“Make it dirty,” he says, licking my mouth. “You can pretend you never have to see me again. What is your most shameful thought?”
My gaze drops to his mouth as I tell him, “I want someone to hear us fucking.”
His pupils dilate, reflecting the neon back to me, and he grips my thighs tightly before he begins slamming hard and slick into me, grunting roughly every time his hips press to my inner thighs.
Someone knocks on the door and the timing is perfect. It’s locked, but if they walked inside they would hear the slapping of his skin on mine, see my legs on either side of Ansel’s hips, my dress pushed up my body while he fucks me.
“Hurry,” I cry—louder than I probably should—reaching back and gripping the faucet. My fingers feel slick around the cool metal, my skin flushed and damp with sweat.
I feel so full, stretched, with limbs loose. His body fits perfectly inside and against me, the jut of his pelvis rubbing against my clit with every thrust. The tight feeling in my stomach grows, warmer and hotter until I throw my head back, crying out as I come, lost to everything but the way my body tries to pull him in as I fall apart around him.
He follows only a moment later, movements becoming jagged and frantic, stilling against me with a muffled groan into my skin.
THE EVENING BREEZE ruffles the back of my hair and the ends tickle my chin as the scent of bread and cigarettes drifts from a café we pass on our way to the métro.
I glance over my shoulder to where rows of motorcycles are parked at the curb. “Where’s your bike?” I ask.
“Home,” he says simply. “I dropped it off earlier so that I could walk with you.”
He doesn’t say this to earn a reaction, so he misses the way my eyes turn up to him. We didn’t really talk about the accident tonight, though it feels like a constant companion anytime the subject of school and life ahead is broached. But he’s shown me that he’s always aware of what happened and won’t ever push, unlike my father, who got me a bike for my first birthday out of the hospital and repeatedly suggested I get back on the horse. Ansel’s frankness is still something that takes me by surprise. Where I tend to agonize over everything I say—worrying whether I’ll be able to say it at all—Ansel never filters. Words seem to tumble from his candy-colored mouth without even a second thought. I wonder if he’s always been this unguarded, if he’s this way with everyone.
The busiest part of the day has come and gone but we’re still lucky to find seats together. We sit side by side on the crowded train, and I watch our reflection in the window opposite us. Even in the grimy glass and beneath the harsh, often flickering fluorescent lights, it’s impossible to miss how beautiful he is. It’s not an adjective I’ve ever used to describe a guy before, but as I look at him, taking in the angles of his jaw, the prominence of his cheekbones offset by his soft, nearly feminine mouth, it’s the only one that seems to fit.
He’s loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt to offer up a triangle of smooth, tan skin. The open shirt frames his long neck, the tempting hint of collarbone peeking out just enough to make me wonder why I never thought of collarbones as sexy before.
As if sensing my gaze, Ansel’s eyes shift from the passing blur of track on the other side of the window, and meet mine in the glass. Our reflections rock with the movement of the train and Ansel watches me too, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. How is it possible to sit here like this in calm, companionable silence, when only an hour ago I had him inside me, my hands slick with sweat as my fingers fought for purchase on the faucet?
More passengers board at the next stop and Ansel moves, giving his seat to an older gentleman with heavy bags in each hand. They share a few words in French I obviously don’t understand, and he takes the spot in front of me, his right arm raised to grip the handrail suspended from the ceiling.
It gives me an exceptional view of his torso and the front of his dress pants. Yum.
The sound of laughter draws my attention and I see a group of girls seated only a few rows away. They’re probably in university, I think, and just a few years younger than me. Too old for high school but clearly still students. They sit with their heads pressed together and if their hushed giggles and wide-eyed stares are any indication, I know exactly what they’re looking at. Or, rather, whom.
I blink up to find him looking down at the older man, listening and oblivious to the leering glances being cast in his direction.
I don’t blame them, of course. If I saw Ansel on a train I’m positive I’d practically break my neck in an attempt to get a better look, and now the night I saw him across the bar in Vegas feels like a lifetime ago. It’s in these moments I find myself wanting to congratulate past-me for doing or saying whatever it was that caught Ansel’s attention in the first place and—by some act of God or alcohol I still don’t understand—held it. Sometimes, I think, past-me is a genius.