Chapter 25: Fragile Heat

[al****]

We’re stepping into the story arc of live-in number three, the one that went down in flames. This whole journey? It’s always been about ***ling back layers, the sweet, the sour, and the rotten. Not to dig up dirt, but to actually see it, to own it, to pick apart the wreckage and ask myself, “What did you learn?” So here I go, stepping into this chapter with the careful caution it deserves.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eight p.m., parked at my favorite lookout on the city's edge, Lake Michigan's ink-black shimmer stretching wide in front of me. I'm reclined in the driver's seat of my '69 Camaro, red ***t dulled to a warm glow under the Chicago skyline. Jeans unzipped, I'm exposed, the cold leather against my thighs and a twenty-three-year-old brunette wedged between my legs, fingers digging in like she's holding on for dear life. She's nervous; it's obvious from the pressure of her fingertips, the way she's grasping for stability, and I know she's doing this more for me than herself. She told me as much.

I have her on tape, second blue cassette spinning in the camcorder on the dash, a documentation of every soft limit she's willing to push. And tonight, here she is again, lips pressed to the places that matter, willing to erase her own boundary just because I asked. But even as she's working her mouth over me, my mind's miles away, already drifting toward the road, toward something or someone else.

Her technique is fine; good even, but I'm aware I'm not fully here. When the release builds, it's automatic, a mechanical build-up that rockets through me, and I unload hot into her mouth. Thick pulses, each one making her swallow, her throat contracting under the pressure. She takes every drop, doesn't spill a thing. And when I give her permission, she leans back, wiping the corners of her mouth, looking at me with a kind of pride, hoping for some reward.

"Good girl," I say, turning the key in the ignition, pressing the clutch, the engine roaring to life like it's eager to escape.

This machine isn't made for conversation, especially not at redline, especially not with her words already fading, left somewhere in the smoke behind me. The truth is, the girl next to me, the one who just swallowed my last flicker of interest, she's just an interlude. A pit stop on the road, a name I'll forget before dawn. She can sit there, glancing my way like she's left some permanent mark, but it's all wrong. This story was never about her. Never about what she could give or how far she'd go.

This story is about the girl forty miles away.

I shift, pin the gas, and roar onto I-94. The road blurs under the lights as I fly past a Corvette, clocking 120 without a thought. All I'm focused on is the place I'm headed, the people I left waiting back at the bar, my buddy, and the girl he's hoping to take home.

I shaved ten minutes off a thirty-five-minute drive; walked into the bar like a man with a plan, because I was. Corey was already there, my best friend, unknowingly in line to get cockblocked so I could get to her first, the woman who'd turn into my future. Her eyes, green as a pine grove lit by wildfire, ready to break loose with a spark. Curls spilled down her shoulders, barely tamed, kept just enough to make chaos look easy, like she might even crave it. Her freckles lay ***tered over her collarbone, each one an invitation to come closer. And that smirk, telling me, "I can do what she did, only better; give me the shot."

Under the bar, she nudges me with her foot. But here's the twist. This night isn't about her, not exactly. Not yet. Tonight, it's about the girl behind the bar, all lean limbs and reckless energy wrapped in denim shorts and a faded tank top that clings to her like it's the only thing holding her together. Tiny, barely five feet if she’s lucky. Her face is sharp, almost fox-like, with big, raw expressions that are more open book than she intends. That manic grin stretching across her cheeks like she’s daring you to say something, anything.

Her dark hair is pulled back, barely contained, with stray strands escaping like they've got their own agenda. And then there's her laugh, a loud, careless bark that cuts through the noise, filling the room with that same edgy, unrestrained vibe that makes you wonder what kind of trouble she'd be if you gave her the chance.

The setup is perfect: Corey at one end, my future wife nudging my calf under the table, the girl from the Camaro with the taste of me still lingering in her mouth, her hand parked on my thigh like she's saving her spot, and the bartender brushing her fingers against mine with each drink. The way my life usually goes, I'm already laying out the pieces for tonight: three women, one hell of a foursome. Sorry, Corey, not feeling generous tonight.

