The pages

The pages were stacked and I was done with them. Grey sweater, thin glasses, lamp on, Sergei on the sofa instead of at the desk because I had told him the work was over. He is fifty-seven. I am thirty. I can send the contract back tomorrow. I told him that, and then I told him I wanted his voice and his hands on my cunt and nothing that belongs to the book.

He asked what I wanted first. I said kiss me, then talk while you touch my cunt, and if I say enough you stop. He kissed me like a man who had been waiting politely for weeks. I took his wrist and put it under the sweater. No bra. His palm learned that and his voice went lower. He told me I was warm and that he had thought about fucking me without putting it in a sentence he would publish. I laughed and opened my jeans. I said then put your fingers in the room instead.

He rubbed my clit slowly, two fingers, talking the whole time. There. Your cunt is so wet. Tell me if you want my mouth. I said yes. Glasses still on, which felt filthy in a way I liked, pages forgotten. He licked me until I came with one hand over my own mouth and the other in his hair, cunt pulsing on his tongue. Then I stroked his cock, sweater pushed up, and told him to cum on my stomach and not to fuck me yet. He did, grateful, voice breaking on my name. I took the glasses off after. I said the pages can wait until morning and so can any talk of work. He agreed and brought water. I drank it with my feet in his lap.