Chapter Text
Helena’s forced, girlish laugh rings too brightly against the rim of her Chardonnay. It spills from her mouth delicately, one beat behind the man’s anecdote about the intricacies of building shadow into watercolours. That laugh isn’t false entirely— he’s a nice enough guy, and vaguely amusing— but it belongs to a woman more patient than she feels. She balances the stem of her glass between two fingers and tips it toward her lips.
“Of course, it’s about absence as much as presence. What isn’t painted becomes more potent than what is.”
“Mmhm."
She nods as though she’s following, but her eyes drift over his shoulder toward the mirror behind the bar. She catches her own reflection. Black dress, halter neck, cinched tight at the waist. Lipstick in a subtle, dusky pink. Hair coiled and pinned to show the length of her neck. She looks like she came here to be seen.
And Irving hasn’t looked once.
He rambles, aimlessly, about lowlighting and negative space. His eyes are fixed firmly on hers, as if engaging in polite conversation matters much more than the bare skin of her collarbones. Helena shifts slightly on the stool, crossing her legs so the slit of her dress rides up another inch, just to test him. Nothing.
The bar she chose is deliberate. Slightly outside of the Ganz campus, far enough that few students make the journey out, but close enough to attract the professors. Friday night before mid-semester break and they’re ready to blow off steam. Maybe drag home an attractive stranger for a round or two of mediocre sex.
Around her is a hum of noise. Low laughter, darts thudding against the board. Glassware clinking as it is rinsed and stacked. Helena wants it louder. Wants a hand sliding up her thigh in the alcove next to the needlessly retro pinball machine. Teeth catching and tugging at her earlobe. She wants the kind of night that her body holds onto for a week and a half after. Instead, she has a kind, oblivious man who averts his eyes as Helena twirls a strand of hair around her finger.
“The thing about watercolour, Helena, is there’s no room for hesitation. Once the pigment bleeds into the paper, that’s it. No going back.”
Helena titters a playful laugh, batting her eyelashes. “That’s so interesting.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” Irving beams. “And surprised. I’m afraid it is not a fashionable medium among the youth.”
“Youth? You must be trying to flatter me, I’m a little past thirty.”
Thirty seven, but who’s counting?
Irving chuckles. “And I am more than old enough to be your father, my dear.”
He means it genuinely, lets it pass without weight. But fuck, does it spark something low in her body. She has always found comfort in the gravity of an older man. A professor's certainty. Someone with calm, steady hands nudging her knees apart. Her wine tastes sharper for it. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
Irving clears his throat, then excuses himself to the bathroom. Helena sighs through her nose, long and drawn out, then tips back the last of her wine. She sets the empty glass down with a sharper clink than she intends.
“Fuck,” she hisses beneath her breath. This is taking too long. She should’ve been flat on her back in a stranger's apartment by now.
The stool beside her scrapes.
“Buy me a drink and I’ll give you some advice.”
Helena turns toward the voice. The man, if she can call him that, is barely legal. He's twenty three at most. Long, black hair falls across his brow. He sweeps it back while flashing her a boyish grin. His jeans are scuffed at the knees, leather letterman jacket slung over the bar beside him. His big brown eyes shine with a shameless kind of charm.
“Tell me, um…?” She flicks two fingers toward him.
“Mark.”
“Tell me, Mark. Why would I do that?”
“Because…“ he lifts a brow.
“Helena.”
His tongue flicks across the tip of his pointed canine as he smirks.
“Because you need it, Helena.” He leans against the bar. The scent of his cheap cologne scratches the back of her throat. “And you look like you can afford the top shelf stuff.”
Helena’s lip quirks. She should laugh him off. Tell him to run along back to his friends. But something about the nerve of him sparks her interest. A small strike of flint against the hollow.
She gestures to the bartender. “Two glasses of Yamazaki twelve. Neat.”
True to his word, Mark holds his tongue until the glasses land between them on the bar. He lifts it, amused, and takes a long sip before speaking. She doesn’t miss the way he tries to disguise a cough as it burns the back of his throat.
“Alright, advice. You’re wasting your time with Professor Bailiff.”
“Excuse me?”
“Guy’s gay,” he smirks over the rim of his glass. “You could flash him your tits and he’d ask you who designed the bra.”
The sting is sharp and humiliating. A red flush rises to her cheeks before she can swallow it down. She thinks of the last hour spent leaning closer, twirling her hair, trying to angle herself into his gaze.
She tightens her jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure I do. Had him for Art History last semester and I can promise you he’s not picking up whatever you’re laying down.”
“Mm.”
She wants to be offended, but lands somewhere closer to amused relief. Breathing a little lighter knowing she isn’t invisible, just mis-aimed. She taps a nail against of the rim of her glass, then stills when she realises she’s fidgeting.
“And how do you know I’m not out here trying to make a friend?”
He drags his eyes un-subtly to the slit in her dress, then back up to her face. “You’re not.” He grins wider now, all boyish and cocky.
Before she manages a retort, Irving reappears, drying his hands on a paper towel.
“It was lovely to meet you, Helena, but I ought to be getting home to my husband.”
She blinks. It’s almost funny, the way the universe decides to rub salt in the wound.
”Of course. Great to meet you,” Helena nods.
“And you.” He nods then glances at Mark. “Take care.”
“You too, Professor.”
Irving fastens his coat, smiles at them both, and slips into the crowd. Beside her, Mark smirks into his glass. She blows a soft breath through her nose, shaking her head at his audacity.
“Smartass,” she mutters. “Okay. What about that guy?” She points across the bar, where a relatively handsome man with graying hair is throwing darts.
