The draft

I turned the draft face down and left my hand on the paper a second longer than I needed. Morning was bright on the kitchen table. Pete was already up, and Claire had stayed over because we had agreed on Friday, in daylight, that Saturday could be ours if nobody woke up reluctant. I asked before I closed the laptop. Pete said he wanted us. Claire, in my navy cardigan over her own bare legs, said she had woken up wanting and had waited to be asked rather than start.

Compersion arrived before the sex did, which is how I know it is real. Pete kissed Claire by the sink, soft and then less soft, and the sight went through me like good news. I was not outside it. I was the person who had helped make the room where it could happen. I walked over and kissed Claire's cheek while he kissed her mouth, and she laughed and pulled me in. I wanted them with a clear head. I wanted her cunt and his cock and the morning that could hold both.

We moved the chairs and I sat on the table edge, cardigan open, no shirt under it. Claire stood between my knees and licked my cunt, slow, morning-lazy. Pete stood beside her and stroked her back and told me she looked happy. She did. I felt proud, and the pride sat right beside the lust. I came with my hand in her hair, easy, and with my eyes on Pete so he could see what their kiss had started. Then he fucked my cunt while I held Claire's hand, his cock deep and familiar, and she rubbed my clit and kissed me. He asked if the old agreement held, cum in my cunt, and I said yes. He came in my cunt with his face in my neck. Claire climbed up and I licked her cunt until she shook, Pete's palm warm on my spine, his voice telling me he loved the way I wanted her. I fucked her with my tongue and did not rush it.

The draft stayed face down. We made eggs. Claire stole my cardigan until noon. I let her. Some grants can be late by an hour. This could not.