Yours for the Weekend

*

The weekend goes like this:

During the Christmas pageant, they steal away from the crowd to bite each other's lips and grind against each other, whispering all the filthy things they'll do to each other later.

During dinner at Dorothea's parents' place, they slip into the hallway, where Elliot has one hand over Dorothea's mouth to stifle her moans, the other up her skirt, two fingers inside her, coaxing out orgasm after orgasm.

During the Christmas day service, Dorothea leads him into a confessional so she can service him on her knees, her mouth stretched around his cock and his hands tangled in her hair, and when he urges her deeper her eyes glint in a way that is so seductive, he can't hold it in anymore, pumping her mouth so full of come it dribbles down her delicate chin.

Later, that night, Dorothea wears red and white striped thigh-highs and a ridiculous Santa hat, and she bounces on top of him, mouth open with pleasure as she leans back and plays with her clit, bringing herself over the edge. Elliot's hands grip her hips, fingers sinking into her curves. She makes him come just like that--drains him until he's nothing but a blissed-out husk of a man.

It's so, so easy to pretend the past eight years never happened. They are horny eighteen-year-olds again, completely wrapped up in each other, kiss bruised lips and fingers entwined.

With each stolen hour he falls a little more in love with her. The way she pats her bloated middle when she's had too much gingerbread, but greedily reaches for more every time. The way she dresses up the family cat, Snowball, in a little elf outfit, the way she giggles so infectiously when Snowball glares at her under his tiny hat. The way she sings along to every Christmas song, making up silly little dances and somehow convincing Elliot to join in. It's what she's always done, who she's always been--pure, concentrated enthusiasm for everything, like a comet burning bright, and Elliot can't help but get swept up in the fiery energy of her.

*

It's the last night she spends with him, and Dorothea is at his door, snow swirling behind her.

'I'm going back to LA tomorrow,' Dorothea says, a little sheepish. Her fingers fiddle with the hem of her perfectly tailored coat. 'Flight's at eight. Can I stay here tonight?'

Elliot doesn't trust himself to speak, so he nods and lets her in wordlessly, desperately trying to pretend his world isn't shattering around him. After a dinner of ham and turkey leftovers, they sit on the rug in front of Elliot's electric fireplace, Dorothea's legs in his lap.

'Can't believe the weekend has gone so quickly,' he says. Dorothea won't look at him. 'I don't want you to leave.'

Her eyes are cold, icy blue. 'Don't start, Elliot.'

Of course. Don't start that argument again. Back when Dorothea had gotten the call-back, and the agent insisted she fly out to LA, she and Elliot had argued themselves hoarse. He was stubborn and refused to let her go, but the more he clung, the more he begged and pleaded and cried, the more she resented him for holding her back.

Desperate not to go down that road again, Elliot backtracks. 'Sorry--right, I know. I didn't mean it.'

It's snowing heavily outside, and the wind howls like a sad wolf. As penance, Elliot takes Dorothea's stockinged feet into his hands and begins rubbing circles into the soles. They remain silent like this for several minutes, as Dorothea stares into the fireplace, sullen. Elliot wants to kiss those pouting lips.

'Well,' he says, anxious to bring back the ease and warmth between them, 'since it's your last night here, I better make it one to remember.' His fingers are working their way up her calves, inching under her wool skirt to tug at her stockings.

This changes Dorothea's tune. 'Oh?' she says, one eyebrow raised. 'What do you have in mind?'

Elliot rolls Dorothea's stockings down and tosses them to the side. 'Hmmm... I have a few ideas.' His voice is low and seductive, and from the way Dorothea's face colours, the way she bites her lip, he can tell his plan is working. Past arguments are forgotten as lust envelopes the two of them.

He leans down to kiss the inside of her knee, tonguing at the skin, and when he looks up she lets out the smallest of whimpers. It encourages him forward, and his tongue teases up her thighs. Her skirt is bunched at the waist, revealing her spread legs, and his fingers ghost over the fabric of her panties, so light she must barely even feel it. She bucks into him, and he pulls back slightly.

'Let's not get too carried away, now,' he teases, and the smallest of whimpers becomes a desperate little moan.

He's addicted to seeing her like this--craving and helpless, aching for him. It fills him with a heady rush, and he laughs, a little dazed. He has to distance himself and cool down for a second, or else he'll end up fucking her like a crazed beast, and he doesn't want that. He wants to take his time, knowing it's the last time he'll have her like this.

So he pulls back. 'Strip,' he orders with a jerk of his head.

She does, leaving her clothes in a crumpled heap by the sofa.

He catches his breath. Lit only by the fireplace and blinking Christmas lights, she looks like a goddamn playboy centrefold--auburn hair cascading down her shoulders in waves, golden skin and wine-red lips, nude but for the glinting ruby pendant nestled between her breasts. But she doesn't stay sitting pretty and preening under his gaze for long. She launches herself onto him, and Elliot topples backwards, rug soft beneath his back.

'You are wearing far too many clothes,' she says, her voice sultry and low, a timbre he's become intimately familiar with over the past few days.

After his clothes join hers in the pile by the sofa, she mouths kisses along the skin of his neck, down his chest and belly, until finally she takes his cock into his mouth. He planned to make this night solely about her, but when she moves her tongue like that, suctions in just the right way, he thinks he can indulge just a little. He moans his appreciation, and when she grins up at him, looking downright filthy with lipstick smudged and saliva smeared along her chin, it's too much.

