One Night

His name whispers from my lips.

"A stor, I like hearing my name outta youse."

I tip my hips up so he can reach more, and he pushes his fingers deeper, palm hard on my tailbone pushing me down onto his crotch. All at once, he's in complete command, owning my body yet urging me to use his for my pleasure. I bury my face into his chest to muffle my increasingly noisy breathing.

"Ah no, let me hear you, Arella."

Oh, for the way he says my name.

I coast on the endorphins for a good while, relishing in his exploration. His hands feel their curious way inbetween my legs, then work my zip open until they're sweeping over my underwear, working my trousers down my thighs, pushing underneath the soft lace, front and back. It's an assault of the most wonderful kind and I'm willingly, completely captured. Until he grunts with the effort of pulling me on top of him, where I come to rest most squarely on his stiff cock.

I lie on him, panting and not a little sorry at the loss of his hands. He squirms and huffs when I sit upright, lifting my hips up to adjust himself while I apologise. He sets me back into position when he's presumably made himself more comfortable, then gives me one of his winks.

"Let me look at ye."

I blush. "What a sweet talker," I tease.

"C'mon, now, I've got zero game. You already know that."

I make the most sceptical face possible.

"Are you serious?" his eyes light up. "The best I could come up with earlier was, 'can you stand to chat to me for a few minutes,' which is hardly stellar material."

"Ah, but it worked well enough, didn't it?"

His eyes flicker as I relinquish my thoroughly wrinkled blouse, followed by my bra. "Although I think you'd seduce me just by reading the Oxford Medical Dictionary in that accent of yours."

His mouth curls. "Get yourself down here, ye wee fine thing, ye" he commands, playing the diphthongs for all he's worth.

He manhandles me until I'm crouching over him and he captures one of my breasts in his hot mouth, forcing a breathy noise out of me and a pleased sort out of him. I stare down into his face. He's shut his eyes, the lashes pressed into dark fans. I caress his hair, and he tips his head into my touch, like a cat.

He protests when I pull up, the air cool on my wetted skin. I give him a quick kiss by way of consolation before shuffling back until settling on his thighs, and the hopeful glow in his eyes makes him look softer in the low light. My fingers feel clumsy and helpless at his belt, but I slap his hands away when he offers them, making him laugh.

"I'm old enough to be your mother, I can certainly undo your belt." And don't I wish I could take back those words?

But he's laughing more loudly, eyes glittering. "What kind of a baby do ye think I am?"

I finally succeed in wriggling his buckle open and tap out a little victory rhythm on it, out of nerves more than anything, because I can't believe I've brought up the very issue I've been side-lining all night.

"Hey now." His hands take hold of mine to make them still. "I'm well over the age of consent, you know."

"I know," but I can't meet his eyes.

"Arella. Look at me."

I skirt his face until, in the unforgiving silence, his eyes are the only place left for me to look.

"I'm thirty-two. And a half," he adds in a mischievous tone.

Which is a little older than I'd thought. But still. I chew the corner of my mouth. "Well, it'd still be possible for me to be your mother," I can't help but argue.

"Mathematically, maybe. But I don't give a shite about any a that, if you don't."

"Is that true?"

"Cross my heart." His smile is slow and warm and infectious. He jostles his thighs beneath me. "Good. Now that's settled, get my cock out, will ye."

I gasp and laugh. And obey, because - well, because he's irresistible and makes me feel as though I might be sexy and beautiful, and I want to chase that feeling down just for this one night. I dip my face to focus, rolling my thumb over where I think the crown of his cock is, enjoying the answering roll of his hips and gruff exhale.

"Patience."

He grumbles but it's not very convincing, so I give him another slow stroke with my thumb that has him tensing his muscles. I like the effect, so I give him another circuit, even though the metal of his zip is in the way. His eyes close and I'm enchanted at how easily he shows his pleasure. The fly opens without too much resistance to reveal black underwear, and an eager lift of his pelvis to meet my hands. I suck at the inside of my mouth, nerves spiking at the thought of what's next; then cup him and run my palm over the softest and the hardest of him, exploring him all the way until something confusing happens.

"Oh."

He cracks his eyes open, lips curling. "Don't be afraid."

I pull his underwear downwards. "What is it?" I ask, touching the metal.

"Do you like it?"