Mark follows the line of her finger.
“Professor Kilmer? No way.”
“Why not?”
“He’s still pining over his ex-wife. He talks about her every lecture. Guaranteed he’ll cry when he comes, if he can get it up in the first place.”
Helena’s laughter escapes in a sharp, sudden bubble. She clamps her fingers over her mouth to muffle the sound, but not before Mark looks thrilled to have earned it.
“He’s your Professor. You can’t say that,” she chides.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
The game begins. She points out a man in a sports coat nursing a beer. Mark counters that he’s got a ring tan and an unaware wife waiting at home. He nods toward a sleek blond in a suit at the end of the bar. She shakes her head, says he looks like he’s wearing enough hair product to stain her silk sheets. They volley suggestions back and forth, tearing the room into possibilities and knock backs.
“Him in the blue shirt?”
“Double denim,” Mark grimaces. “Pros: he’ll be grateful. Cons: he’ll be grateful.”
Her body hums with the attention. The way his eyes drift back to her after searching the crowd. Subtle, fleeting glances as he looks her up and down. He’s nothing like the man she thought she wanted tonight. Not older, not composed, not the man with a steady hand. He’s youthful and dangerous. Handsome. Charming. Quick with his words, and either brazen or jaw droppingly dumb enough to sit down beside her like he earned it.
She can’t stop looking at the curve of his mouth when he smiles. The flush at the edge of his cheekbone. The way he sits loose and sprawling on the stool, like the bar is his living room.
“The guy in the hat?”
”Okay now I know you’re messing with me. Who the fuck wears a hat to a bar?”
Helena groans, tipping her head back in frustration. Wine has lowered her inhibitions just enough for the words to slip out before she can catch them. “Why is this so complicated? I just want to come.”
There’s silence for a beat while a delightful blush creep from beneath his collar and surges upward until his ears are tinged pink. He tries to hide it with a deep swallow of whiskey, but his wide eyes betray him. Satisfaction unfurls through Helena as she watches him squirm, learning in real time to stick to sorority girls his own age.
Then, he edges toward her. Close enough that his breath finds the shell of her ear. His voice drops in volume but not in tone, it’s the same playful energy, like he’s offering her gum under the desk.
“I bet you fifty bucks I can make you come in under ten minutes.”
It knocks a laugh out of her, she’ll give him that much. She lets the laugh turn into a scoff as she angles her face toward his. “Please. You don’t look like you have fifty dollars to give me when you lose.”
“I’m not going to lose.”
His eyes drop to her mouth, brief as the click of a lighter and every bit as searing. When his eyes return to hers, the air between them tightens.
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not going to happen.”
His grin flashes. “Give me eight.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Helena croons, and there’s a condescending curl to the end of it she cannot resist. “I could spend eight minutes explaining why the answer is no, and that would be a far better use of both of our time.”
He looks up at her through long, thick lashes, undeterred by her attempt at callousness. “One chance?”
“I’m not letting you take me back to some student rental with a sock over the doorknob.”
“Your place, then? I promise I’m house trained.”
“You’re way too young for me.”
“Aren’t you a grad student?”
“Now you’re trying too hard.”
Helena should not be charmed by his obvious attempt at flattery. Unfortunately, he tilts his head and smirks and shifts closer as his tongue darts out to wet his lips all at the same time, and Helena is extremely fucking charmed. She hates that her heart is behaving like a teenager’s. Hates that she’s grinning while trying not to. Hates the crystal clear image she has of his enticingly large hands, strong and obedient at her waist.
Hope is so unbecoming on an older man. Sometimes, the moment she realises a man wants her, it extinguishes her desire. Yet, somehow, feeling the eager desperation radiating from him ignites a hunger in her. She came here to be taken, she did not expect to be begged.
The word yes is lapping at her ankles, like warm ocean water, beckoning her to edge past the sign that says no swimming.
She lifts her brow. “Under ten minutes?”
“Scout’s honour.”
Her remaining whiskey goes down in a single, clean swallow. “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here.”
“Are you serious?”
“Now, before I change my mind.”
“Yes,” he hisses, pumping his fist in triumph.
Briefly, Helena suspects that despite his endearing charm and beautiful brown eyes, this kid actually might be a bit of a loser. It warms her to him more than it ought to.
She doesn’t give him the chance to bask in his celebration. Her hand snaps around his wrist and she yanks him off the stool. Chairs scrape. Glasses clink. She drops enough cash onto the bar to cover their drinks and an overgenerous tip, and Mark’s eyes widen as he gawps. Helena drags him through the crowd until they push through the door and cold snaps at her bare calves.
Mark follows behind her, breath fogged in front of him, zipping his jacket to the neck. She regrets bitterly her decision to forgo a coat this evening. Crosses her arms lamely over herself to stave off the chill.
”Fuck, it’s cold,” he mutters through gritted teeth, then looks down to where she is shivering beisde him. “Oh, shoot. My bad.”
Before she can speak, he’s already shrugging out of his jacket. A cracked leather, oversized thing that gives his lithe frame the illusion of appearing athletic. There’s something so heartwarmingly awkward in the gesture. A blush rises to his cheeks while he holds it out to her.
“Mark, you don’t need to give me your jacket.”
“Come on,” he insists with a bashful smile. “My mom would turn in her grave if she saw me forgetting my manners.”
Helena’s mouth twitches. A small grimace pulls at one corner. Dead mom. Of course he has a dead mother and a heart full of unresolved trauma. She can already see the edges of it. The soft, chivalrous boy who trips over himself to bed older women, desperate for the affection he misses.
