Gold Digger – Story 9 – D

The door opened.

D looked at me.

I looked at D.

Neither of us said anything useful.

Then he reached out, took my wrist – not my hand, my wrist, which is a different thing entirely – pulled me inside and closed the door behind me with his foot.

Not rough.

Just certain.

Like the decision had already been made and he was just executing it.

His mouth was on mine before I could form a thought, let alone a protest. Not rough, not gentle, just hungry. The kind of kiss that makes you forget you were supposed to be doing something else. Like your brain suddenly has a new priority and it’s not thinking anymore.

He backed me against the door, his body pressing against mine. My body apparently remembers him better than my brain does. I could feel how much he wanted this. How much he wanted me. That was data I could process.

His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of my hips, sliding up my sides until they found the zipper of my dress. The sound of it coming down was loud in the quiet apartment. The dress pooled at my feet, leaving me in just my underwear. Suddenly exposed. I should have been calculating my next move. I wasn’t.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he murmured against my neck, his teeth scraping my skin just enough to make me shiver. “Walking around like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

I would have denied it, would have said something clever and detached, but then his mouth was on my breast, and all thoughts of cleverness dissolved into data corruption. His tongue circled my nipple, teasing it to a hard peak while his hand slid between my legs, finding me already wet and wanting.

“See?” he said, and there was a smug satisfaction in his voice that should have annoyed me but didn’t. “You want this too.”

I did. God help me, I did. And the worst part was I wasn’t even pretending otherwise.

The world narrowed to the feeling of his skin against mine, the rough texture of his T-shirt against my bare back. I wasn’t thinking about Richard. I wasn’t thinking about the plan. I wasn’t thinking about anything at all.

He laid me on his bed, his body covering mine as he kissed me again, deeper this time, more possessive. His fingers worked my underwear down my hips, and I kicked them off impatiently. I wanted him naked too, wanted to feel all of him against me. I fumbled with his pants, my hands shaking slightly with anticipation. I noticed my hands were shaking. I didn’t care.

When he finally entered me, it was with a slow, deliberate thrust that made me arch my back. He filled me completely, stretching me in a way that was both overwhelming and exactly what I needed. We found a rhythm that was somehow both frantic and intimate, our bodies moving together like they’d been doing this for years instead of minutes. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t calculating. I wasn’t even thinking about tomorrow.

I lost track of time, of myself, of everything except the pleasure building inside me. When it finally hit, it was like a system crash – complete and total. I cried out his name as I came, my nails digging into his back as he continued to move inside me, chasing his own release.

When he finally came, it was with a low groan against my neck, his body shuddering against mine.

“I should go,” I said, but I made absolutely no move to leave.

“Not yet,” he replied, pulling me closer, and I let him. Because I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I can not tell you why.

What I can tell you is that I woke up in D’s bed.

Not unusual.

The problem was everything else.

Sunlight through the curtains.

D half-asleep beside me.

One arm across my waist like he’d put it there sometime during the night and simply forgotten to remove it.

I should have left immediately.

Instead I stayed.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

Which was objectively irresponsible and also the most rested I’d felt in three weeks.

At some point he pulled me closer without opening his eyes.

I hate when he does that.

Not because I dislike it.

Because I don’t.

That’s the problem.

His hand found mine under the blanket. Absent-minded. Automatic. Like it belonged there and he wasn’t making a point about it – it just did and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

I stared at the ceiling.

Thinking very hard about absolutely nothing.

He kissed my shoulder.

Soft. Half-asleep. Like punctuation rather than a statement.

Then settled back down again.

Still present.

Still somehow completely certain of where I was even at whatever hour this was with his eyes still closed.

That felt significantly more dangerous than anything that happened the night before.

I don’t have a spreadsheet category for tenderness.

Trust me.

I’ve checked.

I lay there in the specific warmth of D’s bed in D’s flat with D’s hand in mine and I thought about Richard saying you worked very hard to get here and I thought about the sea bass and the car and the spreadsheet column I’d had to invent because the existing ones weren’t sufficient and I thought –

Nothing.

I thought nothing.

For twenty minutes I was just a woman lying in a warm bed not running anything.

That was new information.

Eventually he got up.

Opened the window.

Cold morning air rolled in instantly, brutally, like reality had finally located the address.

“I’ll make coffee,” he said.

Then disappeared into the bathroom.

The moment the door closed my brain came back online.

Not gradually.

All at once.

Richard.

The plan.

The spreadsheet.

The key.

I got dressed faster than any woman has ever gotten dressed in recorded human history.

Shoes. Bag. Coat. Exit.

The key hook by the door.

My key on it.

The empty space beside his.

I looked at that space.

Longer than I should have.

Then I locked the door behind me and left before the coffee was made and before D came back and before I could do anything else that wasn’t in the acquisition timeline.

Stood on his street in the morning with last night’s dress and this morning’s clarity and a key in my bag that has now been in my bag for four months and eighteen days.

Not that I’m counting.

Spreadsheet status: D → [row does not exist]
The problem is not what happened. The problem is what didn’t. Coffee. Morning light. His hand finding mine like it had somewhere to be. I don’t have a category for that. The key is in my bag. I’m not counting. – Mila