he said –    trying not to sound too tired, but that was what it came down to -   and then he closed his eyes again because there wasn’t any other way he could get through this without sounding stupid. "I feel like you should have been the one with your head stuck in somebody's lap for a change."

She didn't say anything right away –  just leaned back enough to let him breathe easier while still keeping that hand on the side of his face, and he could feel the way she kept stroking his cheekbone with those fingers.

Then she said -   "I been meaning to tell you something.”

The first time he’d heard her say it –  it had sounded like some goddamn threat from one of those old-timey movies where women always meant business. This time though –   it sounded softer, the way it came out between that little laugh she kept doing now and then when she wasn't quite sure what else to do with herself around him.

He waited -    not knowing if he could even manage a “What?” without sounding like he was asking for his supper on a goddamn silver platter.

“Don’t get all quiet on me, old man,” she said –  and then the little frown came back over her eyes, and he knew she wasn’t going to let him off easy this time. "Just because I got tired of looking at you like that -   like you were some kinda goddamn antique vase somebody’d just polished up for a museum piece, doesn’t mean I ain't heard down here.”

She gave him this little squeeze –  and it wasn't much, but he could feel how hard those muscles in her hand had gotten working around his jawbone. Then she said -   “And that's why I wanted to hear you say something about what happens when I do all this goddamn work for you.”

He opened his eyes then –  and finally saw the whole damn thing: not just those eyes of hers –   but how her face was still wet with sweat from being half-buried in him, and how those little pink spots were even brighter now where they’d spread out to cover most of that cheekbone under his hand.

It wasn't just pretty either -   it was like she wasn't afraid to show him every goddamn thing about herself –   the sweat and the shine and the way her whole face was still working like a muscle even when she was trying to keep quiet.

He wanted to say something then -   something witty and clever enough for them both to feel good about it later on –   but all he could manage was, "Well..."  -   like some goddamn kid who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and hadn’t quite figured out how to get away without being punished.

She laughed then -   that same way she did when she thought he was about to say something stupid –    and it was like a bell chime ringing through all those years he'd spent trying to keep up with whatever else had been happening around him instead of just listening. 

"Well, what?"

He shook his head, and then that goddamn smile came back –   the one she always gave him when he’d finally decided she was right about something. “You’re somethin’ else,” he said. "I swear to God… I feel like somebody took my insides out and strung them up on a clothesline to dry in the sun.”

The little frown came back over her brow -   the one that made him want to reach down and brush his fingers across those smooth, hard lines between her eyes. “That’s not enough?”

"No," he said –   and then, "Not nearly." He drew a deep breath then –  trying to find the right words again, as she always seemed able to do.

“It's like you got some kind of goddamn map inside your mouth, Zoey,” he said finally – “You know exactly where everything’s supposed to be and how much pressure each damn little corner needs before it comes undone.”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute, just keeping that frown over her eyes, as if trying to figure out if he meant what he was saying or if this was one of those times when his old man ramblings would just let him off the hook.

Then she said –   “And that’s why I love you so much?”

He shook his head again -    and felt her laugh shake against his cheekbone like somebody else’s whole body had just started to move in time with hers.  "You ain't ever gonna get tired of hearing me say it, are ya?"

She didn't answer that –   just leaned up and let him brush a finger across the tip of her nose -  that same way he always did when she was trying not to laugh at him too loud in front of somebody who might think they were just some goddamn kids.

Then she said – "It’s important.”

And that tiny sound, quiet as it was –   it meant something else altogether than the time he'd heard her say it before when they'd both been half-naked and arguing about which one of them needed to go out and buy more goddamn laundry detergent.

This time it meant she’d finally decided what she thought about all those long hours he spent trying to look busy at that office down in the city –   all that walking around with his hands jammed in his pockets like a damn schoolmarm making sure nobody was getting up to too much mischief. At the same time, they waited for the goddamn clock to tell them when they could leave.