“You actually look a little like her, too. With the red hair, and—”
“Okay.” Helena holds up her hand to cut him off. “I can’t do this.”
Her reaction sparks a burst of laughter from him. It tumbles from his lips, loud and uncontained, warm enough to tame her instinct for cruelty. “Kidding!” he chuckles, nudging her side. “My mom’s old, and brunette. And alive. And boring. Like, impossibly normal, as a parent. No mommy issues here. I just wanted to freak you out.”
Relief floods her as she exhales a disbelieving laugh.
“You’re an asshole.”
He beams, delighted. “I know.”
She lets him drape the jacket over her shoulders. It smells like cheap aftershave that comes in a holiday gift set. The edge brushes her collarbone, and she’s aware, suddenly, of how warm he runs. The jacket holds it like a second skin, the fading heat of his body seeping into hers until her black, glossy town car glides up to the curb.
Mark whistles low. “Whoa. Fancy Uber.”
“It’s a private car.”
“Fuck. That’s so cool.”
She flicks her wrist to the driver, signaling for him not to get out, then opens the door herself. The leather interior is warm and dark. She slides in first, taking the far seat, and watches him from the corner of her eye as he climbs in after her. He flops down and closes the door behind him, eyes darting about the cabin in awe.
“This is like some James Bond shit. Are you a spy?” He twists to look through the blacked out window, then cranes to look into the front seat. “Ooh—there’s climate control back here.” He lunches for the digital panel on the back of the console between the seats.
Helena swats his hand away. “Don’t touch that.”
“Sorry. I think this car might be nicer than my apartment.”
He slings one arm loosely behind his head, but the verbal stream of consciousness doesn’t slow.
“So. That thing I said earlier—‘Scout’s honour’—actually kind of funny, right? Because my last name’s Scout. Mark Scout.” He shoots her a look like he expects her to take note, then he barrels on. “What about you? What’s your last name? Or did you wanna do the whole anonymous thing? That’s fine too.”
“Mmhm.”
He glances toward the window, watching the city blur past, before turning back with a flash of teeth. “I’m a history major. Two more years. Not sure what I want to do after. Did you go to college? If I had to guess your major, I’d say law. But maybe that’s just because—“
Helena’s attention, which has drifted to the gloss of his hair in the low cabin light, snaps briefly into place. “Wait. Did you say two more years?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck,” she says softly. “How old are you?”
His grin crooks. “Twenty-one. Don’t worry. I bombed freshman year and needed a do-over.”
“Thank God.”
She exhales through her nose and looks out the opposite window. He doesn’t ask how old she is, and she doesn’t volunteer the information. A few seconds pass in quiet. The city softens into shapes around them, all glowing storefronts and blurred neon. Mark fidgets again, knee bouncing slightly, thumb tracing the seam of his jeans.
“So, do you work nearby? I don’t think I asked what you do—”
Helena cuts him off before he can restart the monologue.
“Mark, why don’t you come sit a little closer to me, hmm?”
He freezes for half a beat, then grins from ear to ear. He slides across the back seat until their thighs are touching, worn rugged denim meets expensive crushed velvet. Helena tilts her head, exposing her neck to him like an offering. She taps two fingers on the column of her throat.
“It’s sweet, your incessant need to get to know me, but how about you put those lips to better use?”
Mark’s jaw slackens for just a moment before he lunges, then he’s on her. His mouth is warm against her skin, frighteningly eager. He doesn’t peck, there’s no gradual build. He laps at her. Presses. Lets his lips part to nip gently at the skin between kisses. It’s sloppy and enthusiastic, and sends a jolt of arousal straight to her core.
She hisses sharply through her teeth as she feels him sucking hard.
“Ah. Don’t you dare give me a hickey.”
He pulls back, grinning sheepishly. “Not even a little one?”
“Control yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He kisses higher this time. Softer. Nuzzles against the edge of her jaw and then up to her earlobe, which he captures lightly between his teeth. Obedient and eager. Fuck, he’s dangerous. She doesn’t moan. She’s not giving him that yet. But she does let her legs fall slightly apart, just enough for the possibility to hang there, electric in the air between them.
-x-
“Holy shit. This place is awesome.”
Mark’s voice echoes slightly across the polished floor. He stands just inside the threshold, taking in the expanse of the foyer. The lights are low. Automated and sensibly dimmed at night, but they catch the sheen of glass and steel, the hard edges of furniture too elegant to be comforting.
His enthusiasm is genuine, childlike. Infectious, almost. Which makes it worse, because to her, the place is nothing.
Nothing warm. Nothing soft. Still as cold and lifeless as the day her father designed it. Every chrome fixture and glossy white wall. Six years he’s been dead and she hasn’t changed a single thing. Couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Couldn’t make it hers. The house still belongs to his absence.
She steps out of her heels by the door. The jacket Mark gave her hangs awkwardly over her frame. She peels it off without ceremony and drapes it across the coat rack, watching him drift further into the house like he’s touring a gallery. She follows him, trying to see her world through his eyes.
Cold. Impersonal. Sterile. Just a few of the adjectives that spring to mind.
“Wow. This kitchen is so shiny,” he beams, tilting his head with a grin. “Like a spaceship.”
Helena snorts. There’s that too, she supposes. Stainless steel, polished chrome, glass. The island gleams. The bar stools have never been used. The fridge is built into the cabinetry, seamless and cold, like everything else here. But sure, it’s shiny.
“There’s vodka in the freezer if you want a drink.”
