Page 11 of Soft Flannel Hank

She was so wet that she felt the slickness dripping down her thighs as he dragged his cock in and out of her body. Esther threw her head back as the orgasm slammed into her body.

That same magic that had drawn her to him in the diner was back. Sparking, electric magic that made her feel more alive than she ever recalled being. He was silent as he thrust into her, his forehead buried in the crook where her neck met her shoulder. His movements became more erratic until, with a low groan, he came. Esther felt him pulsing inside of her as he filled the condom, and she smiled, feeling the thick strands of his overlong hair sliding through her fingers.

He dragged his mouth up and down her neck, leaving wet trails all over her throat as the shockwaves settled.

They were silent, just breathing into the darkness. She felt his broad chest expand with his inhales, pressing against her and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to know what it felt like to be under his body now that she’d been over it.

Esther’s laugh was loud in the quiet den. “I told you I could make you coo, Hank Dove.” She felt him smile against her throat.

* * *

“Well,”she said, her body resting solidly on top of his own.

“Well,” he said.

In his experience, which was admittedly limited to a handful of partners, a post-coital “Well” was usually the beginning of a graceful (or sometimes not-so-graceful) exit dance. Before he met Marnie, it was “Well, I should get back. I don’t want my dad to start wondering where I am.” After a few years with Marnie, when she’d started pulling away from him, it had been “Well, I have to get up early tomorrow” before she turned away and went to sleep, the inches that separated them in the queen-sized bed feeling like miles of deep chasm that for the life of him he had no idea how to cross.

He didn’t want Esther to leave, but he didn’t know how to get her to stay without begging.

“And here I thought that berry cobbler was my dessert tonight,” she said, pressing herself upright with a smile.

He huffed a laugh, but he looked away. He felt too raw to be teased. Too unprotected, even though he was fully clothed.

“The cobbler was probably better,” he said, gently lifting her off of his softening length.

He heard her sharp inhale as he did so but ignored it. He removed the condom, tied it off, and tossed it in the grocery bag-lined trash can he kept next to his recliner, then tucked himself back into his underwear and jeans and zipped up.

Esther was naked from the waist down, still spread wide across his lap. She bit her lip and tilted her head to the side, as if she could figure him out if only she looked at him from a different angle.

Maybe she had already figured out just how broken he was, chipped pieces barely held together in shape by scotch tape and sheer force of will. What was that first card? Upside down hermit? Loneliness? Isolation? And then the one with cups on it? Living in the past? Just a party game his ass. And now there was nowhere to hide with her naked core pressed against him and the wetness of her body soaking through his jeans.

He wanted her to answer, to say, “Yeah, Hank, the cobbler was a damn sight better than this,” in that southern drawl that was like sweet tea so thick you could stand a spoon upright in it. Then he could take her back to the motel and lock himself in his house for another month until Buck or Jamie or Magda threatened to paint his house pink if he didn’t meet them for dinner or come over for breakfast.

He could pretend that he hadn’t let himself hope, hadn’t let himself believe that maybe a skeleton on a playing card on a diner table meant fresh starts instead of never-ending endings. He braced himself for her laugh.

But it didn’t come.

“Do you honestly think the cobbler was better than that?” Esther asked in a soft voice.

He shrugged, staring at the center of her chest.

“Hank? Do you really think that?”

He scoffed, but he did finally look at her face. In the yellow glow from the floodlight outside, she looked older, worry lines bracketing her mouth and furrowing between her eyebrows.

“You liked it?” Hank asked, his whole body hanging on the precipice of her answer.

Now she scoffed, looking at him like he had seaweed growing out of his ears.

“Hank, I’m from Georgia. I’ve had some cobbler that would knock your boots clear across the room. But I’ve never had cobbler that made me basically wet my pants. Or anyone else’s pants.”

Hank’s body warmed, his hands almost shook from the sudden dump of adrenaline coursing through his veins with the hope that came slamming back into his chest. He smiled. He couldn’t help it.

“It was good, huh?”

“I mean, I don’t know what kind of sex you’re usually having, Hank, but in my book, I’d file that under incredible.”

“I’m not. Having sex. I’m not having sex,” he found himself stuttering out, and then cussed himself internally.What a thing to admit, buddy.But he couldn’t stop himself. “I haven’t had sex in a long time.”