The Harpy

His brother had commented, "hope you can increase some strength in your vagina" and a few people asked for follow up on how the class went. The last comment was Derek's, he said, "Killer workout. Going to be sore tomorrow but not too sore to do it again." His misspelling of "too" irked her, as did the thought of his return. It had been uncomfortable being around him, and being around so many women so tuned into him only made it worse.

"Fuck!" Darcy muttered, shutting down the computer and downing the rest of her beer before swinging into the kitchen and grabbing another one on her way to the living room. She turned on the television, found a show full of obnoxious women yelling at each other and sat in the dark, her mind occupied with thoughts of Derek.

He must have known the female response that post would generate, must have known that people would see it and want to come, had in fact encouraged their attendance with an open-ended invite. But she didn't know what it meant. She assumed he was trying to help, assumed that Julie had told her husband that Darcy was struggling, assumed that Pete had passed the message on to Derek. And Derek had seized the opportunity to ride in on his white horse. But why? He had certainly never encouraged her to stay in town, and, in fact, offered to buy her a home in California in lieu of a cash settlement. Had done everything he could think of to get her to return to her old life, ignoring, maybe, that she hadn't really built much of a life there; that she no more belonged there than she did here.

Darcy might as well have been staring into space for all the attention she was paying to the television show, so when she heard a knock at the door she turned the TV off and walked toward the front door, her steps a little uncoordinated, her head a little fuzzy. She should have eaten dinner before drinking one, though now she wasn't hungry. She opened the door without bothering to worry much who was on the other side, and this was just as well because she couldn't have prepared herself for what she'd meet on the other side, anyway.

Derek was freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt advertising some bar in the city and jeans. She didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. He didn't speak either, just stepped inside, forcing her to back up to make room for his entry. Once inside he closed and locked the door.

"Derek?" She had meant to ask, 'what are you doing here, Derek?' but was forced to make do with the sounds her tongue was capable of producing at the moment, so instead she just said his name like she wasn't quite sure it was him, or perhaps that she didn't remember his name.

His eyes searched her face, and he stepped toward her again, but this time she was caught in his gaze and didn't back up. He snaked an arm around her as his mouth found hers, and suddenly she was kissing him like she'd been standing around all day waiting for him to get her started. He dug his fingers into her hips, saying, "tuck" and causing her to laugh against his mouth, hearing his laugh in return, the flirtatious smile on her lips, brought her back to reality.

"Derek, what?" She pressed her arms into his chest, pushing against him as he held tighter, stronger, and found her mouth again. He walked her backward, up against the wall.

"Darcy," he said, and fought to hold her even as she resisted, tried to escape. His breath was hot against hers. Her whole body was hot and suddenly she felt young again. She hadn't noticed that somehow, somewhere, between the fizzling marriage and the divorce she had started to feel old.

Dammit, he can kiss. Derek had always been an excellent kisser, been able to bring her body to life immediately. She had never not wanted him, still didn't. It hurt to admit being in such a position. She had always been told to never be the one who needed more, loved more, but she could never quite love Derek less. Or he couldn't love her more. Either way she was always in a position of weakness, always on the defensive. She'd had everything to lose. And then she'd lost everything.

His hands were roaming, prodding, squeezing. They were everywhere all at once and it was both too much and not nearly enough. His chest was hard against hers as his hand slid inside her pants. She'd put on yoga pants and a camisole after her shower, and she was grateful that the pants, tight against her flesh, slowed him down and granted her a few seconds to think. And she thought, Why shouldn't she? What was so wrong with fucking him again, as long as she knew it wasn't going to go anywhere? They were two consenting adults, weren't they?

His fingers found her, slick and hot and ready, and he cursed against her mouth as he worked at her clit with his fingertips. "Why are these pants so tight?"

Darcy let her head fall back against the wall, not bothering to answer him (more likely, unable to answer him). But that was okay, because most of his questions were rhetorical. That's what happens when someone knows everything, all of their questions turned rhetorical. How it had irked her those last months, him posing questions he assumed he knew the answer to, like some kind of high school English teacher with a devotion for the Socratic method. The condescending way he tried to drag her to his conclusion without ever saying anything. He'd been such a fucker.

But now, what he was doing with his fingers, none of it mattered. A year of passive-aggressive "what did you do todays?" melted away in the heat of her arousal. He'd hated having a stay-at-home spouse, though he'd been happy enough to move her away from her network and the company where she'd interned and been offered a position at graduation. He hadn't minded losing that income, had he?

One of Derek's fingers slid inside of her and it was all over, what little resistance remained evaporated. She buried her hands in his hair, noticing absent-mindedly that it was longer now than when they'd been married, the length allowing waves to form and kick out by his ears and at the base of his neck. The stubble from his five-o'clock shadow scratched at her neck when he dipped his head to nuzzle, suck and tease. Darcy arched her back, pressing her breasts into his chest as delicious heat built between her legs and he caught her earlobe with his teeth. "Uhn," she whimpered.