Mark opens three cupboards before he finds it. She pulls two tumblers from the shelf above the sink. Square-edged crystal, obnoxiously heavy, impossible to hold properly. The kind of glass someone choses for aesthetic over convenience. Her father, probably. Or one of his architects. She never liked them. She uses them anyway.
Mark slides the freezer drawer closed and whistles again. “Damn,” he says, lifting the bottle. “You’re like rich-rich.”
He holds the bottle up to the light, inspecting the label with care.
“Should’ve bet you more money,” he adds, winking.
Helena chuckles. “Speaking of,” she says, glancing at her watch. “I believe you’re on the clock.”
Mark goes still.
He sets the bottle down with a soft thunk, then turns to face her fully. For a moment he just looks at her, serious for the first time since stepping inside. Then he steps forward with purpose. Backs her up until her spine meets the edge of the counter. His hands bracket either side of her waist, close enough that she can feel the heat of them. He leans in, breath soft against her cheek, lips so close they nearly touch her jaw.
“Believe me, Helena, you’ll know when the clock starts.”
It’s stupid. It’s a line. But her whole body reacts—an inhale she doesn’t mean to take, a flutter in her belly, a sharp pulse low behind her hipbones. She keeps her face composed, her mouth unsmiling, but it takes effort.
He watches her for a beat longer, then pulls back slightly and flashes her a lopsided grin. “How about that drink?”
She nods. He pours.
He doesn’t settle. Instead, he drifts toward the living room like a cat nosing at a half-open door. Helena watches, bemused by his audacity. Drawers glide open. Cabinet hinges squeak. He’s exploring, talking out loud in a loose, unfiltered stream. Helena barely absorbs any of it, tries to avoid answering questions where she can. He grew up somewhere upstate. Has a sister. Drove a toyota corolla until it broke down and he couldn’t afford to get it fixed.
He lingers by the built-in stereo, crouching in front of the narrow shelf beside it. She hears the clack of cases being thumbed through and smiles faintly to herself when he groans in horror at her sparse collection, promising to bring her some better music next time.
Helena has a one night stand on the last Friday of every quarter. It’s regular, and predictable, and it’s never like this. Never in her home. Minimal talk, minimal personal details, and certainly no time to browse her fucking music shelf. She’s an Eagan — which, granted, doesn’t mean what it used to now that the name will certainly die with her and a handful of her father’s bastards. But even still, she prefers to remain safely out of reach of anybody who pries.
Yet, here Mark is, nosing through her paltry collection like it’s a window into her soul. Forty-five minutes, and they’re still fully clothed. Forty-five minutes, and he’s barely touched her since they walked in the door. Just a few glances, a soft laugh, a passing flirtation and ceaseless questions about whether she plays an instrument, or if she believes in ghosts.
She’s getting restless — her body tight with want, pulse coiled low in her belly. But there’s something about the way he moves through her home that makes her hesitate to stop him. It’s charming. And so blatantly genuine she almost feels guilty that he hasn’t seemed to realise that whatever is happening right now, it’s for one night only.
“Did you have pets growing up?”
The question is so casual it blindsides her. She sets her glass down. “There was a fox,” she says.
Mark looks up. Waits.
“It lived in the yard when I was young. A vixen, I think. Thin and sharp and fast. I used to sit in the window and watch her. Hours, sometimes. She’d sneak through the shrubs at the edge of the tree line like a flame. I… I loved her more than most people love their dogs.”
He’s still now. She keeps going.
“I used to pocket the egg slices from my breakfast to feed her. I’d leave them at the edge of the lawn and watch from my bedroom window until she ate them. One morning, my father caught me. That was all it took.”
She turns her gaze toward the far window. Floor-to-ceiling glass, black with night.
“A week later, the fox was mounted in his office. He said it was so I could see her properly.”
The silence in the room is absolute. Mark doesn’t try to joke. Doesn’t speak for several seconds. Then he sets the CD down and walks over to her.
“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly.
And he means it. She can see it in his face, the unfiltered sorrow of someone young enough to still be startled by cruelty. He covers her hand with his own. His fingers are warm. Broad. Her palm turns beneath his without thinking, and they lace their fingers together.
Mark drops his voice to a whisper. “Helena, I want to learn everything about you.”
Her chest tightens. Something burning catches in her ribs. She looks down at their hands, then back up at him.
“Okay,” she says softly. “I think that’s enough foreplay.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. She pulls him by the hand down the hallway, past the vapid artwork and toward the bedroom at the back of the house.
-x-
Helena’s bedroom mirrors the rest of the house. One wall is all glass. The others are stark white. Her bed sits in the center of one wall, low and sprawling, wrapped in crisp white sheets. One nightstand. No art. No photographs. Anything personal— her perfume and her underwear and her books, what little scraps of colour exist in this place— is tucked behind sliding panel doors like contraband. The space shows no signs of being lived in.
“This some kind of guest room?”
“No, it’s mine.”
“Oh.”
Mark glances at her, like he’s waiting for more. When none comes, he shifts awkwardly and toes off his sneakers. They land askew. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
She smirks. “If you need to back out, I can call you a cab.”
His head snaps up and there’s that grin again. Loose and cocky and a little uneven. “Go sit on the bed.”
It’s not a command so much as a dare.
Helena lets him have it. Glides toward the edge of the mattress and sits, carefully, crossing her legs at the knee. She tilts her wrist and checks her watch. Then looks up at him, arching one eyebrow.
“Tick tock.”
He approaches slowly.
