The doorbell rang downstairs, and Natalie, startled, broke the kiss.
"Ignore it," Evan said, trying to drag her mouth back to his. He was making a great case for vigorous morning sex instead of her planned trip to the gym. The parts of her willing to be convinced--toes, hips, the arch of her spine--wanted to do as he said. The rest of her found the willpower to plant her hands on his shoulders and lever herself away from him.
"You remember what I said about my mom?"
Except for his cock, he stilled. His cock was still pulsing persuasively a half inch from her clit.
In the silence, they heard the door open and Elaine call, "Natalie?"
She scrambled to the bedroom door, half-closing it and leaning into the opening to answer, "I'll be down in a minute. I'm just getting dressed."
"Do I really have to do the trellis thing?" he whispered, sinking below the covers.
She rummaged in her workout clothes drawer, not overjoyed at him watching her contort her flesh into the sports bra, but she had to get downstairs before her mom decided to barge in. "No, idiot. Just stay up here. Don't flush or turn on the shower or whatever. Your car's not in the driveway, is it?"
He shook his head. "I like the outfit."
"Shut up."
"It's like you're a superhero. Is that spandex? All the hot superheroes wear black spandex."
"There's spandex in it. Be quiet."
"You're not wearing underwear. You've got black spandex all wrapped tight right against your skin. I don't think I can be quiet, not with this visual. I think I'm going to explode. A lot. Loudly."
She pulled a wicking tee over her head and shot him a warning look before shutting the door behind her. She hadn't brushed her hair. She hadn't put on makeup. If Elaine found out about the man in her bed, she'd be horrified.
"Mom, hi."
Elaine was in the kitchen, rearranging her freezer. "I made lentil stew, and some of those sweet potato and black bean empanadas you like. There's turkey chili here from last time. What kind of junk have you been eating?"
Pulling out a tote bag of plastic containers, washed and ready to return, she said, "I do cook for myself, you know. And I go out. You don't have to keep doing this."
Ever since the breakup with Chris, her mom had resumed the stocking of her freezer that had marked her post-college days. She understood that it was a way of showing love, but it also showed a certain amount of doubt about her daughter's competence. Natalie had actually celebrated with Chris the first time they'd completely emptied her house of leftovers, sometime towards the end of their first year together. It had been a clear indication that Elaine felt secure about Chris’ ability to take care of her. Because Elaine didn't believe any woman alone would ever be secure. These days, she showed up unannounced every week or two with bags of provisions, pretending that she'd just happened to cook more than she herself needed.
"It's no problem. We don't want all these healthy leftovers to go to waste. Or for you to make bad food choices that will go to your waist." She laughed lightly, like it was the first time she'd said it.
Tensing up all her muscles did fun things to her pelvic floor, which was a strange sensation to have with her mother inadvertently letting the freezer air cool the sex flush she'd carried downstairs. "My waist is my business, Mom."
Elaine turned from the game of Tupperware Tetris she was playing to eye Natalie's body. She resisted the urge to tug her shirt lower over her yoga pants. "You want to be vigilant, sweetie. Now that you're in your thirties, the fat cells aren't as elastic anymore. You'll find it harder and harder to keep your figure with each passing month."
"I've only been thirty for a few months." She said it low enough for her mom to pretend not to hear it, despite standing right next to her. She thought about starting the coffeemaker, but didn't want to provide an opening for Elaine to sit for a chat. She had a naked man in her bed. And the perverse resolution to skip the gym. And eat butter for breakfast. Fried butter.
"Thank you for the food, Mom. Let me put the lentil stew in the fridge, I'll have that tonight. Listen, I was just heading out. Gillian took this new weights class last week, and said I have to try it. I don't want to get there late and get stuck in the back of the room."
"You won't work as hard if you're in the back of the room. You need to be up front so you know everyone can see you if your form drops."
"I know. That's what I just said. And I haven't even put my hair up yet. So I'm going to push you out the door, I'm afraid. Don't forget these," she handed over the bag of empty containers with a kiss. "Thanks for the meals. Stop bringing them. I like cooking for myself."
"You don't even have fresh greens in your crisper. I'll pick some up for you at the farmers' market next time."
"I don't make salads at home. I order them when I'm eating out, just so I never have to make a salad for one at home. And don't remind me about the hidden calories. I know about the hidden calories. No cheese. No bread. Light dressing on the side."
"No nuts."
"You're nuts," Natalie said, and hugged Elaine. It wasn't entirely so she could edge her over the threshold as she released her. That was a side benefit. "Love you."
"Love you, too, sweetie. Don't forget to do cardio."
Nat shut the door.
Evan could lie to himself about the eavesdropping being accidental, but a side-effect of being the baby of the family was that he'd developed spying skills to help him understand all the things people pointedly wouldn't discuss around him. He'd heard about Danny's friend who started selling pot, and Alice's fluid sexual identity, and the trip his parents wanted to take, if only they could figure out what to do about leaving behind a house full of teenagers and one elementary-age kid. Ben's wife, Tara, once suggested when they were all ragging on him for his childhood sneakiness, that those skills had directly translated to his ability to analyze markets and figure out how various subtle elements would impact financial outlooks.
