The Cure

Chapter 32

Lola stared at the grain of the oak beneath her, the pit of her stomach still seizing, her breasts pressed firmly against the cool tabletop, incredulous.

Incredulous that this was her, beads of sweat trickling between her breasts and onto the wood of her dining table, the wetness of two orgasms drying between her thighs, come splashed up her back.

That that was him, the polite, good-looking doctor that had fucked her like that, used her body to douse his own anger, now encasing her in his thick arms – she bit back her smile as she caught her breath.

She better piss him off more often.

The buzzer zapped through their post-sex bliss, the tension-free comedown, the sweaty unravelling of muscles and body parts; she hummed, pressing her cheek to the tabletop.

'Who's that,' she murmured between half-closed lips, starting to shiver as he pressed another kiss to her shoulder.

'Fuck it,' he replied, his lips, then his teeth against her skin, biting down lightly, until the phone in his discarded jeans began to buzz. 'Oh, shit.'

Lola tensed as he pushed up and away from her body, feeling suddenly, coolly vulnerable with her backside in the air, thoughts of an upset redhead spilling black ink over her rose-tinted bliss; she discovered her towel beneath the table and wrapped it loosely back around herself as Nate pulled his phone out of the puddle of jeans, releasing a small breath of relief as he answered it, catching Lola's worried eye.

'I'll be right down.'

'Who is it?' Lola asked again, in a strained whisper.

'You hungry?' He asked with a grin as he hung up, pulling on his boxers and jeans, shooting her one last appreciative look over his shoulder as he headed towards the door, turning on the light as he went, forgoing putting on his tee-shirt over his still-damp torso, the muscles rippling in his back, the swell of his backside tight against his jeans with the boxers' waistband peeking out; she bit her lip.

He'd undone all the bath-water's hard work, she thought as she dashed back into the still-steamy bathroom, turning off her small CD-player that still crooned Cohen; she was sticky, coated with sweat and his pleasure, and she swept the mist from the mirror to uncover her feverish face, surprised to find it smiling.

She puffed air into her cheeks, begging herself for composure as she drew mascara quickly over her lashes, pulling a brush through her almost-dry hair.

She hesitated before the shower, but she couldn't wash it off quite yet; the proof that he had been there, that he had wanted her; the proof that it wasn't a dream.

She dressed breathless while he heard him clattering in the kitchen, setting out plates and glasses, her hand pausing, sliding, over the red tea-dress that she hadn't worn since he pressed her onto the kitchen counters almost one year ago, before selecting a loose floral mini-skirt, and a loose black band tee-shirt that she tucked into it.

She needed several deep breaths before she could come back out into the loft, hearing him leafing through his record collection.

Nate had put his rumpled tee-shirt back on, and a small smile tickled his lips as he heard her padding barefoot towards him, concentrating on the click of the record player's needle, the soft sound of Hozier's Work Song rumbling lazily into life beneath his fingers.

'You OK?'

That soft, sincere enquiry; she felt its power, even if he didn't look at her, and his smile creased his cheek further when she gave her even softer reply.