This time it meant she didn’t need him to say any more about what she did down there –   didn't need him to explain why he felt like somebody had taken all that old, tired-out machinery inside him and given it a new engine, or how much brighter the whole goddamn world seemed now whenever she walked through a door.

He just had to keep her looking at him the way she was then –   with those dark eyes tilted up from under their brows like he’d told her something that might finally be worth remembering about this old man who kept showing up with more wrinkles and less patience every time he saw his reflection in a mirror.

The air felt different now -  less like they were stuck inside some goddamn airplane hangar waiting for the next flight, and more like it was just them two against the whole damn world out there –   and that world could go on making whatever kind of noise it wanted as long as she kept looking at him like this.

It meant he had six years’ worth of catching up to do –    six years’ worth of proving that even when his bones creaked. His hair looked like somebody’d scattered a handful of cotton balls across his head; there was still something down here in the space where he used to be able to tell her what she wanted to hear before she started asking him.

It meant that when he finally got out of his chair and leaned over to kiss her this time, he didn't need to ask if it was okay first.

He just kissed her –  and held on tight enough so they both knew he wasn’t going anywhere until the whole world stopped spinning for a minute or two to give him back his breath.

There wasn’t a lot of warning – not with the kind of rhythm she'd got going down there, anyway.

It just happened like one of those goddamn fireworks shows you see over some lake on the Fourth of July –   a slow build-up where you think it might be another fifteen minutes before anything bursts, then BAM! The whole goddamn sky’s lit up in a million pieces at once and there’s not much left to do but sit there blinking like an owl trying to figure out if something worth remembering just happened or if you were still half-asleep when they started the damn thing.

First it was that little hitch in her sucking -  like she'd suddenly remembered she wasn't just supposed to keep going with those slow, steady circles anymore –   and then a whole new kind of suck started happening: faster, hungrier, like he wasn’t just some goddamn pretzel she could wind around and unwind again whenever she felt like it.

Then came the little grunts -  not the ones that made him sound like somebody had put his head in a jar full of honey –   but these guttural sounds, low down in her chest like she was trying to suck something bigger than just him into that throat of hers and it was taking all damn effort to keep from coming apart at the seams.

And finally -  finally! –  it hit him with that force you could never quite plan on: not really. It wasn't so much a single jolt, not anymore, but this whole goddamn wave of heat starting somewhere around his balls and spreading out through those legs like a wildfire trying to get up onto the roof before they could close all the goddamn windows. He felt it in his chest too –   like somebody had taken one of those big ol' bellows they used in the blacksmith shop back when he was still young enough to help his father on Saturdays –   and pumped full air right into his rib cage until it sounded like a goddamn drum solo inside his skin.

The hand that wasn’t already holding onto him tight enough so he could feel every muscle bunching and unbunching under his touch snagged up at the side of his head. It pulled him back against her, just in time for whatever was coming next to hit with that force you get when somebody's been keeping their damn foot on the gas pedal too long and suddenly slams into reverse.

Zoey sucked harder –   not just sucking down then swallowing like she usually did -   but more like she was trying to grab up all the goddamn noise inside him in one big, hot gulp.  There was a little gasp that came from somewhere behind his ears when it happened -  the kind he didn’t even know he could make anymore –  and her hand went down and squeezed hard around those balls of his like she was trying to make sure they weren't going to fly off into the goddamn rafters while this whole thing was happening.

Then came that sweet little quiet after it all -   the kind where you’re not quite sure if you can hear anything at all or if your damn breathing is making all the noise, and then there’s this smell –  like hot metal when somebody lets go of a piece that's been in the forge too long. But here it was coming from inside his head and he could feel the way she shifted against him as if she was trying to let her whole goddamn body catch up with what just happened down there.

There was something about that smell, though –  something sweeter than any old metal –   and he knew even before he opened his eyes that it wasn't just because of how hard he’d come and spilled some of himself all over those lips of hers.