He groans and shoves her off. 'Back, harlot,' he says, joking, 'I won't succumb to your wicked wiles so easily.' He positions her so she's now the one on her back, and he's in between her legs, breath ghosting over her pussy.

'Oh no,' she giggles breathlessly, 'what a dastardly punishment for a dirty whore... This is the opposite of what I want.' The sarcasm drips from her voice, and Elliot rolls his eyes.

'Cheeky,' he says, 'I'll show you.'

He licks her out torturously slowly, soft enough that she's writhing beneath him, back arching up off the floor, fingers tangled in his hair. With his tongue fluttering gently over her clit, he strokes his fingers through slick, swollen folds, just enough to tease, never quite dipping inside.

She is drenched in desperation, rendered stupid with it, gasping in little staccato bursts, 'Oh, fuck--Elliot--I want--fuck--I just--'

'Needy little thing, aren't you?' he murmurs, smiling into her skin.

All Dorothea can do is moan even louder, and when her mouth forms that perfect round O, breath hitching and muscles quivering, Elliot stops just before her orgasm hits its peak. He sits back on his heels to watch her flounder.

'What--what--' She makes an impatient, keening sound from the back of her throat.

She's right on the edge, and Elliot drinks in the sight of her, a squirming, moaning mess just for him, eyes glassy, skin flushed under a thin sheen of sweat. When will be the next time he has her splayed out like this, pliant in his hands, so eager for him? It does something powerful to his ego, and he savours the sight, smirking.

'Nooo,' she whines quietly, 'come back here, come fuck me.'

Elliot's smirk becomes a grin. 'Greedy girl,' he says, 'So bossy, too. I ought to take you down a peg.'

Dorothea shivers. 'What do you mean?'

Taking her by the ankles, he pulls her closer until her legs fall to either side of him. His cock rests on her mons as he leans over her, taking her breasts in his hands and thumbing softly over her nipples. She groans.

'I'd like to hear you beg, Dorothea,' he says.

'Beg?' Her voice is a small whimper.

'That's right,' Elliot replies, voice cool and smooth, as if he can't feel the throbbing heat of her pussy beneath his hard cock. 'I want to hear you beg for me.' He brings one hand down between her legs and dips a finger inside before smearing her juices over her clit and stroking gently in a way he knows won't get her off, but will be just enough to keep her on the edge and desperate for him.

'Please,' she whines, breathless, 'please, Elliot, please.'

He likes the sound of that. He sinks one finger into her and hooks it so the pad of his finger rubs right against her g-spot, and then he holds it there, unmoving.

'Please, what, Dorothea?' he says, 'What do you want?'

She wriggles her hips, but Elliot removes his left hand from her breast to pin her hips down with his forearm. 'Uh-uh-uh,' he says, shaking his head, 'That's not how this works, love. You have to earn it.'

'Oh, fuck,' she breathes, hands fisting at the rug, helpless.

Maybe he's being a little too mean to her--maybe she's so far gone she's not even capable of speech. But then the begging begins, and the filthiest stream of words fall from Dorothea's mouth.

She begs him to fuck her like the greedy little slut she is, spread her open and stretch her out with his thick cock, fill her up and make her scream. What can Elliot do but obey?

He slips his finger out of her wet cunt and slowly plunges his cock inside, then grabs her ankles to spread her apart wider as he thrusts into her with unforgiving abandon. She's so wound up that just two pumps in she's screaming his name, unravelling beneath him as orgasm rushes through her body. It doesn't take much longer before Elliot bursts, filling her with come until its sloshing inside her, leaking thick and sticky down her thighs.

Still buried inside her, he leans in for a sloppy kiss, and as their tongues slide against each other she hums contentedly into his mouth.

He runs a bath for the two of them, and they clean each other the best they can, rubbing soapy washcloths over each other's sticky skin. Dorothea is spent, her eyes are half-lidded and her body droops with exhaustion, so Elliot carries her bridal-style into the bedroom, where they fall asleep in each other's arms.

She's so warm and fits so perfectly against him. Elliot will never sleep this well again.

*

Dorothea's alarm buzzes in the thin light of morning. His mind still clouded from sleep, Elliot holds his arms tight around her middle as she tries her best to wriggle out of bed, swatting him playfully and giggling. He pulls her back into him and murmurs against her skin.

'Stay, Dorothea.'

She stiffens. The giggling stops. The cotton candy in Elliot's skull melts away as he realises what he's done. He'd give anything to swallow the word back down again, but it's too late.

The warmth is gone, and so is Dorothea.

She doesn't say a word to him as she leaves, in such a rush she forgets her scarf, crumpled beneath couch cushions in the living room. If Elliot spends the next several nights wrapped in it, smelling her scent, nobody needs to know.

*

On the plane back to California, Dorothea wipes her tears.

It was the right choice, she tells herself. She could never be happy with Elliot.

She wasn't built for small-town drudgery. She was made for bright lights and crowds, attention and glamour. So she has to sacrifice a warm bed and honest love for a fast-paced Hollywood lifestyle? That's not so bad.

Elliot will move on, anyway. One day he'll meet his future wife, and they'll have children together, and Dorothea will be nothing more than a distant memory and the face of a lipstick commercial in the background.

Pull yourself together.

She fixes her mascara and takes a deep breath. She smiles when the cameras flash.