Letting Go

Anya can’t stop herself. Every time her brother’s best friend swings by the house, she’s tossing out little flirts like bread crumbs—eye contact that lingers, jokes that toe the line, a brush of fingers when she passes the popcorn. He notices. A quick smirk here, a tilted eyebrow there. When he finally pulls her aside and asks if she wants dinner alone sometime, she says yes before the words finish leaving his mouth. They barely get the front door shut. Clothes end up wherever gravity drops them. He lifts her onto the kitchen counter, and she wraps her legs around his waist, the tips of her hair brushing the cold granite. He’s rough, she’s eager, and the moment he pushes inside her, the whole world goes white-hot and quiet except for skin on skin and little gasping curses. It’s a dance of push and pull, her nails dragging down his back, him gripping her hips like he’s afraid she’ll vanish. When she comes the first time, it’s sudden and loud, her thighs shaking. He keeps moving—hungry, relentless—until his own orgasm tears through him, hips slamming into hers in tight, jerky thrusts that make the cabinet doors rattle. After, they laugh, breathless, the air still thick with sweat and spent desire. Somewhere in the living room, Anya’s phone starts ringing, and neither one even looks up.