Claiming
Cindy's web-line had disappeared between buildings ten minutes ago and the rooftop was empty except for Peter and Felicia and the diner sign buzzing below them and Felicia hadn't said a word since Cindy left.
She was sitting on the ledge with her boots on the concrete and her hands in her jacket pockets and her jaw working on nothing. Peter sat next to her. The concrete was cold through his jeans. He could still feel the warmth on his left knee where Cindy's hand had been and the warmth on his right calf where Felicia's boot had pressed.
"That went better than-"
Felicia kissed him.
Her hands came out of her pockets and grabbed his jacket and pulled him toward her and her mouth was on his and the kiss was hard. Her teeth caught his lower lip. She bit down. Her tongue pushed into his mouth and her hands were fisted in his jacket and she was pulling him off the ledge and he went because when Felicia pulled you went.
She pulled back. Her eyes were bright and her lips were wet and the beanie had slipped off her head and her white hair was loose in the wind.
"Come with me," she said.
He followed her off the roof and across two fire escapes and through a window into a building on West 19th. Third floor. The bolt-hole. Mattress on the floor, space heater in the corner humming orange, stolen paintings against the wall in bubble wrap. The heater made it warm and the window let in the streetlight and the room smelled like her leather jacket and lavender and dust.
She closed the window. Turned to him. Shoved his jacket off his shoulders.
"Felicia-"
"I need you to understand something." She pulled his shirt over his head. Her hands were on his chest, his shoulders, running down his arms. Cold fingers from the rooftop warming on his skin. "I'm not competing with her."
"I know."
"There IS no competition." She shoved him. He hit the mattress. The springs creaked. She shook her hair loose and stood over him in the space-heater light. Her eyes were steady and green.
She pulled her jacket off. Dropped it. Unzipped her jeans and stepped out of them. Black underwear, black bra, gymnast legs, the scar on her ribs. She was lean and hard and her collarbones caught the streetlight and her stomach was flat and taut.
She straddled him. Her knees on either side of his hips, her hands on his chest, her weight pressing him into the mattress. She leaned down. Her hair fell around his face. Her mouth found his neck and she bit. Same spot. The bruise from Friday night.
His hands went to her waist. She grabbed his wrists. Pinned them above his head.
"Don't."
He could have broken her grip. But she was pinning his wrists and looking at him with eyes that said let me have this and he let her have it.
She kissed him again. Slow this time. Her tongue on his lip, tracing the bite mark she'd just made, and her hips ground down against him through her underwear and his jeans and the friction was deliberate and precise.
"You're still dressed," she said.
"You're on top of me."
"Fix it."
She lifted her hips enough for him to get his jeans open. She pulled them down with one hand and his cock was hard and she wrapped her hand around it and squeezed and watched his face while she did it.
"Good," she said.
She peeled her underwear to the side. She was wet. He could feel it when she pressed herself against him, hot and slick along the length of his cock, grinding without taking him inside.
"Felicia."
"Patience."
She ground against him. Her clit dragging along the top of his shaft, her hips rolling, her breathing controlled. She was watching his face. Every time his jaw tightened she did it again. Every time his hands strained against her grip she squeezed his wrists harder.
Then she reached down. Angled him. Sank onto him in one slow drop.
The heat hit him first. Wet and tight and the angle was steep because she was upright and his cock pushed deep and she took a sharp breath through her nose and her hands pressed harder on his wrists and her eyes didn't close.
She started moving. Slow. Rolling her hips with gymnast control, each roll precise, each drop deliberate.
His wrists ached under her hands. The mattress creaked. The space heater hummed. Sweat was starting on her collarbones and between her breasts and the black bra was damp.
She released his wrists. Put her hands on his chest. Dug her nails in.
"Touch me."
His hands went to her thighs. The muscle was dense under his fingers and her skin was hot. He gripped. She hissed. He gripped harder and she moved faster and the wet sound between them got louder in the quiet room.
"Harder," she said.
He drove up into her. She gasped. Her back arched and her hair fell behind her shoulders and her stomach muscles clenched and his vision narrowed.
She shifted. Lifted her legs. Put her ankles on his shoulders.
The angle changed. Deeper. She arched backward, her hands behind her on the mattress, and her core held her in a bridge. Her abs tight, her thighs flexed on either side of his head, and he was deeper inside her than any other position had taken him.
He thrust. She shook. The bridge held.