But the universe has its tricks, pulling the rug out just as I think I've got it all laid out. Camaro girl glances over, stifling a yawn. "I've got church tomorrow," she says, and I see the cracks in my plan. She senses the look between me and her friend; maybe it's the competition in the air. She throws back her last sip, then she's dragging her friend away, calling it a night and leaving Corey and me with the bartender.

The bar starts to thin. Corey says his goodnights. Now it's just me and her, the bartender with the hard-luck smile, pouring us one drink after another. It's late; we're talking, drinking, laughing, and the line between bartender and customer fades with each round. It's close to closing when she lets something slip; it's been years since she's let a man close, and she carries trust issues like a second skin. She keeps her hands moving, pouring drinks, but somehow they're still on mine, like she's afraid to let go, even while she's working.

I didn't say much, didn't promise anything, just sat there, nodding at the right moments, letting her unravel piece by piece. She shared traumas, regrets; each one was placed on the table between us like a collection of artifacts, waiting to be examined. I stayed quiet, listening, connecting her dots to my own, tracing lines through the things I could understand.

The bar lights softened, folding the night in around us, muting everything outside our corner. And then, with a small, unreadable smile, she looked right at me, eyes steady. "I'm not ready to call it a night."

I'm drunk. Rules. Laws. Order. All of that, out the window. She slides into the passenger seat, a smooth twist of the key, engine purring to life, tires screaming as rubber melts to asphalt. Not a cop in sight. We race through the thick, smoky night toward my place, smoke so dense it feels like it could swallow the whole city.

I don't even try to line up with the three-car garage. Just skid halfway up the driveway, front wheels spilling onto the grass. Emergency brake yanks up, and we stumble out, laughing, crashing into each other as we find our way inside. She hits the brown leather couch first, falls back that easy smile on her face, like she knows what's next.

I'm already reaching for the bourbon; single barrel, high rye, the kind with a cork that pops like a confession and burns low and slow, leaving honeyed oak and spice. The one with the horse on top, because tonight, I'm drinking whiskey that'll make damn sure you remember it tomorrow, even if you don't want to.

I pour two glasses, neat. Pass her one, drop onto the couch beside her. She sets her drink down, straddles me, arms looping around my shoulders. I sip mine, leave some on my tongue as the rest slides down. She leans in, wet, bourbon slipping from my mouth to hers.  A kiss and a shot in one.

She's beautiful in that broken way. I let her take control, set the pace. Her top slips off, then the bra; there they are, small, firm, perfect. My hands find her, skin soft and cool against my palms. I don't mention the cameras; not like I'm hiding them, just too far gone to remember. She's unbuckling my jeans, pulling them down. No underwear tonight; left those behind earlier. Whiskey-soft, maybe, or maybe I'm holding back, not wanting to be too imposing. It doesn't matter. Her mouth closes around me, and just like that, I'm hard, thickening against her tongue. She pulls back, a little startled. "Wow, that got big fast."

Her eyes lock on me with a half-smile, and she dips low between my legs, running her tongue slowly along the length, circling the tip like she's savoring the taste. She tilts her head, flashes a grin, and murmurs, "That's a big dick." Her words hang in the air as she eases her shorts and panties down her legs, leaving them pooled on the floor.

Tiny. All of her, tiny. I think that to myself, watching her climb up, re-straddling me, arms bracing my shoulders as she sinks down just a bit; her brow creases with that delicate blend of focus and frustration.

And there it is, this tug-of-war between us. Me, sitting back with my drink, taking it all in; her inching down, testing her limits, determined. Her body wrapped tight, impossibly tight, her body gripping me like a locked door waiting to be kicked open.

"Put that down and take off your shirt," she says, her voice catching a bit.

