The type

Daylight on the type drawers, wood worn smooth by other people's hands and then by mine. Canvas apron, black ink in the creases of my knuckles, sandy hair stuck to my forehead. I had locked the shop. Seth knocked the way he does, two short, and I let him in and said the press is off, the day is over, I want your hands. Not a metaphor. I want you to hold me down to the table, palms only, and I want you to make me come before you even undo your belt. He said it back so I would hear the yes in his voice too.

He put me at the table, away from the drawers so we would not knock a case onto the floor. Apron still on. He kissed me, ink-smudge and all, and took my wrists in his hands, gentle, pressing them to the wood above my head. I could pull free. I tested it and then I stopped testing. I said stay like that. He stayed.

One hand kept both my wrists, loose, and the other pushed the apron up, got my jeans open, and fucked two fingers into my cunt. He kept fucking me with those fingers, palm rocking on my clit, and he watched my face instead of his work. When I tried to grab him he pressed my wrists back, a question in the pressure. I nodded. More. He gave me a third finger when I asked, stretched my cunt until my boots scraped the floor, and told me I was doing it, I was right there, stay with his hand.

I came on his fingers, loud in a shop that is usually all mechanical clack, my cunt clamped on his hand, my own ink leaving ghosts on the table where my wrists had been. He did not let go until I said he could. I pulled him in by the belt and told him we were not finished, but I needed a minute where the only thing that touched me was his open palm on my back. He gave me that minute. His cock stayed in his jeans. The type stayed in its cases.