He thought the world of Tara.
He did not think the world of Elaine. Natalie had mentioned once or twice her hang-ups about being larger than her mother, and how she curated all those carefully edited photos of their trip--except the one of Nat and his dad at the shoe shop. But to hear the woman in so many words tell Natalie that her body wasn't good enough. To warn her adult daughter of the dangers of eating croutons.
No, Evan didn't regret pulling on boxers and a shirt so he could linger at the top of her stairs and listen in on the conversation. He didn't even mind Natalie catching him sitting there. What pissed him off was that she'd been bounding up, as if eager to resume their activities, and when she saw him, she stopped short and tugged down the hem of her shirt. She moved as if to step around him, keeping her gorgeous spandex-clad ass turned away from him.
"Hey," he reached up, palmed her thigh. Spread his knees so she could, if she wanted, check out how much touching her got him going.
"So, like I was saying, I'm meeting Gillian at the gym."
"I've been working on a new poem."
She didn't straddle him and start exploring what fun things they could do with the help of the stair risers, but she did slide down to sit beside him. "Have you?" Her voice had deflated, all the sharpness punctured as he smoothed his hand down to her knee.
"I have."
His thumb circled her kneecap, and she was staring at it. She licked her lips. "Do I get to hear it?"
Shaking his head, he said, "You're meeting Gillian."
"Maybe you can tell me later?"
He rotated on the landing, sliding his right leg around her until his ankle brushed her hip. "Probably I'll forget it later."
Swallowing before speaking, she said, "That would be a real shame. Maybe you should write it down."
"Maybe you should text Gillian that you're not going, and come back here with a condom. Maybe that'll jog my memory."
"At least one of us will be jogging," she muttered, but the humor was back in her voice.
He flexed his hand on her knee, sent his grip up the inside of her thigh. The spandex smooth under his fingers, the knowledge that her labia were protected from his view only by this thin barrier, the breasts she'd wrestled into that cling-tight top. "Text. Her. Now."
"You'll have to stop touching me for that."
"Fuck."
"You'll have to keep touching me for that."
He drank in her sultry laughing tone, and the fact she'd spread her legs. They faced each other, braced on opposite walls at the top of the staircase, and he flexed one fingertip, intense, her thigh muscles jumping in response.
"There once," he said, deliberate and slow, "was a young man named Evan."
Natalie's breathing, the visible rise and fall of her chest, hitched as he inched closer. He snaked his foot behind her ass and, anchored, slid his pelvis to hers. She reached over to remove his shirt, which meant his hand leaving her thigh. He took off her shirt, and there she was, all gold skin and skintight black.
He traced the edges of her sports bra, her full breasts flushed and straining to escape. The fabric outlined her nipples. Before touching them, he said, "And Natalie's bod had him revvin'."
Her abs shook, her chest bounced, she laughed. She was loose and light and slid into his arms as he used his leg to draw her close. Closer. Their legs tangled, she draped her right leg over his left, and he was forehead to forehead with her. Eyes on her olive green cat eyes. "Tell me the rest."
"Cancel the gym."
She glanced down the stairs. Nope, he wasn't letting Elaine's dumbass comments get between them. "He adored...."
"Adored what?" Now she was finding her playful side. Perfect.
"Can't tell you."
Her hands moved up his back, fingernails lightly scoring his nape, and she grabbed tight hold of his hair. "Adored what?"
He sucked in her lower lip, scraped it with his upper teeth. Refused to verbalize the answer, though it had to be obvious. He hadn't stopped fondling her chest.
"There once was a young man named Evan, and Natalie doesn't get to hear more until she cancels the gym."
She planted her hands on his pecs and shoved. "You are a brat."
"Tell me something I haven't heard my entire life."
"I'm texting her. You don't move. And this had better be a damn good limerick."
He leaned into the hallway to watch her stalk towards her bedroom door. "I like the rear view, too. Can we make a deal about you wearing spandex more often?"
"A very damn good limerick."
"Don't forget the condom."
He stood her on the landing and moved down a couple of steps, so he was face-to-boob. He drew his palms from her shoulders to her wrists, then planted her hands on the walls. Without thinking much about it, she spread her legs wide. She was beginning to feel superheroic, like her powers were megalust and x-rated vision.
"You probably don't want me to grab a camera right now. But so you know, I am memorizing this sight. You're hot as fuck."
He sounded sincere. And his boxers weren't doing a good job containing his erection. "I'm waiting for my poem."
"I'm waiting for my condom." He wasn't. He wasn't waiting at all. He was breathing light kisses across her clavicle, the upper swell of her breasts. Dipping his tongue in the deep groove between them, more obvious than usual thanks to the compressing powers of the damn sports bra.