"I missed you, Darcy," he said.

She shook her head, banishing the words. "Take me to bed," she said. "I want you to take me to bed."

Derek's eyes explored her face. It's too late for your white horse. The words were on the tip of her tongue but she bit them back. Knowing Derek they would have started a conversation, and she didn't want a conversation. She was slightly tipsy and she wanted a man in her bed and he was the man that was here and that was all it was. He hadn't stopped finger-fucking her and she slid her eyes closed, avoiding his gaze and pretending to be wrapped up in the desire. And she was, to a certain extent. He body ached to be filled, ached to feel the erection that was currently pressed against her thigh inside of her instead, ached for that connection with another human, the fleeting promise that temporary possession.

Finally he nodded. "Where's the bedroom?" He didn't know this house, it hadn't been theirs. She thought about making him guess, but she was too horny for that. Instead she took his hand and led him down the hallway to her bedroom. It was the only room she'd put a lot of effort in decorating. She had wanted a beautiful room and she'd achieved it. The walls were lavender, the bedding a grey and white chevron print topped with yellow and dark purple throw pillows. On the dark hardwood floors was a sheepskin rug, soft and luxurious against her bare feet as she led him to the bed.

Derek kicked off his shoes and socks, and she smiled, remembering fondly the times she'd teased him about his propensity to make love to her with white athletic socks still on. He removed his shirt next, revealing the return of his six-pack. He was in biking shape, again, and obviously working on his abs based on the definition. He was not starving, though, and she wondered if there was someone else cooking his meals. How much energy she'd put into making dinner. Quickly she forced the thought out of her mind, focusing instead on his hands at his jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping and then pushing the denim down. His erection strained against his boxer briefs enticingly, and suddenly she remembered she was still dressed.

Darcy stood up and lifted the hem of her camisole over her head as Derek hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her leggings and yanked them down. Her panties went along for the ride and before long she was naked and sprawled on the bed and Derek's face was between her thighs. She was hot and wet and ready, already squirming beneath him. The touch of his tongue sent a jolt of electricity through her body. Darcy shivered and grabbed a handful of dark hair, holding him against her as his tongue began to move. He lapped at her clit and juices as she rocked her hips into his face, grunting and mewing, and with each passing moment his movements became more like an assault. He dragged his teeth over her clit and she shuddered. Tension and heat wound up inside her. She wasn't ready to come for him, wanted the ecstasy to last, so the dragged him up by his hair. He chuckled as she lifted herself up onto her elbow and kissed him, tasting herself on him as his tongue wrestled with hers. Darcy hooked her toes into the waistband of his boxer briefs and pushed them down and off his legs. His erect cock sprung free.

"Darcy," his voice was hoarse and needy as she wrapped a hand around his erection. It was too much need, too many memories resurfaced at the tenderness of the moment.

Tell me why I'm feeling like I missed you all this time. "Fuck me," she whispered, banishing the thought, "Please fuck me."

It worked. It always had. Derek entered her in one swift motion, burying his face in the soft skin of her neck as he shuddered in response to the sensations.

"Hard," she cooed against his ear.

"I don't wanna come so soon," he protested. And that was true, he didn't-he never had wanted to. But she knew how to get her way, and the emotion that accompanied having him inside her again was tearing her apart. She was not nearly as tough as she believed herself to be.

"Please, Derek, Fuck me," she bucked her hips, grabbed at his ass, dug her fingernails into the pale skin on his buttocks. "Your cocks feels so good." She pulled his cheeks apart, exposing his asshole to the cool air in the room. He groaned, shuddered, started working at her clit again, this time with his thumb. Pinching, rubbing, squeezing. She made a conscious effort to tighten her pussy around his cock, putting her kegel exercises to work, and resumed rocking her hips. Some days she used Ben Wa balls in the barre studio, using the time to strengthen her pelvic floor muscles. The balls stimulated her kegel muscles but also stimulated her arousal. Did her students notice more hard nipples than usual on those days? Those days certainly generated more thoughts of Derek than was prudent, and she often ended up sliding her mini vibrator, the one designed to look like lipstick, inside her panties before starting her drive home from work.

"Darcy, please," Derek said, holding still inside of her, trying to gain his composure. She squirmed underneath him, rhythmic circles meant to lull him into complacency. "Not like this."

Derek looked at her then with eyes that looked like coming home. She felt the familiar swell of hope, the flutter of butterfly wings where simple digestion should have been. Everything had changed. Already she wanted him back, all of him. Wanted her husband, wanted to be his wife.

