The Super Fixed My Sink, Then Everything I Hadn't Said Was Broken novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The First Order

He comes back with a washer and tells her to put her hands on the counter and not turn around; he says not yet three times.

He knocked at nine, two raps, and I had been standing in the hall in my cardigan for ten minutes pretending I wasn't waiting.

I opened the door before the second rap finished.

Rafa stood there with a rubber washer pinched between two fingers.

"Just to check," he said, and held it up.

"Check what?"

"Whether it held."

"It held," I said. "It's been twenty-six hours."

"Then I was wrong to come."

He didn't move.

I didn't either.

The stair light behind him clicked off on its timer.

The landing went dark except for the strip of yellow from my doorway across his boots.

"You're wearing the grey one," he said.

"It's a cardigan."

"I know what it is."

He stepped over the threshold, and I stepped back to let him, and the door shut behind him because his shoulder pushed it.

Then his hand came up to my jaw.

He tipped my face up, slowly, and looked at my mouth, and I heard myself say, "I'm fine."

"I didn't ask."

He kissed me.

It was not careful.

His mouth was warm and certain, and the beard scraped my chin, and I made a sound I had not made in two years.

I got both hands into his shirt.

He let me for a moment.

Then he took my wrists, one in each hand, and moved them off him and down to my sides.

"No," he said against my lips. "Not yet. Come here."

He walked me backward through my own living room into the kitchen with his hands on my wrists, until the edge of the counter pressed into the small of my back.

Then he turned me around.

He did it with two hands on my hips, and I faced the window over the sink with the dark glass showing us both.

"Hands on the counter," he said.

I put them on the counter.

"Flat. Wide. Don't turn around."

"Rafa," I said.

"Don't turn around, Magda."

I looked at the sink.

I looked at the faucet, and the chrome, and the dish towel hanging on the cabinet door, and I did not turn around.

Behind me I heard him breathe in.

Then his hands came up my arms and settled on my shoulders, and his thumbs found the top button of the cardigan.

"I'm going to take this off you one button at a time," he said, low and close, just behind my ear. "You're going to keep your hands where they are."

The button slid free.

"And then I'm going to get on my knees, and I'm going to find out how you taste."

I made a noise in my throat.

"Say you heard me."

"I heard you," I said.

"Good."

The second button went, and the third.

He did it slowly, and each time the wool gave, cool air touched my stomach.

He pushed the cardigan off my shoulders and let it fall down my arms to the counter, and my bra strap went with it.

His mouth landed on the side of my neck.

He kissed down to my shoulder, with the beard dragging, and I gripped the laminate so hard my fingers went white.

"You're shaking," he said.

"It's cold."

"It's ninety degrees in here."

He laughed, low, against my skin, and I felt the chip in his tooth catch on my collarbone.

His hands slid around my waist and opened my skirt at the side.

He took the zipper down with great patience, and the skirt dropped to my ankles.

I stood in my kitchen in my underwear, with my hands on the counter.

A man I had known by his first name for eight months stood at my back.

It was the most naked I had ever been.

He went down behind me.

I felt it in the air before I felt it on my body, the warmth of him moving down my spine and the creak of his knees on my linoleum.

"Step out of that," he said.

I stepped out of the skirt.

"Wider."

I moved my feet apart.

He hooked his fingers into the sides of my underwear and drew them down my thighs, slow.

My breath went out of me in a rush.

"Look at that," he said. "Look at you."

He was close enough that I felt his words on my skin.

"Rafa, please."

"Not yet."

Then his mouth was on me.

He licked once, a long slow stroke from the front to the back, and my knees went soft.

I would have dropped if he hadn't had both hands on my hips holding me up.

"Hold the counter," he said into me.

"I am."

"Hold it harder."

I held it harder.

His tongue was warm and flat and unhurried.

He used it the way he'd used the wrench, with attention, finding the exact spot that mattered and staying there.

It went on and on.