There’s something in the way he moves now. Confident. Sure of himself. He stops in front of her, standing while she remains seated, and for a moment she’s struck by the way he fills the space. He isn’t a tall man, but his shadow hangs over her, boxing her in.
His hand comes up and slips behind her neck. Fingers brushing skin. She stiffens, just slightly, but he doesn’t rush. He finds the clasp of her hair clip. Unfastens it. Tosses it onto the bed beside her. Her hair tumbles down over her shoulders in a dark, auburn ringlets.
“You’re fucking beautiful.”
She wants to look away.
Before she can, he leans in. His lips brush hers, barely. A ghost of a kiss. Not enough to satisfy, only enough to ignite. When she leans forward instinctively, he pulls back, smirking.
“Lie down.”
She does.
Her body stretches across the bed, muscles loose, dress riding up slightly with the shift. Mark drops to the floor in front of her.
He starts at her knee.
A kiss, soft and slow, placed just on the inside, where the skin is thinner. His hands slide up her thighs, coaxing her legs apart. Her dress bunches as he moves, fabric gathering in his palms. When he reaches mid-thigh, he stops. Looks up at her.
“You good?” he asks softly.
Helena nods. Her breath comes light.
He kisses higher.
Again, and again. A trail, deliberate and achingly slow. He mouths against her inner thigh. She shifts, adjusts, lets her weight settle back into the mattress. One hand rests against her stomach. The other tangles in the sheets.
“You’re running out of time,” she murmurs, voice lazy and teasing.
Mark chuckles against her skin.
“Do I need to find you something better to do with your mouth?”
She’s still laughing when he hooks both arms under her thighs and yanks her toward him. The laugh cuts off in a sharp inhale. Her back arches as he drags her to the edge of the bed with a strength that surprises her. The dress is up around her waist in seconds. He presses his nose to her panties—thin lace, already damp—and inhales deep.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You smell so fucking good.”
She bucks into him, instinctive, but he holds her down. Strong arms. Hands gripping hard. He kisses her through the lace. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. Hot breath soaking the fabric. He licks her like he’s starved for it, tongue dragging slow and wide over her center.
“God. I knew you’d taste sweet. Knew it.”
Helena shudders.
His tongue circles her clit. Over and over. Then flicks. Then flattens again. His lips close around her through the panties and suck deep and wet, leaving her shaking. Her hand finds his hair. Fingers curl into his thick, dark locks. She pulls.
He groans into her.
“You like that?”
He nods against her, nose buried in the crease of her thigh.
She tightens her grip. He fists the waistband of her panties and yanks. The sound of tearing fabric is sharp. He tosses the ruined scrap over his shoulder and doesn’t apologize. He just spreads her open and dives in, moaning like she’s something divine. The next minutes stretch, thick and molten. His mouth works her slowly at first, with languid, open-mouthed licks that make her head spin. Then faster. Then deeper. His hands grip her hips like he’s holding on for dear life, tongue insistent, greedy.
It’s pathetic, really, how quickly she feels her orgasm coil. She wants to slow it down. Wants to draw this out. But she’s greedy and desperate and God, it has been years since anybody did this for her.
Her fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face. Her thighs twitch, legs tightening around his shoulders. Her body arches, clenches. Her breath catches— and then she comes. Hard. Shaking. Whimpering as he continues, relentless. He slows only when her body starts to squirm from oversensitivity.
He kisses her inner thigh gently, then rests his cheek there. She props herself on her elbows, looking down at him, apology on the tip of her tongue.
“Can I keep going?”
Helena nods. With a sigh, she sinks back into the sheets, panting and undone. He doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath before he sinks back down.
It’s slower this time. His breath brushes her inner thigh. When his mouth returns to her, it’s different. Less hungry, more focused. He licks her so unbearably gently that the edges of her eyes burn. Tongue slow and wide, tracing her with aching patience. He groans softly into her. Just a low hum of satisfaction, then something more primal as his own arousal builds. She feels it reverberate through her hips.
It’s the kind of slow that’s meant to last. A drag of pleasure so thick it curls under her skin and makes her limbs heavy. His fingers trace light shapes along her thighs as he licks and nuzzles and drinks her in. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back. Her breathing slows. Her body starts to float.
When he presses a single finger inside her, she gasps. He curves it slightly, seeking something, learning her. He adds a second finger. Pumps slow. She spreads her legs wider. Her hands drift into his hair, combing through it absently. Encouraging. Grounding. A small tilt of her hips and she’s offering him more.
“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Just like that.”
With the praise, his pace picks up. Fingers working faster now, the rhythm growing sharp and frantic. He’s enthusiastic, she’ll give him that, but he’s jackhammering his fingers into her like something from a cheap porno.
Helena hisses sharply. “Mark, slow down.”
He pauses. Blinks up at her.
She raises one hand, curls two fingers toward herself in a slow beckoning motion.
“Try it like that. Okay, baby?”
Mark’s eyes go wide as he nods so eager it almost breaks her. “Got it. Okay.”
When he resumes, he presses in deep, two fingers sliding past resistance, then curling just the way she showed him—hooking and stroking in a repetitive motion.
“Is that better?”
“Fuck,” she groans. “That’s perfect. You’re doing so good.”
He smiles against her and keeps going. His mouth finds her clit again, tongue moving in lazy, confident circles. He finds a rhythm that fits her body. This time, it builds slowly—more pressure than speed. Her thighs tremble. Her chest lifts with every breath.
“Right there. Don’t you fucking stop.”