Perhaps I should find the question crude. But I don't. "I've never seen one before. What does it feel like?"

"Try it. Go on, it won't break."

I slide my fingers over the jewellery, two round studs on a ring that passes through his cock, listening to the change in his breathing, feeling the increasing slipperiness of his arousal under my touch.

"So nice," I breathe.

And with a groan he reaches up to pull me down to the bed with him, his hands shoving impatiently at the clothing still in our way until he fits us together again as if it's a science, his cock pressed against all the right places. Our pleasure feels easy; natural and generous to each other. I relax with Sean in ways I haven't been able to for so very long. His long limbs thread around me, moving us over the soft white sheets, his breath quickening and releasing as we shift and tumble together.

It's when his thighs slide between mine and he pulls his body a little higher over me that we both pause. His thumb hooks into my underwear, then stills, his face tipped down as if to watch. I tilt my hips - the slightest uplift but he takes it to be the invitation it is, and stretches the fabric over my hips, running two fingers in a precise path between my legs, increasing the pressure until I wriggle. He grins, head still lowered as he pushes lazily at my underwear with one hand. I wriggle some more to try to dispense with them, almost knocking his head with my knee in the process. He smiles at me and I smile back, with almost no self-consciousness at all, and then he twists his head to kiss the inside of my knee. It's clumsy because my leg's still moving and his lips almost miss, but it brings my heart to a standstill anyway. And then the vision has gone as quickly as it'd happened.

I sigh.

He leans down, his body blocking the light, and gives me a purposeful kiss, breaking away with a downward press of his hips.

"This what you want?" he asks with a dirty thrust.

I nod, pushing my fingers into his hair and giving it a firm tweak. His smile flashes in the low light before he twists away, hands searching the bed around us and returning with the blue box. The way he does it all in full view- the cool precision of his movements under my interested scrutiny - is surprisingly sexy. Once he's fitted the condom he leans down for another kiss before a second fingertip search of the bed returns the bottle of lube. His eyes shutter as he as strokes some of it down his cock and my mouth fills with saliva at the sight. Excitement flushes down my spine, sending tremors along the insides of my thighs. He brushes a hand along me, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I - that looked good. Do it again," I breathe, working some rusty part of myself to say the words aloud.

"This?" he asks, sitting up a little straighter and moving his cock through his fist.

I nod, afraid any sound will come out as an unrestrained, unsexy gurgle.

His smile cracks wider, his eyes taking on a wilder glint. "The doctor likes this, does she now?" he teases.

And I don't care it's a tease, because there's a softness there too, amongst the darker shades of his vanity and his own sexual pleasure. One that says my eyes on him are as vital to this moment as the stroke of his hand. He slows down, chest expanding, before stopping altogether.

He issues a rueful sort of sound. "Sorry I can't give you much of a show, or else this is gonna be over before it's started, and my reputation will be in tatters."

I laugh at his slyly bashful look. He smiles back, sending another jolt of excitement through me which magnifies at the gradual lowering of his hips to mine. He moves his cock over me in a decadent sweep, repeating it several times until I'm rising to his touch. A sound escapes me when he presses harder, the bluntness of his crown unexpectedly imposing.

He retreats, brow creased.

"No," I squeeze his forearm, "it's ok."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

He returns with another slow sweep before settling once more, poised to advance, eyes moving between mine and the place where we're about to come together. It's on the tip of my tongue to tease or beg when he saves me from either by pressing inside me in one aggressive, smooth push and dropping his chest down to cover me, his breath spilling over my ear in a low, broken sound that I turn towards.

His mouth is slightly open, his expression one of inner concentration. I lie there, drowning in my own mix of shock and lust, feeling my body trying to adjust to his invasion. He makes another sound, this one a dark, warm ooze chasing down my neck like syrup.

"Tell me this doesn't feel fucking fantastic," he utters, his composure apparently recovered enough for his smart mouth to operate.

I hum in agreement. Then hold on tight to his biceps as he begins a long, stroking action that's overwhelming. As we fall into a rhythm, my hands ghost down his sides to find the strong curve of his backside, which I give a squeeze, and which brings forth a grunted, 'A stor,' from him. I gift him a stronger squeeze.

"Ach, now, that's unfair," he complains, hauling himself upright and tugging me with him until my thighs are pulled high around his hips as he kneels over me.