He thrust again. Harder. She gasped and her arms trembled and the arch deepened and her back was curved and she was open and the angle was hitting her deep.
"Don't- ah-"
Her voice cracked. She was losing the rhythm. Her hips had been rolling in controlled circles and now they were jerking and her breathing was fast and shallow.
He reached up. Put his hand on her stomach. His palm flat on her sweat-slick skin, steadying her, and she looked at him from the bridge and her jaw was dropped and her eyes were wide.
"I'm here," he said.
Her bridge collapsed. Her arms gave out and she fell back onto the mattress and he followed, staying inside her, his weight on his forearms on either side of her head. She was under him now. Face to face. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hair was spread on the mattress and her mouth was open.
He moved. Slow. Deep. Her legs locked around him and her hands gripped his arms.
"Don't stop-"
He drove into her. Steady. Each thrust deep and her hands moved from his arms to his back and her nails dug in and the scratches burned and her breathing broke into sounds she wasn't controlling.
"Ah- Peter- right- don't-"
She was looking at him and her eyes were wet and her jaw was tight and she was fighting to keep eye contact and losing. Her head tipped back. Her throat was bare. He kissed her neck and drove deeper and she made a sound that wasn't a word.
He could feel himself getting close. Her pussy was clenching around him in waves and her legs were crushing his waist and the sweat between them made every shift slick and the wet sound was steady in the room.
She went quiet.
Her mouth was open. No sound. Her eyes were shut and her hands flattened on the mattress beside her head. Palms down, fingers spread. Her whole body was vibrating and her back was arching off the bed.
He drove harder. The mattress groaned. She was silent and shaking and her pussy was gripping him tight enough to blur his vision. Her legs locked. Her hands pressed harder into the mattress. The sheets bunched under her fingers.
She came. Silent. Body locked, back arched, mouth open, no sound. Her pussy clenched around him in hard rhythmic waves and her nails tore into the sheet. Her eyes shut. Her mouth open. Her body shaking apart.
He came inside her. Deep. His hips pressed flush against hers and his vision whited and his hands gripped the mattress beside her head and he buried his face in her neck and her skin was salt and sweat and her pulse was slamming against his lips.
She held on. Her legs locked around him. Her hands moved from the mattress to his back and she held him there and her body was still shaking in waves and her breathing was ragged against his ear.
They lay there. His weight on her. Her heart slamming against his chest. The space heater hummed. The streetlight moved on the wall when a car passed outside.
She opened her eyes. Green. Wet. Looking directly at him from three inches away.
"Mine," she said.
He looked at her. Her hair was wrecked on the mattress and her bra was pulled to one side and her underwear was still pushed aside and she was sweaty and flushed and her mascara had smudged.
"Yeah," he said. "Yours."
She pulled him down. Kissed him. Slow. Her hands in his hair. His weight still on her. The space heater hummed and the room was warm and she was warm underneath him and the kiss tasted like salt and the night.
She pushed him off. Rolled onto her stomach. Her face turned away on the pillow. Her back was scratched from the mattress and the scar on her ribs was visible and she was breathing hard.
He lay next to her. On his back. The ceiling had a water stain shaped like a boot. His body was cooling in the warm air and her warmth was radiating off the mattress beside him.
"I'm not jealous," she said into the pillow.
"Okay."
"I'm NOT."
"I said okay."
She turned her head. One eye visible. Green, mascara smudged.
"She's seventeen and she shoots webs from her hands and she made her own costume from her own body and she stopped a purse-snatcher on 22nd Street and she's beautiful and she has you wrapped around her finger and I'm not jealous."
"That's a lot of things to not be jealous about."
"Shut up, Peter."
He shut up. She turned her face back into the pillow. Her shoulders were tense. Then they dropped. She exhaled. Rolled onto her side, facing him.
"I'm a little jealous."
"I know."
"I said a little."
"I heard you."
She reached over and traced the bite mark on his neck. Layered over weeks. Still there.
"That's mine," she said.
"Yeah."
"The webs are hers. This is mine."
She put her head on his chest. Her hair spread across his skin. The space heater hummed. Her heartbeat was slowing against his ribs.
"Round two?" she said.
"Give me ten minutes."
"Five."
"Seven."
"Deal."
She closed her eyes. Her hand rested on his stomach. The scar on her ribs rose and fell with her breathing and the stolen paintings leaned against the wall and the streetlight moved on the ceiling.