He could feel the little wet heat of her tongue moving against his shaft, working at the base where she always seemed to find a way to make him shiver even when it was nothing but the back end of things that was supposed to be getting cooled down. And he didn’t have enough sense left in him to do more than groan and pull himself closer while she did this thing with her mouth –   this way of moving it over him like she was trying to make sure every goddamn drop of his sweat found its way back into the right place.

He smelled that sweet-hot tang again -   and he didn’t even need to open his eyes all the way to see what part of her head had finally made it down far enough to leave some of herself behind there on his skin.

“Damn, Zoey,” he managed after a while –  the word coming out like somebody had squeezed the air right out of him first before letting him say it.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that -   him leaning against her like he was half-spent and she still somehow managing to keep going with whatever rhythm she’d found in all this –  just sucking and tasting and humming little things under her breath that sounded more like a cat purring than anything else.

But then the hand at his head loosened its grip, and she pulled back just enough for him to look up at her face without moving his whole body around. He couldn’t say he’d ever seen anything quite like it -  not from any of those women he’d taken out when he was still chasing around what they called ‘the good life.’

Her hair was a mess –   tangled with sweat and strands sticking to that damp skin around her hairline. There wasn’t much blush left in her cheeks –   it mainly had gone back under that tan, but there were these little pink spots clustered around the base of her nose where it looked like she’d been trying hard not to smile for a minute or two before finally giving up and letting some accurate color come back.

He watched her swallow then—the whole thing with those dark lips coming together over that small white space between her teeth. He saw how her tongue went to the inside of her cheek while she worked on getting it all straight again.

Then she looked back at him -   and when she finally did smile –   it wasn’t just a goddamn curve of her mouth and nothing else. It was like something had opened up in the whole damn space around her eyes, like she’d let a little light leak out from somewhere deep inside herself where it hadn’t seen daylight for years.

“Well?” he asked finally –   because even with how tired his voice sounded, there wasn’t a single goddamn thing left to do but see what she was going to say about all this next.

She cocked her head back and gave him that little laugh that always made the rest of him feel like he should be in some trouble even if he couldn't quite remember what for.

"Well," she said –   and then came a pause -   then, "Brad?"  It was soft as if she was trying to decide if the word itself could carry all the weight of what she had to say about him and how much of it might be too much for some goddamn older man who’d spent half his life keeping things nice and tidy.

"You feelin' like I should get you a goddamn napkin?"

He laughed then –   a real, full laugh that rumbled up from somewhere down in his chest and took care of itself without any help from him -   and the smile just spread wider when she made this little frown at him -  the same way she always did when he tried to make light of something.

"I feel like I should be on my knees," he said –    trying not to sound too tired, but that was what it came down to -   and then he closed his eyes again because there wasn’t any other way he could get through this without sounding stupid. "I feel like you should have been the one with your head stuck in somebody's lap for a change."

She didn't say anything right away –  just leaned back enough to let him breathe easier while still keeping that hand on the side of his face, and he could feel the way she kept stroking his cheekbone with those fingers.

Then she said -   "I been meaning to tell you something.”

The first time he’d heard her say it –  it had sounded like some goddamn threat from one of those old-timey movies where women always meant business. This time though –   it sounded softer, the way it came out between that little laugh she kept doing now and then when she wasn't quite sure what else to do with herself around him.

He waited -    not knowing if he could even manage a “What?” without sounding like he was asking for his supper on a goddamn silver platter.

“Don’t get all quiet on me, old man,” she said –  and then the little frown came back over her eyes, and he knew she wasn’t going to let him off easy this time. "Just because I got tired of looking at you like that -   like you were some kinda goddamn antique vase somebody’d just polished up for a museum piece, doesn’t mean I ain't heard all the way down here.”

