My Clocking In System

She took her time. That was what undid me. Eleven days ago she’d have been showing off.

Sunday morning she was half asleep and mischievous.

Tonight she just settled in on her own front room rug like a woman with nowhere better on earth to be, and worked my cock slow and deep, one fist round the base, the other hand warm and flat on my thigh.

Every time she came up for air she said something.

"You’re so hard again already."

"That’s your fault."

"Mm." Down. Up. Wet noise. "Say that again."

"That’s your fault, Jodie."

"Good."

Down again, deeper, and I felt the back of her throat and made a sound that wasn’t a word. My hand went into her hair without consulting me, and she hummed round my cock like she’d been waiting for it and pushed her head down further into my palm.

"You can hold on," she said, coming off. "I don’t mind. I quite like it."

"Jodie..."

"Hold on, Danny."

I held on.

She went back down with my fist in her hair and started working me properly, mouth and hand together, the wet sound of it filling that little room over the tick of the radiator.

And her tits moved every single time she took me deep, swinging with it, nipples still stiff, and I watched them do it because there was nothing else in the world worth looking at.

Her free hand came off my thigh and cupped my balls, weighing them, rolling them slow in her palm, and I swore so hard she laughed with her mouth full and nearly finished me on the spot.

"Don’t do that."

She did it again. Deliberately. Laughing round my cock with her eyes up on my face.

"You’re a menace."

She came off, breathless, fist still going. "You love it."

"I do."

"Say something filthy to me."

"You look unbelievable with your mouth full."

"Mmm." She went back down like she’d been paid for it, and this time she went all the way and swallowed round me and held there with her eyes watering and locked on mine.

That was the point I stopped having any say in anything.

She kept me there, throat working, one hand on my balls. Then came off with a gasp and a string of wet breaking between her lip and the head of my cock, and went straight back down before I could get a breath in.

Then the smoke alarm went off.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

We both froze.

Jodie came off me with an audible wet noise, turned her head toward the kitchen, listened for exactly one second, and said with total serenity:

"That’ll be the casserole."

"Do you want to..."

"No."

Straight back down.

"Fuck, Jodie, the alarm..."

"It’ll stop," she said around my cock, and it absolutely did not stop, and neither did she.

She took me all the way down again and did something with her tongue on the underside and squeezed my balls in her palm, and that was me finished, completely, no argument left in me anywhere.

"I’m going to..."

She hummed. Didn’t come off. Got her fist tight round the base and squeezed and looked straight up at me.

I came in her mouth with a smoke alarm going in the next room and her hand milking me through every pulse and her eyes on my face the whole way, and I made a noise I would deny under oath in any court in the country.

She stayed down for all of it. Swallowed. Kept going gently until I twitched away from her, oversensitive, and only then let me slip out of her mouth.

Then she sat back on her heels, wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, and licked it clean, entirely pleased with herself.

"There," she said. "Now I’ll get the casserole."

She stood up, wobbled, said "ow" cheerfully to nobody, and walked into her own kitchen with absolutely nothing on to deal with a fire.

I sat on her sofa and looked at the ceiling and thought: I have no idea what I did to deserve this.

"It’s black," she shouted. "Danny, it is actually black. It’s carbon. This was a dish."

"Sorry."

"You’re not sorry."

"I’m not sorry."

The alarm stopped. A window went up. She came back in still naked with a tea towel over her shoulder like a chef in a very particular kind of dream, and stood in the middle of her front room with her hands on her hips surveying the ruins of her evening.

And I looked at her properly, in the lamplight, because I could.

Freckles down over her collarbones and the tops of her tits. High and full and pale, those nipples still standing up dark pink. The soft strong middle of her, the line of her hip, the dark blonde curls between her legs and her thighs still shining wet where I’d been.

Smaller than the woman on the third floor. That was simply true. There’s somebody four floors under my own front door with more of everything and I’d had my hands on her that morning.

And it didn’t matter one single bit, because that was a body and this was Jodie. The girl I’d wanted at seventeen and been too much of a coward to say one word to. Stood in her own front room with nothing on, burning a dinner she’d made for me, calling me a liar to my face.

A beautiful woman in a warm room who’d asked me to stay.

And a hundred and sixty-five grand in the bank.

What more is there, really?

"You’re staring again."

"Yep."

"At what?"

"All of it. Mostly your tits."

"Danny!" She went scarlet, and then, because she is who she is, she put her shoulders back instead of covering up. "Well. Fine. Get an eyeful, they’re not going anywhere."

"Come here."

"I’m getting my dressing gown, I’ve been naked an hour and it’s February..."

"Come here."

She came here.

I pulled her down onto my lap, got a hand round the back of her neck, and kissed her, and she still tasted of me now as well as herself, the pair of us all mixed up in her mouth, and she kissed me back like she’d noticed and liked it.

Then I smacked her arse hard enough to echo off the wall.

She jumped and swore and bit my bottom lip for it.

"Oi!"

"That’s for the casserole."

"The casserole is your fault, you absolute..."

I got my mouth on her tit and she stopped talking mid-word.

"Ahh."

I sucked her nipple slow and hard, the way she likes it, and both her hands went into my hair and her whole body went loose and heavy on my lap.

"Mm. God. That. Don’t stop doing that."

I didn’t. I did the other one too, until it was stiff and shining and she was making a small sound every time I pulled, and by the time I came up for air she was breathing hard with her forehead against mine.

"Danny."

"Mm."

"I am not doing anything else tonight. I mean it. I physically cannot."

"Nobody’s asking."

"Good." She settled her whole weight onto me and put her head on my shoulder. "Because I would if you asked, and I’d regret it in the morning, and my legs have handed in their notice twice already today."

I got my arms round her and held on.

We sat like that a while. Her flat ticking round us. Somebody’s telly through the wall. A siren off toward the main road.

"Danny."

"Mm."

"I’m still starving."

"Pizza place on the high street."

"There is."

"I’ve got twenty quid."

"You’ve always got twenty quid." She lifted her head. "Chicken and barbecue sauce, garlic bread, and don’t let them talk you into stuffed crust, it’s a scam."

"Understood."

"And Danny."

"Yeah."

She was quiet a second, looking at my collarbone instead of my face.

"About before. The staying." A breath. "I’ll get the proper pill in the morning from the chemist and it’ll almost certainly be fine and we’ll never think about it again."

"All right."

"But I’m going to remember you said it before you knew that." She looked up. "That’s the bit. You said it when you still thought it might be real."

"I meant it when I still thought it might be real."

"I know." Her mouth went sideways into the half-smile. "That’s the problem, isn’t it."

She got off my lap, finally found her dressing gown, and went to order the pizza, and I sat in her warm little front room listening to her argue with a man about garlic bread.

And in the coat on the floor by the door, face down, my phone sat with a message on it from a woman four miles north who wanted five minutes about something that might be urgent.

I didn’t get up.

Not for a long time.