It's Never Too Late

Thomas grunts, a guttural sound echoing in the dimness of his room, before lowering himself to kiss my neck. It's as if she knows exactly where to strike, which strings to pluck, but she never quite surrenders to the fact that on the mouth I don't like to be kissed. He tries, though, every time. An assault that always leaves me with a subtle annoyance and the knowledge that I won't let him.

It's not love, it's just sex. I feel his tongue trace a wet trail over my skin, a shiver runs through me, but it's not enough to break down my defenses. If I gave him even a millimeter, he would think I was ready to give him more. I'm not. I won't be.

"Mmm..." he whispers, his rough voice vibrating against my skin like a primal call. I feel his warm breath mingling with the smell of our desire in the air. His fingers begin to slide down my body, exploring with a slowness that smacks of torture, stopping just below the hem of my panties. A light, almost imperceptible touch that makes me hold my breath, poised between anxiety and expectation. Then, with a firm movement, his hands peel back the fabric, and his fingers find their way between my thighs, sure and firm.

His thumb grazes my clitoris with devastating precision, as if he knows by heart every nerve, every point that can make me yield. It's a touch that sends sparks down my spine, a wave of pleasure that forces me to arch my body against him, as if my body is at war with my mind. "Fuck..." I sigh, unable to hold back the moan that escapes my lips. I can't deny it: he's good with his hands, damn good.

His fingers get bolder, sinking inside me without hesitation, two fingers moving fast, hungry, almost desperate. Each movement is a stroke, an explosion of pleasure that makes me bite my lip to stifle a scream. The muscles in my legs tremble, my mind goes blank, leaving room only for sensation, for flesh, for desire.

He does not stop. His hand is relentless as my body responds as if programmed for him. Then, suddenly, he grabs me firmly, turning me around. My face sinks into the pillow, the soft fabric against my cheeks, and I know what is about to happen. I feel it in the tension of his movements, in the way he urges me to lift my pelvis, offering him all of me. I wait for him, eager, almost begging.

I love being taken from behind. It's not just the depth, it's not just the intensity. It's the anonymity, the fact that I don't have to look him in the face, that I can let the pleasure wash over me without having to manage the emotions that are intertwined with the stares. I hear the sound of the condom wrapping, the sharp tearing that breaks the silence, followed by the rustle of latex sliding over his skin.

His hands rest on my hips, big, strong, and his member brushes against me. It is a contact that makes me hold my breath, a heat that burns and promises. Then, without warning, he sinks inside me with a single thrust, deep and firm. A choked moan escapes me, fingers clutching the pillow as my body adjusts to him.

"Jesus, Ginger, you're a lake." His voice is low, guttural, releasing endorphins in my brain. His thrusts are slow at first, almost studied, then stronger, deeper. The room fills with the sound of our bodies meeting, his rough voice and my moans muffled against the pillow.

"I'm coming!" he roars, an animalistic sound echoing as his body tenses against mine, a final spasm of pleasure.

I, however, do not come.

"You're the usual asshole!" I exclaim, quickly slipping off him.

"It's not my fault you were already a lake," he retorts, with a smile that makes me want to slap him. "You should be happy with the effect I have on you."

I turn to look at him, clutching my bra in my hands. "You, on the other hand, should learn how to make a woman come before you come like a little boy."

He laughs, slipping off the condom with a quick gesture. "I was in a hurry, honey."

"You're always in a hurry!" I reply, pulling up my panties and slipping into my jeans. I don't want my stuff to mix with his. It's confusing enough as it is.

He grabs me from behind, his large hands resting on my bare breasts. His fingers grasp my nipples, pulling them with a gentleness I would never have attributed to him. "See, you still want it."

I wish I didn't react, but my body doesn't agree. A shiver of pleasure runs through me, and I hate how good he is at reading me. I break free from his grip, however, determined not to fall back into his game. "Tomorrow look for another poor bitch. You're done with me."

"Ginger, don't be like that." His voice becomes softer, but I'm not going to listen to him. I quickly get dressed and leave his house without so much as a goodbye.

As I make my way to the parking lot, thoughts overlap. It's not just Thomas that bothers me. It's everything. Life, work, this feeling of always being on the edge of the precipice.

I arrive at the prosecutor's office a minute early. Thomas is already there, impeccable in his dark gray suit, looking like a completely different person. He looks at me with a smirk, but says nothing.

"Ginger Roger," he announces, formal.

"Present." I respond with the same detachment as I sit down next to him.

The news is official: we will be working together on the Peterson case.

And I don't know what bothers me more: Thomas Miller, the self-centered lawyer I often end up in bed with, or the idea of spending weeks dealing with one of the worst crime cases I've ever seen.