"You feel so good," Derek whispered, letting a hand slide down her tummy and to her clit. Her pubic hair was almost completely gone, only a tiny little swatch left, more for decoration than anything else. He pushed apart the folds of her pussy and started stroking her clit, gently this time. Darcy's head fell back onto the bed as she whimpered and grunted, her vocalizations getting louder as his movements got faster and he increased the pressure. Her whole body was tense, now, a tight coil ready to spring. He was creating sensations within her that were so strong they are almost painful, but she didn't want him to stop because she knew release was on the other side. And she didn't want him to stop because, despite the borderline over-sensitivity of her now-engorged clit, it felt good.

"Derek," she breathed. There was no pretending now, no games. Derek let the thumb of one hand roam over and around her clit. Darcy's breathing grew ragged as the tingling intensified and he brought her to orgasm in his arms. The pulse of her clit was intense, as if it was trying to turn itself inside out, before she felt the accompanying gush of juices around his cock and the slow throbbing, the after-effects of her release, started to pulse. Derek nibbled on her ear, kissing her softly. A lover's kisses. A victor's kisses.

He started moving inside her. Her clit was still sensitive, still throbbing as her orgasm waned. He squeezed at her breasts, her hand still wet from having just abandoned her clit. He smeared their combined juices together across her chest as he squeezed first one, then the other breast. How she loved when he fondled her breasts.

"I can feel it," Derek said, and she knew he meant her orgasm, that he could feel the after-effects of her orgasm, feel the contractions of her pussy around him. He started to move inside her with renewed purpose. Darcy wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, harder and faster at his inward strokes. Everything about this was stupid. He wasn't wearing protection. How many women had he been with since the divorce? She knew of at least one: Emma, his high school sweetheart.

That had hurt, considering the tension she had caused in their marriage. Her constant need for "advice" and overly-friendly texting habits. When she saw them out together after the divorce, Emma hanging off his arm, it reopened the wound of her failed marriage in a way she wouldn't have thought possible. He'd always defended Emma's intention (she was just friendly because she was a friend). How stupid she felt running into them at a bar in town, so stupid she ducked away immediately, leaving her date (a match from an internet dating site [which were hard to come by in this town] sitting at the table waiting for a woman that wouldn't, couldn't, arrive. And now she was in bed with Derek, bare skin against bare skin, no protection from disease or pregnancy between them. They had only discussed children in generalities. How many did they want? Two. When? At the five year mark, once they had a significant amount of time together. But they'd never made it to the five year mark.

Derek was getting closer, his thrusts increasing in speed and intensity as a layer of sweat built on his skin. "Where should I come?"

"Come inside me," it didn't matter what was proper, or smart, or forward-thinking. It only mattered what she wanted, and what she wanted was cum leaking out of her pussy, pooling on her panties. What she wanted was to feel his orgasm, feel the throb of his cock as he came. And he did- he came, and he throbbed, and he—finally- filled her up.

Darcy was a lightweight when it came to drinking, so it was arguable whether she fell asleep or passed out. But she woke up to the harsh squawk of her alarm clock (the yogis were waiting) with a sticky film between her legs and an empty bed. She could tell the bed was empty of him, could feel it, and there was some relief in that—no awkward morning after—but also no small amount of disappointment. Stupid girl. She rolled onto her back and felt it, then, felt the way her pussy had been stretched, her clit abused. Felt the way it would change the way she moved all day, the way just walking was going to turn around.

But then she heard it, noises is the kitchen. The sounds of pans hitting the stove. She didn't bother getting dressed, she stood, used her camisole to dry between her legs as best she could and walked out into the kitchen. It was a cool morning, she was treated to goosebumps and hard nipples. A gentleman, she decided, would have left after a one night stand. He wouldn't have stayed and made her sit through an awkward breakfast filled with awkward silences and awkward food. It was too early to have to deal with this. She had never been a morning person, and hadn't that been a spot of tension in their marriage? Hadn't it annoyed him to leave the house for work each day before she even made it out of bed. How petty his annoyance had seemed—what had she had to get up for?

He was in the kitchen, shirtless and holding a wooden spoon to scramble the edges. His refusal to use a plastic spatula had, at one time, irritated the fuck out of her (who scrambles eggs with a wooden spoon?), but that was the least of her worries today. Now she worried about the way his jeans clung to his backside, and about the way her hands longed to touch him, the way she knew, instinctively, how warm he would be if she walked up and pressed her breasts against his back. She was irritated with herself just for thinking it.

Darcy hadn't had any coffee, didn't have time for manners. But she had time for questions, because she wanted answers. "You're still here."

It wasn't a question, it was an accusation. Derek surmised as much. "Divorce wasn't anything but missing you, Darcy."

And so that was Derek, throwing down the gauntlet. What a fucker. But he could throw down as many gauntlets as he wanted, it wouldn't make them any less divorced; and he had chosen that.

"I hate the way you make eggs," she said. And he smiled. And she smiled, too, the way she knew all along she was going to. And it was all over for her.

*****

Author's note: I sincerely appreciate any votes, comments or other feedback. Please don't be shy.