He doesn’t. Not for a second. Not even when she twitches. Not when her hands fist in the sheets. Not when her breathing turns ragged and her spine curves off the bed. He’s steady. Focused. Moaning softly into her, like her pleasure is his own.
The feeling starts in her hips. A low clench. Deep. Rumbling. Not like the last one. This is heavier. A pressure behind her pelvis. The kind that only comes when she takes her time with herself. When she pulls out all the stops and uses the expensive triple-pronged vibrator tucked in the drawer beside the bed.
It’s rare, but fuck, it’s coming.
She shifts, hand in his hair tightening. “Wait—Mark—fuck—I think I’m gonna—just—wait—”
He doesn’t hear her in time to stop before it happens. Her orgasm overtakes her like a tide. She cries out, hips jerking violently in an involuntary spasm. Her legs clamp around his shoulders. She gushes a hot flood of release against his face, soaking his cheeks, his lips, his chin. She comes with a force that leaves her boneless, stunned, mouth open in a silent gasp.
He moans through it like it’s a gift.
When she finally catches her breath, she blinks down at him in horror.
“I didn’t mean—Sorry—I didn’t mean to do that. I tried to warn you.”
Mark pulls back slowly. His face is drenched. His mouth is open. His eyes are wide. He pants, wiping the back of his hand across his chin.
“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. How are you real?”
She stares at him in a daze. The tension in her chest loosens all at once. She starts to laugh, breathlessly, shaking her head as she collapses back onto the mattress. Mark crawls up her body, trailing his mouth over the crumpled line of her dress, over her stomach, her ribs, between the middle of her breasts, to her neckline, to her throat.
He’s trembling. Groaning into her skin.
“Please,” he whispers, desperate and needy. “Please let me fuck you, Helena. I’m so fucking hard, it hurts.”
She feels his cock pressing through his jeans, straining against her thigh. His breath hitches with with every movement, every plea. He hovers over her, eyes searching hers. Lips swollen, chin dripping with the remnants of her orgasm. His face is open with longing, pupils blown wide.
“Please.”
Helena reaches up. Slides her hand through his hair again, then curls her fingers tight and drags him down to meet her lips. She tastes herself on his tongue and groans into his mouth. They kiss like they’re starved. Open-mouthed and panting. Her breath catches in his throat. His tongue strokes clumsily over hers in a rhythm that gets messier the longer it goes on.
Mark makes this soft, surprised moan every time she sucks his tongue, like he can’t quite believe it’s still happening. His hands roam greedily, palming her breasts, gripping her waist, sliding up her thighs. He can’t decide what part of her he wants most.
Their clothes vanish in staggered, clumsy bursts of motion. Her dress is wrenched over her head while he’s still trying to unhook her bra. He laughs into her neck when she slaps his hands away and does it herself. Mark’s shirt gets caught under his arms and she helps peel it off, their lips never quite parting.
The only time they pause is when she reaches for his waistband. He lets out a gasp as she slides her hand into his jeans. Fingers curl around him through his boxers, and then they’re kissing again, deeper, wetter, gasping into each other’s mouths. By the time he’s fully naked, Helena pulls back slightly to look.
Her gaze drops, and her breath catches.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips at the sight of his cock. Thick and flushed, hard enough it pulses against his stomach. Bigger than she expected. A little absurd on someone so sweet-faced.
Mark catches her expression and his mouth curves smug. “Like what you see?”
She arches an eyebrow and reaches down and wraps her hand around him. Her fingers don’t meet. He groans, hips bucking slightly into her palm, but she pulls back before he gets the friction he needs.
She clicks her tongue. “Arrogance is very unbecoming of a young man.”
“Helena,” he whines, thrusting toward nothing.
“Get a condom from the nightstand before I decide to put you back on your knees and teach your some manners.”
“Fuck. Yes. Yes ma’am.”
He’s off the bed instantly, fumbling toward the nightstand. His cock bobs with each movement. Helena watches him. Lithe, lean muscle. Smooth skin, shoulders dusted with freckles, hair messy from her hands. He opens the drawer and pulls out a foil packet triumphantly.
She kneels up on the bed while he returns. Her skin is flushed, hair falling wild around her face, and she knows what she looks like right now. Knows he sees it too.
Mark climbs onto the mattress and tries to kiss her again, but she takes the packet from his hand instead, tears it open and pushes him gently onto his back.
“Jesus,” he breathes, watching as she rolls it down over him with slow strokes. His stomach tenses. “That feels—fuck.”
Before she can move again, he flips her. A sudden shift of balance. His hands firm on her hips, and then her back pressed to the mattress before she knows what’s happening. She laughs, genuinely startled. He grins down at her, boyish and flushed with victory.
“Impatient?” she asks.
“You have no idea.”
He settles between her thighs again, kissing her collar, her breast, her neck, hands sliding beneath her to hook her knees over his arms. She’s practically bent in half beneath him when she feels the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance.
“Yes?”
It melts her heart that he asked. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and nods.
“Yes.”
He pushes in slowly. Helena groans in pleasure. The stretch is immediate. Delicious. She claws at the sheets, hips twitching, her walls clenching around him as he slides deeper and deeper until he bottoms out.
“Fuck,” Mark hisses. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight.”
She grits her teeth and breathes through it. He’s thick. Not unbearable, but more than she’s used to. There’s something in the way he’s trying so hard to stay still that makes her pulse throb. His forehead is pressed to her shoulder, fingers gripping her thighs.
“Are you ready?”
“Move.”
