We got home from his sister’s dinner and I didn’t even get my shoes off.
I’d barely stepped over the threshold when Brett’s hand slid around my hip and down the front of my jeans, just popped the button with his thumb like it was nothing, like he’d been planning it through the whole drive.
“Door,” I said, stupidly. “Brett, the door’s still—”
“Then lock it.”
He reached past me with the other hand and turned the deadbolt, slow, clack, while the first hand wrapped around me and started to stroke. My forehead hit the wood. I was in my good jeans. I could hear the neighbor’s TV through the wall.
“Tell me how hard you got in my sister’s bathroom,” he said.
“I didn’t—”
“Kit.”
“Really hard,” I whispered. “I touched myself a little. I stopped. I’m sorry.”
He laughed into my neck. His hand tightened, rough and unhurried, and I came against the door in about forty seconds, silently, mouth open on the grain of the wood, spilling into my own underwear because he hadn’t pulled the jeans down far enough to do anything else with it.
He drew his hand out. Looked at his thumb. Reached up and wiped it across my cheek, one long sticky stripe.
“Leave it there while you hang up the coats,” he said.
I did. Obviously I did.
