The return

I am at the desk with the lamp on and the shoes already off, kicked under the knee hole, talking into the phone because if I wait until morning I will file this night under ordinary. It was not ordinary. Brett has been away four days. He is forty-one, my partner, and he texted from the curb instead of using his key like a raid. I said the door is open. I stayed in the navy blouse. Under it I had put on the black set I bought for myself, not for a performance, lace sitting against my ribs while I finished a column of numbers I did not care about.

He stopped in the doorway and looked at me the way he did when we were new. I turned the chair. He asked if he could kiss me. I said yes, come here. The kiss went long. His hands learned the blouse and then the lace under it and he made a sound I felt in my teeth. I told him I wore it for the hour he got back. He said I was beautiful, thirty-nine and severe and soft at the same time, and he eased the blouse off my shoulders without rushing the straps.

I stood, turned, and bent over the desk with my forearms on the warm wood. I said I want you to fuck my cunt like this, and I want you to keep talking to me. He worked his cock into my cunt slow, one hand spread over my stomach, and told me he had missed this body, this exact body, not a memory. I pushed back to take his cock deeper. The lamp hummed. I came with my cheek on a folder and his voice in my ear saying stay with me, I have you, your cunt feels so good. He asked before he came. I said yes, I want your cum. After, he knelt and put my shoes aside properly, kissed the inside of my knee, and brought water. I am keeping the blouse on the chair. I want the house to smell like him until I sleep. That fuck is not going in any ledger.