She gave him this little squeeze –  and it wasn't much, but he could feel how hard those muscles in her hand had gotten working around his jawbone. Then she said -   “And that's why I wanted to hear you say something about what happens when I do all this goddamn work for you.”

He opened his eyes then –  and finally saw the whole damn thing: not just those eyes of hers –   but how her face was still wet with sweat from being half-buried in him, and how those little pink spots were even brighter now where they’d spread out to cover most of that cheekbone under his hand.

It wasn't just pretty either -   it was like she wasn't afraid to show him every goddamn thing about herself –   the sweat and the shine and the way her whole face was still working like a muscle even when she was trying to keep quiet.

He wanted to say something then -   something witty and clever enough for them both to feel good about it later on –   but all he could manage was, "Well..."  -   like some goddamn kid who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and hadn’t quite figured out how to get away without being punished.

She laughed then -   that same way she did when she thought he was about to say something stupid –    and it was like a bell chime ringing through all those years he'd spent trying to keep up with whatever else had been happening around him instead of just listening. 

"Well, what?"

He shook his head, and then that goddamn smile came back –   the one she always gave him when he’d finally decided she was right about something. “You’re somethin’ else,” he said. "I swear to God… I feel like somebody took my insides out and strung them up on a clothesline to dry in the sun.”

The little frown came back over her brow -   the one that made him want to reach down and brush his fingers across those smooth, hard lines between her eyes. “That’s not enough?”

"No," he said –   and then, "Not nearly." He drew a deep breath then –  trying to find the right words again, as she always seemed able to do.

“It's like you got some kind of goddamn map inside your mouth, Zoey,” he said finally – “You know exactly where everything’s supposed to be and how much pressure each damn little corner needs before it comes undone.”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute, just kept that frown over her eyes, as if trying to figure out if he meant what he was saying or if this was one of those times when his old man ramblings would let him off the hook.

Then she said –   “And that’s why I love you so much?”

He shook his head again -    and felt her laugh shake against his cheekbone like somebody else’s whole body had just started to move in time with hers.  "You ain't ever gonna get tired of hearing me say it, are ya?"

She didn't answer that –   just leaned up and let him brush a finger across the tip of her nose -  that same way he always did when she was trying not to laugh at him too loud in front of somebody who might think they were just some goddamn kids.

Then she said – "It’s important.”

And that tiny sound, quiet as it was –   it meant something else altogether than the time he'd heard her say it before when they'd both been half-naked and arguing about which one of them needed to go out and buy more goddamn laundry detergent.

This time it meant she’d finally decided what she thought about all those long hours he spent trying to look busy at that office down in the city –   all that walking around with his hands jammed in his pockets like a damn schoolmarm making sure nobody was getting up to too much mischief. At the same time, they waited for the goddamn clock to tell them when they could leave.

This time it meant she didn’t need him to say any more about what she did down there –   didn't need him to explain why he felt like somebody had taken all that old, tired-out machinery inside him and given it a new engine, or how much brighter the whole goddamn world seemed now whenever she walked through a door.

He just had to keep her looking at him the way she was then –   with those dark eyes tilted up from under their brows like he’d told her something that might finally be worth remembering about this old man who kept showing up with more wrinkles and less patience every time he saw his reflection in a mirror.

The air felt different now -  less like they were stuck inside some goddamn airplane hangar waiting for the next flight, and more like it was just them two against the whole damn world out there –   and that world could go on making whatever kind of noise it wanted as long as she kept looking at him like this.

It meant he had six years’ worth of catching up to do –    six years’ worth of proving that even when his bones creaked. His hair looked like somebody’d scattered a handful of cotton balls across his head; there was still something down here in the space where he used to be able to tell her what she wanted to hear before she started asking him.

It meant that when he finally got out of his chair and leaned over to kiss her this time, he didn't need to ask if it was okay first.

He just kissed her –  and held on tight enough so they both knew he wasn’t going anywhere until the whole goddamn world stopped spinning for a minute or two to give him back his breath.