His eyes narrow, then widen, before he hoists me higher still and tests us out in this new position. It's good. Really good. Noises rush out of both of us in jerky gasps. I brace my arms wide on the bed, his eyes tracking my movements with something like rapture. I let my body feel everything. The tiny sting of his entry, the hot slide of his cock, and the elusive, electric response of my body to his depth - whether it's just him, the position of his jewellery or the lube - or just that's it's him in all his cocksure energy, I don't care, because it's glorious and is making me feel ecstatically alive.

I give my body to him, answering the bunch and release of his muscles with my own, sliding into another dimension until my orgasm rises up and swallows me whole, like an anthem, pouring through me from my deepest places. A rarity.

When I open my eyes, he's staring at me in a no holds barred sort of way.

"Dia ar sabhail," he mutters, pulling out of me with care, still hard.

I watch him, equally transfixed, as he rips the condom off and wraps his hand, delicious and naughty, around his cock. I pant, still trying to catch my breath, as he masturbates for me, his gaze moving from my face to my body and back as he picks up the pace. His hand glides and twists, fingers rubbing over his head, over the metal balls, down and round and back in a practised route. He suddenly tips forward, one arm landing on the mattress to my side, as he shudders his release out in several sticky bursts that land on my thighs and stomach. He pushes his crown into his own mess, spreading it into my skin, chest heaving, before he collapses down to the bed next to me.

"Ach, that was good," he exclaims. "Fuck me sideways, that was good."

I grin at the ceiling and then, as he comes into view over me, at him. He blinks down at me, face open and flushed, mouth curled and moving down to mine. His kiss is gentle, still breathy; and so very soft, before he falls back to my side, still breathing hard. Odd how that simple sound is what snags at my brain. It was one of the things I'd found almost unbearable about my ex-husband during our marriage - something that had seemed so petty I'd been ashamed to admit it even to myself - but his laboured breathing next to me, night after night, had driven me to distraction. Not so with Sean, though. I'm happy to lie here listening to him.

Eventually, though, we both begin to move. Sitting up he runs a finger through his semen on my stomach as if inspecting it. He stops when he sees me watching him, the corner of his mouth crooked into the beginnings of a smile.

"No need to stop on my account," I offer.

"Mm, maybe so, but I should clean us up," and with that, he leaves the bed.

I wait, sounds of running water emanating from the bathroom, the thought he might be about to leave rattling around my mind like an unwelcome pest. He emerges, his naked form rather gloriously backlit by the bathroom light, holding something out in his hand.

"This what ye wear to bed, is it?" shaking my nightie out.

"Yes."

"Put it on, will ye. I need to see you in it."

Something lifts inside my chest. "I need to clean -" but I don't finish before he's pressing a warm face cloth over my stomach and thighs, and I'm so taken aback I forget to close my mouth.

He laughs. "Aye, look at me. I come fully house-trained, you know."

I sit up and slip the nightdress over my head. I'm sure I look a mess. My hair certainly feels as if it might resemble a bundle of kindling, but the look in his eyes warms my skin nevertheless. Except he's standing at the side of the bed, as if uncommitted.

"Would you -"

"D'ye think -"

Our words collide in mid-air.

I start again. "Would you like to stay?"

He breaks out his best grin. "I'd love to."

And I really appreciate his direct answer. Nothing coy about it. It's refreshingly sincere.

Both of us end up leaving the bed for the bathroom and our respective toothbrushes. I eye the way he rips his out of the packaging with careless gusto, dropping it into the bin before holding the brush out for me to squeeze some of my toothpaste onto it. That done, we climb back into the bed, this time engaging with it the right way up. He fusses with his pillows before gathering me into him.

"Back to your conference in the morning, is it?"

I let him manoeuvre my leg to rest on top of his. "No, actually. It was the last day of it today." I move into the touch of his big hand tracing generous circles over my flank, mussing the silk of my nightie under his palm. "I'm going to visit my mother before going home to London. She's in a nursing home here."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"She's reached the stage where she doesn't know who I am anymore, which makes it less - less painful for her."

"You visit her often?"

"Usually once a month."

"So ...," flashing his teeth, "that means you stay up here once a month, now, does it?"

"Well, ordinarily, no. I usually stay with a friend who lives in a village south of here, which means I get to see her and her family, and we have a nice evening of cooking together. In fact, it's the first time I've been back here in the city for years. Because of the conference, you know."

