Heartbreaks and Humiliations
999 words of f/f smut, which is my contribution to the Hugh Laurie Birthday Drive. For Josh <3
i.
Not quite crystal-clear on where you stands with him, but then, nothing with her really ever makes sense. If viewed objectively, you’re not heartbroken and weeping into your pillow over him. Not drowning your sorrows in cheap red wine and tossing half-bitten chocolates at the TV. Fine, you’re just fucking fine, thanksohsomuch for asking, and no, you don’t need to crash on his couch or her floor or in their car.
Nights hurt, though. All alone, in bed, the August air blows over you in burning flashes, then cold, so cold. Only thing to do is snuggle further under the plaid-woolen covers and valiantly attempt to sleep.
ii.
Hand brushes over your leg on the subway, just an accident, accompanied by a furious blush and heartfelt apology. Make your blood turn hot and bubble-rush between your thighs, send any excess to your cheeks and makes them pink. Glance up at the owner of the offending hand and stare right-smack into piercing jade eyes, so clear that all your can do is stammer, “Uh... don’t worry... fine.”
Invite her for coffee, and dig through your tattered jeans pockets to pay for her triple-syrup latte with whip and your shot of courage (dark roast espresso). Your hands shake around the squat teacup, so you set your drink down on the nearest unoccupied table.
Talk about him and how stubborn-obstinate he is, how hard it’ll be to see his face eight times a week, and she nods along sympathetically in all the right places. You notice her hand, smooth, café au lait with short, pale-pink nails, and then they’re slowlycreeping across the table, a millimeter at a time, and then she’s running them over your wrist.
iii.
End up somehow back at your place without exchanging names before you reach your door.
Heavy and breathy in your ear, smooth as black velvet: “Nadia.” Doesn’t ask for your name, so you don’t tell her. Kisses your cheek, impossibly lightly and strokes your hair. Grab her hand and trap it, shove her against your door, situate her thighs between yours, and kiss her. It’s not exactly gentle or sweet, but deep and intense and God, she moans a little.
iv.
Stumble-trip over the scripts and clothes in the narrow hallway to your bedroom, frantically working the pearl buttons on her striped blue button-down when your fingers get a free moment. You yank her bouncy ponytail down a little harder than you should (you have every right to - she didn’t even ask you your name, so she’s obviously not thinking about a repeat performance, just writes you off as a needy one night-stand) and springy curls bounce around her shoulders. Push her flat onto your bed and yank her skirt off to reveal a black lace bra-and-thong set. Even though you’ve got your knees digging into the blankets, straddling her hips, she manages to yank your top up and over your head and fumble with the snap of your jeans. Lift yourself off her and remove the remaining items before picking right back up where you left off. Kisses are sugary-sweet, but mixed with dark roast, they taste like sadness and loss.
v.
She’s grinding down on your fingers, attempting to ride down on them that much harder , trying to writhe out of your hand clamped down hard over her hip. Eyes flutter shut and dark-black lashes meet her cheeks, rosy from the exertion. You cup her breasts, give them a few experimental squeezes, catalogue the changes in her face. Twist your fingers up to her G-spot, rubstroke as her hair bobs up and down with her movements.
vi.
Tight grip on your arm as she comes back from the throes of her orgasm, and you lock your legs around her ass. Push your heels in, bring her closer to you, struggle to get more friction. Guide her chin down between her thighs; weave your hands through her hair and tug to direct her just where you want. She peeks up at you, an expression you can’t quite identify, and then circles her tongue over you, inside you, in the same aggressive manner in which you kissed her earlier. Works her fingers around your clit, using them everywhere but where you need. You cruelly force her head forward, and are surprised to find that this produces the result you wanted in the first place.
vii.
Feel her weight shift and then her red-painted toes are near your ears and she thrusts her hips forward. You reciprocate with doubled efforts, despite the fact that you’re fucking trembling. Hold your breath as long as you can, let go and just liquify.
viii.
Pushes you, desperate and needy for a second release, but seems content with doing all the work. Circles her hips, rolling them until she finally tenses up around you. Decide to stick with it, give her one hell of a night, so you ‘hmmm’ loudly and slip a finger inside her.
ix.
Nadia rolls off to the other side of the bed, instantly isolating herself from you. It’s like you’re an old married couple: “Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.” Except you just fucked her, and she’s only staying the night out of courtesy. Like it makes a difference - spending the night in a perfect stranger’s bed to make her feel better about herself.
Your bed feels cold again.
x.
She’s gone in the morning, of course. The covers are rumpled and her purse is absent. You can only assume how she left: in the early morning, fumbling to get her clothes on in the blanket of darkness, sheathed in faux-consideration by leaving the lights off.
The only sign that she was ever here is her broken heel and a note:
Call me
XOXO,
Nadia
You can’t, obviously. She didn’t leave a number, and even if she did, she’d have no idea who you are.
You turn the heat up and crawl back into bed.