He starts slow at first. Drawing out until only the head remains inside her, then thrusts back in with a groan. Helena gasps, the impact driving sound out of her lungs. The pace remains measured for as long as he can hold out, but he picks up quickly—young and impatient and fucking her with a kind of abandon that makes her vision blur.
The bed jerks beneath them. Creaks. Groans. Rattles against the wall. Her head knocks gently against the headboard. Her hips rise to meet his, matching the pace on every thrust. Sweat drips from his neck onto her chest, and she can feel the heat radiating from his skin, hear the slap of their bodies meeting again and again and again.
Mark’s mouth is everywhere.
He’s kissing her breasts, her throat, her jaw, saying things between gasps—so good, so fucking perfect, can’t believe I get to fuck you. She wants to laugh, wants to tease him, but she can’t. Not when it feels this good. Not when every word he says hits somewhere she thought was long buried.
She clings to him. Her nails drag down his back, leaving angry red trails. She locks her legs around his waist and pulls him deeper and tighter, but something isn’t clicking. The angle is wrong. The pressure builds but doesn’t crest. It flutters and fades.
She huffs. “I want to go on top.”
He slows, but doesn’t pull out. His gaze drops to hers, expression is nothing short of wicked.
“You want me to let you up so you can take the lead?” He thrusts hard. Helena gasps. “You wanna use me?” Another thrust. “That it?” And another, right to the hilt. “Ride this cock like it belongs to you?”
She cups his jaw. His face is damp with sweat. She traces the pad of her thumb roughly across his lower lip.
“You fucking tease me right now and you’ll regret it.”
Mark’s smirk is pure trouble. “Is that a promise?”
Helena answers with a flex of her thighs. She locks her ankles behind his back, and uses all her strength to roll them. He yelps, half laugh half gasp, and lands on his back with a grunt, eyes wide, panting as she straddles him. Her hands settle on his chest. She can feel his heart pounding through the skin.
He looks up at her like she’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. “Holy shit.”
Helena sinks down slow, breath locked in her chest, thighs trembling. The stretch as she lowers onto him isn’t just good—it’s goddamn divine. She feels her cunt open for him inch by inch. When her hips finally settle flush against his, her eyes water.
Mark’s hips twitch up into her instinctively, a needy little buck, and then again, a little more urgent. His hands reach for her like he can’t help it, ghosting up her sides, finding her hips then her waist then her breasts. She catches both of his wrists before he can get a proper grip, drags his hands down the curve of her body and plants them firmly on her thighs.
“Down, boy,” she murmurs, holding them in place.
Mark whimpers.
She starts to move. Small, tight circles with her hips, grinding slow enough it aches. Mark groans with every motion, his hands tightening against her skin.
“Fuck, Helena—Jesus.”
“Shh.” She tilts her hips forward and back, finding her rhythm. “Slowly, baby. Be patient.”
He nods, trying to behave, but his chest heaves under her palms, muscles drawn. “Please,” he gasps. “Please, I—I need more.”
“What was that? Did you say something?”
He groans again. “Helena—come on, please. Please. I’ll do anything.”
“Oh, I know you will.” She grinds down hard, making his hips stutter. “But if you want to come inside me rather than into your own fist, you’re going to let me finish first.”
“Fuck yes. God, yes, please—please. Ride me. Ride me ‘till you come. Please.”
“Such a good boy for me.”
Helena shifts her hands to his lower stomach, braces herself there, and starts to rise. Her knees dig into the mattress, and her thighs flex as she lifts off him almost entirely, then sinks back down with a sharp smack of skin on skin. Mark cries out, head snapping back against the pillow.
She does it again. Then again. The rhythm builds fast. Hips bucking and lifting and slamming back down onto him. His cock fills her over and over. Every time she drops, it drives the air from her lungs. Mark can’t stay quiet. He’s making the most obscene sounds—moans, curses, broken syllables of her name. Every time she sinks down on him, he lets out this gorgeous, strangled groan.
“That’s it. Let me hear you.”
“Shit,” he gasps. “You ride like a fucking goddess—fuck, you feel so perfect—so tight—so wet—Helena, oh my God—”
She watches him beneath her. His hair damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His chest gleaming, muscles trembling, his hands still planted exactly where she put them on her thighs. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth.
“Don’t you dare come,” she growls, “Not until I say.”
Mark groans, eyes fluttering. “I won’t—I promise—I’m trying—”
She reaches between them with one hand and starts to rub her clit, firm little circles that make her thighs shake harder. Her other hand stays braced on his stomach, anchoring her.
“I’m nearly there, baby,” she pants. “You hold on. Can you do that for me?”
Mark nods frantically, swallowing hard. “Yes—yes, I’ll wait—fuck—please—please—”
She leans forward as her orgasm starts to crest. The pressure curls deep in her belly. She strokes her clit harder and faster, body trembling. She wipes his sweat-slicked hair from Mark’s brow and leans in until their foreheads are pressed together.
They lock eyes.
His are wide, dark, wild with desperation. Hers are glassy and burning.
“Now,” she breathes. “Come for me, beautiful boy.”
He breaks.
With a guttural sound, he wraps one arm around her waist, the other fisting tight in her hair, and starts to fuck up into her with everything he has. His hips slap against hers, his breath comes in ragged gasps, and Helena doesn’t stop rubbing herself, not for a second. They move together, desperate and breathless and soaked.
Helena comes with a cry, her whole body locking up as pleasure wracks her in waves. She clenches around him, hard, and that’s all it takes. Mark follows with a primal grunt, hips jerking erratically, cock twitching deep inside her. He trembles, moaning her name.
She stays on him, both of them shaking, both of them gasping for breath. Their bodies slick and trembling, joined at every point.
