Daniel had been seeing Claire for three months.
She was thirty-eight, divorced, and carried herself with the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly what she wanted—and rarely saying it out loud.
Tonight was supposed to be simple: late-night drinks at her apartment, music low, city lights bleeding through half-open blinds. But nothing about Claire was ever simple.
They’d just finished. Both of them were still breathing hard, tangled up in the mess of her white sheets. Daniel turned his head toward her, expecting to see the lazy, satisfied smile he was used to.
But she wasn’t smiling.
Claire was lying on her side, staring at him like she was studying every inch of his face. Her chest rose and fell slowly, and then… she bit her lower lip.
Not playful. Not shy. Something else.
Daniel frowned. “You okay?”
Her eyes dropped, then came back up, darker now, hungrier—but quiet. The air shifted between them, dense and loaded. She didn’t answer. She just sat up slowly, the sheets slipping down her back, revealing skin still flushed and damp.
His throat went dry.
Claire reached for a cigarette from the nightstand, but didn’t light it. Instead, she leaned back on one hand, the other resting on her thigh. Her body language screamed something unspoken.
Daniel sat up too, unsure whether to move closer or keep his distance. His fingers brushed her knee—accidental, but deliberate enough to make her inhale sharply.
“Claire…” he started, but she cut him off.
“You think I’m satisfied, don’t you?” Her voice was soft, almost teasing, but her eyes burned.
He hesitated. “Aren’t you?”
That’s when she leaned in, slow motion—the space collapsing inch by inch until he could feel her breath on his lips. Her hand came up, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, nails lightly dragging down his spine.
“No,” she whispered. “Not even close.”
Something inside him snapped.
Claire pushed him gently backward, crawling over him with deliberate, slow movements. Every shift of her weight, every brush of her thigh against his hip felt exaggerated, like time had slowed down just for this moment.
She lowered herself until their noses nearly touched, her gaze locking with his. Her lips parted slightly, and again, she bit her bottom lip—this time holding it there, waiting, testing him.
Daniel reached up, his hands resting on her waist. Her skin was hot beneath his palms, muscles tight, coiled with something restrained.
The city noise faded outside. The ticking clock on the nightstand disappeared. All he could hear was the sound of her breathing—short, uneven, demanding more.
“You want me to…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Claire gave the faintest nod, lowering herself until her forehead brushed his. “I want you to make me stop biting my lip.”
No words after that.
The night stretched long, intense, and unrestrained. No hesitation, no polite pauses—just two people tangled up in the unspoken, ignoring the world outside her locked door.
Later, much later, when the sheets were messy and the air thick with heat, Daniel lay on his back, chest still pounding. Claire leaned over him, hair falling loose, damp against her shoulders.
This time, when she bit her lip, it wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t hunger.
It was satisfaction. Finally.