My drink hits the table; shirt gone, and she eases off me, sliding just enough of me back into her mouth. Her warm saliva gathers at the tip, and she lets it spill, a slow drip before her lips drift away. Her body rises above mine; she collapses, hard, sinking down with a soft pop that fills the room, and I'm inside her. Her gasp shivers through the air. She bites her bottom lip as her hips start to sway, short, controlled thrusts, her body rocking against mine.

Her face hovers close, breath warm, expression shifting with each movement. Lips drawn, eyes somewhere beyond, as if waiting for something to break. Coiled, every nerve alive, her body tense with anticipation. Then, a twitch of her lips, a fleeting, fragile happiness, a silent permission to let go. Her body softens, syncing with mine, something raw and shared in silence.

Her breathing stirs, pupils widening as she looks through me, mouth parting. Her pace quickens, grinding hard, her body arching as if on the edge of something boundless. A wildness flares in her gaze when our eyes meet, hips grinding down, breaths erratic and electric, chasing an elusive release.

And then, release. Her head falls back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as a guttural sound escapes. She melts, her body folding into mine, surrendering to the rhythm. Cheeks flushed, arms wrapped firm around my shoulders, holding me close as if afraid to let go. She teeters on the edge, somewhere else yet deeply here, unraveling in my arms. I pull her closer, grounding her, every inch, every breath.

Gradually, she unwinds, breath steadying, her face softening into calm, as if drifting somewhere safe. Her movements slow, savoring each second, feeding off the calm as it settles deep. Her eyes find mine, holding something unnameable, weighty, like a secret unspoken.

Then, a shiver cracks the peace. Her face hardens, a scowl creeping in, gaze sharpening. Her rhythm stumbles, hips jolting out of rhythm, breaths turning jagged. Frustration wells up, unfiltered, her expression taut. She starts to pull back, an invisible wall rising, though her hold remains firm.

She returns, yet different, eyes flickering with vulnerability, something hidden surfacing. Her fingers tremble on my shoulders, her grip easing, lips parted in hesitation, like she's baring an old, locked-up wound.

Softness fades to sadness. Her eyes drop, movements faltering, distant. She seems to sink under a weight only she can feel, gaze falling somewhere far away, as if being drawn down by it.

Her gaze flicks back to me briefly, lips quivering, as though she’s crossed a line she never meant to. Her body tightens again, movements slowing, caught between holding on and pulling away.

It's over. She slumps into me, chest heaving, mascara smudged, her guard slipping. Pressing close, she whispers, "Fuck me," not a question, a demand, raw and desperate, her face streaked with black tears.

I grab the bottle, twist off the cork, take a burning swig, then set it aside with a careless crash.

My hand finds her waist, fingers digging in, lifting her, moving in time, every thrust its own battle march. She braces against the bar, fingers clutching, my hands anchoring her in place. Her gasp breaks the air, close and unrestrained. We move, bodies colliding from bar to stairs, hitting every ledge, every inch of space. Carpet sc***s under us, each touch, each stumble, relentless.

The kitchen counter next, her bare skin flush against the cold granite. Then to the door of the playroom. Locked. It does not matter. We take the door frame instead, her head falling back, my grip iron-bound. Then it hits, deep and gut-wrenching, my body locking up, but she is right there with me, eyes wide and glassy, nails clawing down my back, the *** pulling me back just as her teeth sink into my neck.

Everything halts. My body moves on its own, driving into her, pouring out every last bit, her fierce hold taking all of it, emptying me. We collapse, sprawled across the hardwood, warmth radiating through us, bodies heavy, spent, everything quiet.

As she drifts off, I feel her fingers dig in a little deeper, her hold a little firmer. There's more here than what I chose to see. A softness in the way she holds me, but also a weight, an unspoken something lingering just out of reach. She tries to hide it, but I've seen this before; the way her body tenses, the way she pulls me closer, as if seeking comfort only she knows how to ask for.

I should have noticed; I should have known. But tonight, I was too drunk to care.