A single tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t even feel it until his thumb brushes it away. Mark cradles her face gently, palm warm against her jaw.
“You okay?” he whispers.
She nods. Eyes still shut.
They breathe like that for a long time. Pressed together in the quiet.
Eventually she rolls off him in a daze and melting into the mattress. Her chest rises and falls in unsteady waves as he breathing steadies. She blinks up at the pale ceiling above, lashes sticky with sweat. It’s like surfacing from some depthless warmth, but underneath the satisfaction, something heavier rises, too.
Sex has never felt like that before.
Not just the pleasure — though that too, obviously, it was the kind of release that scrapes the edge of her soul raw — but something all of it. The listening. Knowing. Until now, her body had been speaking in a language no one ever bothered to learn, and somehow this young, charming stranger heard every word and answered back in fluent touch.
Her eyes burn. From the sweat, she tells herself. From the effort. Not from the ache in her chest that’s starting to pulse harder now that it’s over.
Mark slips from the bed. She doesn’t look. Hears the rustle of the condom, the faint squish of it rolled off, the sound of the ensuite door creaking open. The tap runs. Then stops. Footsteps pad back into the bedroom.
“Hey. Can I get my fifty bucks now?”
Her heart seizes. She turns her head to look at him slowly, blood roaring in her ears.
“What?”
He grins like it’s nothing. “You know. From the bet.”
Her breath catches. Humiliation scorches through her, burning her cheeks.
Of course.
Of course it didn’t mean anything to him. She was a hook up in a bar. A story to tell his friends. She’s the punchline he’ll give when he uses the money to buy a round of beers tomorrow. The older woman with the nice dress and the credit card and the shiny fucking house.
She sits up too fast. Her stomach twists, then sinks. The shame is nauseating.
“Yeah—um,” she stammers, steadying herself against the edge of the bed. “Sorry. I think I have some cash in the nightstand.”
“What?” Mark blinks.
She fumbles with the drawer. “If not, my wallet is in my purse.”
“Jesus, no—I was kidding.” He crosses the room fast, drops onto the edge of the bed beside her and shuts the drawer before she can open it again. “I was joking. I don’t want your money.”
“I told you I’d pay. I don’t mind.”
“Stop.” He pulls her gently toward him. “Fuck, you’re shaking. Helena, come here.”
His arms tighten around her. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her damp temple. “That was a stupid, fucking idiot thing to say. I was just trying to make you laugh. I swear to God, I don’t want your money.”
She exhales into him, and the taut thing inside of her gut loosens. She braced herself so quickly for the familiar choke of misunderstanding a man’s intentions toward her, the relief of realising she was wrong is overwhelming. He kisses her again, lips buried in her hair, and Helena melts into him. Lets herself be held.
“For the record,” she says quietly. “If you did want my money, you’d be worth a lot more than fifty bucks.”
He laughs in delight and the sound knocks the last of the sting from her. He leans back, guiding her with him, until they’re tangled in the center of the bed again. She rests against him. Cheek to chest. His skin is hot, damp, still buzzing with adrenaline. She’s not a cuddler, never has been, but something about the way he holds her makes her want to be. She feels pliant in his touch. Boneless. It’s disarming.
The terrified part of her — the part stitched together with decades of control and distance — wants to send him home. Wants to reclaim the solitude that protects her. But another part — hungrier, smaller and much more dangerous — wants to stay like this for a little while longer.
Mark strokes her hair.
“You ever see Jaws?” he asks.
Helena blinks against his chest. “What?”
“When I was a kid, I watched it like twenty times. It scared the shit out of me. Still does, kind of. But I loved it. That music, the way you never saw the shark. Just shadows and water and dread. Anyway… they’re showing it at the theater this weekend for the fiftieth anniversary.” He pauses. Then, a little more tentative, adds, “Maybe we could go?”
She lifts her head slowly.
“Are you asking me out?”
“Yeah.”
“On a date?”
“Uh. Yeah. What else?”
“Do you realise I’m sixteen years older than you?”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “So? I’m not proposing marriage, Helena.”
She snorts, collapsing back against him with a groan. “That’s sweet, but I’m not really a dating kind of person.”
“Well, I’m not a one-night-stand kind of person. So I guess we’ll have to compromise.”
She giggles despite herself.
“How about you spend the night and we take it from there.”
She doesn’t mean it, not in the way he thinks she does. In the daylight, she figures, everything will recalibrate. He’ll come to his senses, go back to his own life and eventually forget her name, and next quarter she’ll find a new guy to fill the void. She’ll be fine. She’s always fine.
Mark grins against her hair. “Deal.” He spanks her ass with a firm, open palm. “I know what I want for breakfast.”
“Pervert.”
“Actually, come to think of it,” he muses, voice dropping playfully, “I’m not sure I had enough to eat tonight.”
“You cannot possibly be horny already.”
“Oh really?”
His arms tighten around her and she feels it coming just a moment before it happens. She squeals. “No—no—stop—Mark! Don’t! I’m comfy—”
He flips them with an easy roll of his hips, pinning her beneath him. His mouth finds her throat, then her collarbone. Ticklish kisses that pepper her skin everywhere he can reach.
“Maybe another round will seal the deal on that movie, huh?” he murmurs against her skin, kissing lower.
She threads her fingers through his hair, breath catching, legs already starting to fall open. As he climbs between her thighs and his mouth closes around her nipple, she finds herself thinking through a giddy, pleasure-drunk haze that if he keeps this up, she might just book out the whole fucking theatre.