"Not your favourite place?"

"Something like that. Although things have really looked up since I was last here."

"Now who's flirting?"

"I don't know why you're being so bashful all of a sudden. Or are you playing hard to get, now?"

He tips his head back, laughter spilling over me. "Oh aye, it's a bit late for that, now," tipping his head back to look at me. "And anyway, I didn't want to be hard to get with you."

'Wit.' I sigh. "You charmer, you."

"Not really. You must've felt it too, though, right? At the bar? What is that? Chemicals or pheromones, or summat."

"It's to do with a group of genes called the major histocompatibility complex, I think. We like people with dissimilar ones to our own."

"Yeah?" he pushes some of my errant hair from my face. "Tell me more, Doctor Moss."

So I do. I ramble on until he stops me with a kiss, leaning over me to turn the lamp off before tucking me against him.

It's so comfortable I fall asleep with surprising ease.

+++

I wake up slowly, edging my way to consciousness as if crawling from one shallow ledge to another. Even as I know it's only a memory, his touch still feels palpable.

We'd woken sometime during the night, in that deep quiet between the pubs closing and dawn. He'd held me to his chest, kissing the rim of my ear, his cock nudging into the small of my back. I'd curled my spine, felt his reply in the quickening of his breath and the slow stroke of his hand over my stomach, then sliding between my legs, both of us sucking air when he'd pushed two stiff fingers inside me, my body more than ready for him, his cock hungry for friction against my back. He'd strung naughty thoughts around my neck and into my ear whilst tracing maddening patterns through my wet heat, sometimes simply holding his thumb to my clit to bank my tension. It'd felt as though we were building stories together through our movements, slight and subtle as they were, keenly attuned to each other's ebb and flow. I'd panted, shamelessly, as he'd rolled away. On his return he'd pulled my hand backward to touch him; to guide my fingertips to the lip of the condom, showing me he was being safe. I'd started to turn over, but he'd stopped me. 'Stay,' he'd said. Commanded, rather.

And, once he'd fitted himself inside me once more, he'd lifted his mouth to my ear, lips touching, to ask if he could come inside me this time. I'd moaned so loudly in agreement he'd stuck his fingers in my mouth, and that's how we'd progressed - a gentle rocking to begin with, until the pressure had bloomed into something larger than both of us, until I'd pushed my finger and thumb around the base of his cock and tightened my grip when he'd pressed me onto my stomach and taken me with his every breath. We'd shoved the pillows to one side. He'd planted his knees deeper on the mattress. And then it'd rolled through both of us in slow, agonising, blessed waves, our breathing choppy and harsh and, after a while, interrupted by winded laughing. That's how good it'd felt.

Yet now, as I reach the uppermost layers of awareness, I'm horribly sure it's morning and of being utterly alone. A sweep of my arm over his side of the bed confirms it. Cool sheets. Not even just departed, but he's been gone for some time already. I squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh reality of waking up alone, and swallow hard on the cold disappointment.

I shower, dry my hair, dress - all in a silence that feels far lonelier than when I'm at home. This room is nothing without his inquisitive, energetic presence, and I can't wait to leave it behind me. I do my level best to ignore the cast-off packaging from his new toothbrush, the two condoms in the bin. And I kid myself I'm being thorough in my packing, rather than looking for any sign of a note from him. Tucked into the bedsheets, the mirror, or on the floor under the desk, for example.

Breakfast isn't normally something I spend much time on. Today, though, I tip the spill of books, glasses, tissues and pens back into my bag before forcing myself downstairs to eat the hotel's fare in preparation for the day ahead. Visiting my mother is a joyless prospect. In years past, I'd have brought crossword puzzles, tapestry wool, and new recipes to discuss with her, but none of that is relevant anymore, and today's visit will be another one-way, monosyllabic conversation with someone inhabiting my mother's body but with nothing of her mind.

It's as these thoughts slide through my mind that one of the questions posed after my presentation yesterday suddenly pops to the surface. It'd eluded me in the pub last night and because I like to make a note of them, I scrabble through my bag for a pen and my notebook, flicking through it to find the right place. And there - on a page curling from the weight of his handwriting - is the note I've been persuading myself I didn't need since first opening my eyes.