"I brought the condom."
He looked from one empty hand to another, then at her. She liked this view, him standing below her, bare muscled chest and the landscape of his strong shoulders.
She raised her eyebrows briefly, challenging him. If he wanted the condom, he'd have to find it. Not like her skin-tight clothes made the best hiding place, not if he looked. Touched. Something about the acoustics of her stairwell made echoes of his laughter, like suddenly they were in the middle of a towering mountain range, surrounded by trees and cliffs and the world.
He started with her spine, wedging his fingers under the racerback of the bra, tracing past the bumps of her shoulder blades, following the material's curves until he was brushing the sides of her breasts under her arms, the heels of each hand pressing the mounds even closer together. He bit. Not gentle nibbling, but a force to counter that of the spandex, like he was engaged in a battle to release her by breaking through the weave of the fabric itself.
She arched towards him, crotch hitting his chest, rubbing. Her moans echoed, too.
Lifting her arms so he could yank off her bra, she'd have fallen, but his body was an anchor as he tugged. Her breasts sprang free, bouncing inelegant and joyful in his face, and her nipple was deep in his mouth before she'd replanted her hands on the wall. And then he enveloped her other nipple, then pressed both under his thumbs as his tongue soothed the marks of the elastic band. He descended a step, nipping at her abdomen and trailing his fingers along her ribs. Which was erotic and all, but left her breasts alone, so she walked down with him. Obliging, he kissed his way back up to her chest, then her shoulders and neck and chin and mouth as they moved downstairs together. His erection kept retreating, so she took it in hand, stopping his descent. They were halfway to the ground, and her hips were grinding on his thigh. As she removed his boxers, she rotated past him, leaving him rising stiff into her hands, a riser above her. Her teeth scraping his side, her trail of kisses getting lower as she guided his cock. She licked it, then lifted her chin to check his expression. His attention was focused, the tension in his expression echoed by the tightening of his balls against her chest. She liked this view, too, the pulse in his neck throbbing as he held himself upright, one hand a vise on the bannister, the other a fist at his side.
"You owe me a poem," she said, which released his grip on his stillness, that acrobatic speed of his back in play. He was behind her, below her, peeling down her yoga pants, the condom that had been hiding by her hip bouncing a few steps down. His arm circled her, pulled his cock to push against her ass. He splayed his hand across her abdomen, lower, fingers in her curls, fingertips parting her folds, opening her even as he brought them both almost to the ground floor. He scooped up the condom and sheathed his shaft while she shoved the pants off one leg, then he had her kneeling on the riser above him, upright with hands braced a few steps higher. His fingers smoothed over her ass, up her hips, his mouth on the back of her shoulder biting as he pinched her nipples. The echo wasn't as strong as at the top of the stairs; her moans were loud enough to compensate.
"So. Hot." His voice was rough, his hands were rough, the slide of his cock was sure and smooth and deep and high.
Nat cried out his name. He anchored his grip on the front of her pelvis, keeping her back arched and her body open, and she had no time to rest; she felt a second explosion building quickly on the first. She tightened her vaginal muscles as he thrust, fast, firm, the friction everything she'd ever wanted, building up and up with each push, building stairways to heaven, the heaven of orgasm, the gates thrown wide, and, clamoring, they entered it together.
"There once was a young man named Evan," he said, sprawled on his back at the base of the staircase. He was breathing hard, ignoring the nascent ache of his knees because the pounding of his heart was worth any transient pain in the world. He was immobile, simultaneously too keyed up and too tired to even care about the spent condom he was wearing. Besides, Natalie was sprawled beside him, her sweaty arm stuck to his sweaty side, and if he could lift his head to check, he was pretty sure he'd see her pants hanging off one leg.
Thinking of those pants made his cock twitch. Which was absurd, since he was immobile.
"You told me that part already," she said, and her breath was as ragged as his.
He managed to rotate his head so he was looking at her. Her flushed cheeks and dilated pupils and slow, sweet smile. Her hair coiled across them both. "Right. I did. I forgot. You killed my brain cells."
"Like all that was my fault."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you. That's what the poem's about. How I can't help myself."
"If you have to give me the interpretation before I even hear it, it must not be a good poem."
She had the temerity to look prim. Naked and sweaty and curls more insane than he'd ever seen them, but acting like a scolding schoolteacher. It gave him the energy to roll over, prop himself on an elbow. Rearrange her hair so it was sticking to her instead of to him.
"There once--"
"I know this part. There once was a poet named Evan."
He traced her eyebrow. "Close enough. And Natalie's bod had him revvin'."
"That is not a real word."
"Artistic license. Do you want the rest or not?"
She patted him lightly, like approbation, or indulgence.
"He adored each round tit." He caressed them, to prove it.
She lifted into his touch. He licked his lips. Said, "And the taste of her clit."
Her fingers pressed into his chest, possessive. Before he lost his breath again, he finished, "And coming inside her was heaven."