‘How did she die?’ she asks, as blunt as a hammer as the song hits the bridge.
‘Cancer,’ I say. I don’t need to say anything else.
She nods and looks down, still swaying from side to side, but her vibe has changed.
‘Fuck cancer,’ she says quietly, and the tone of her voice tells me that she doesn’t need to say anything else either.
*
My bedroom door clicks shut and I breathe out long and slow, closing my eyes as my entire body exhales with me, and then tingles with unsatiated lust.
‘Holy shit,’ I whisper. ‘What the fuck is happening?’
I rub my eyes as I lean back against the wood, my hips thrusting and twisting as I try to quell the rising urge between my thighs - the overwhelming need to have something or someone inside of me.
I breathe one uneven breath after another, but it’s no good.
I need the release.
I push away from the door, pulling my dress up and over my shoulders before unclipping my bra and loosening my ponytail. The door to my little bathroom is open and I crash through, hopping as I pull off my socks before slipping down my soaking wet panties. Then I step into the shower and turn on the faucet and gasp as the cold water gushes down over my skin.
I close my eyes as it slowly warms up, holding my face in my hands and letting it tumble down and over me, running across my skin in rivulets and floods, collecting in my arms and the valley between my breasts before overflowing and running down my tummy and between my thighs.
Then I let my mind run free again.
Each image and sensation hits me like a bullet to the chest. The words he used on my first day. The touch of his fingers as he passes my beer back. The way he looked at me as I danced.
My tummy flips again as I remember that, his steel eyes betraying him, the dark look on his face as if he could barely control himself, like a caged bear with nothing but a flimsy lock between him and his prey.
Then I remember that I didn’t lock my door.
My heart thumps as I glance toward the darkness, the light inside my bedroom gloomy and dull. For a brief moment I’m almost overwhelmed by the desire to bound naked and wet across the carpet and bolt it shut, but then I tingle with taboo as I remember Flick’s words again.
He’s not going to want to sneak into your bedroom to play tickle under the covers if you look like a swamp monster.
I smile to myself, my body quivering with naughtiness, and then I run my hair beneath the faucet and feel the warmth against my cheeks as I slide my hand between my thighs, and arch my fingers up.
*
My hand closes around the door handle to my room as I shut my eyes and stop. I can feel my heart beating in my chest, I can hear it in my ears, and the warmth and power of it flowing through my cock.
Fuck.
The way she moved downstairs. The way she looked at me, the way her eyes shimmered, downcast and inviting.
Begging.
It’s all in your imagination asshole. You’re too old, she’s too young. Don’t turn around.
But it’s too late. I’m already moving, my legs guided by a force that’s overpowering all rational thought. Before I know what I’m doing I’m holding the handle of her door, my whole body trembling with lust, an animal driven by instinct.
I know it will be locked. I hear the click each night, and then the heavy silence as I imagine what she’s doing to herself, imagine the noises she’s stifling, the sensations making her quiver and twist… wondering what she’s thinking about… or if she’s looking at me.
I go to walk away, and then I turn the handle, and it’s open.
For a moment I try to pretend that I can’t hear the shower running from the corridor and that I’m not already picturing her within, and then I discard that notion entirely and push wide.
Steam drifts out and coils toward me, beckoning me forward, and my heart damn near stops as I see her there, behind the dripping glass, her little tattooed frame bare and glistening as she runs one hand through her now dark red hair, and then presses the other between her thighs. I watch as she leans back against the wall, opens her mouth and rolls her head back.