I could hear myself, small wet sounds in the quiet kitchen, and the radiator clanking, and under it all the slow tick of the tap.

I looked at my own reflection in the black window.

My mouth was open and my hair was coming down and I did not recognize myself.

He pushed his tongue inside me.

"Oh, God."

"There she is."

He sucked at my clit, softly, and I felt everything inside me wind up.

My thighs started to shake.

"Rafa, I'm going to..."

He stopped.

He took his mouth away and his hands stayed on my hips, and the air on my wet skin was cool and awful.

"Not yet," he said.

"What?"

"I said not yet," he said.

"You can't just..."

"I can." His thumb stroked once down the crease of my hip. "Breathe. Keep your hands on the counter."

I breathed.

I came down a little, and the hum in my legs went from a shake to a hum.

He waited until I was almost steady before his mouth came back.

He did it again, slower.

He worked me up until I was pushing back against his face and saying his name over and over in a voice I didn't recognize.

When I was a few strokes from the edge he stopped again.

"Not yet."

"Please," I said.

"Not yet, Magda."

I let out a sob that had a laugh in it.

He had me gripping a counter at nine-thirty on a Tuesday with my underwear around my knees.

I wanted to die and I wanted him never to stop.

The third time he brought me all the way up and held me there on the very top of it with the flat of his tongue.

I felt it start to break over me, and I thought, now, now, and he took his mouth away.

"Rafa," I said, and my voice cracked. "Please. Please."

He stood up behind me.

I heard his belt, and the zipper, and the small sound of fabric hitting the floor.

He put one hand flat between my shoulder blades and pressed.

"Down," he said. "Chest on the counter."

I bent forward until my cheek lay against the cool laminate and my breasts were crushed against the edge.

He ran the head of his cock through the wet of me, once, and I felt how thick he was.

"Look at me in the window."

I raised my eyes to the glass.

He stood behind me in the dark with his shirt open, his chest broad and dark with hair, his face fixed on me.

"Do you want this?"

"Yes," I said.

"Say it."

"I want it. I want you inside me, I want it so badly I can't stand up."

"Good," he said.

He pushed in.

It was slow.

It was so slow that I felt every inch of him as he opened me, thick and hot and almost too much.

I heard a long low moan come out of me that had no shame in it at all.

He stopped halfway.

"Breathe."

"Don't stop," I said.

"I'm not stopping. I'm giving you time."

"I don't need time."

"You do." His hand moved up my back and gathered my hair into his fist. "You haven't had anyone in two years. I can tell."

"How can you tell?"

"You're so tight I can feel your pulse."

He pushed the rest of the way in, and his hips met my ass.

I cried out.

He was inside me to the root, filling me, and the pressure at the back of my skull where he held my hair turned the world to a single bright point.

"There," he said. "That's it. Look at you taking me."

He pulled out and pushed back in, and the counter groaned.

He kept one hand flat on my back and the other wound in my hair.

He fucked me slowly, deep and level, exactly as hard as I needed and not an inch faster.

Every stroke dragged along something inside me that lit up.

"Good girl," he said.

I had never been anyone's good girl.

I had been dutiful, and competent, and fine.

No one had ever said it to me like that, in a voice that meant it, and it went through me hot.

"Again," I said.

"Say please."

"Please. Rafa, please, again," I said.

"There she is."

I understood then that I'd been waiting my whole life for someone to tell me what to do and be worth it.

My knees gave out.

He caught me around the waist with his arm and held me up against him without losing his rhythm.

I hung there, boneless, taking him, hearing the wet slap of his hips against me.

"Hands on the counter."

I put them back.

"Don't come until I tell you."

"I can't..." I said.

"You can."

He reached around and found my clit with two fingers.

He rubbed in small, firm circles, matching the thrust of his hips, and the whole bottom half of my body began to shudder.

"Not yet," he said in my ear. "Hold it."

"Rafa, I can't, I can't."

"You can, you're doing it, you're so good, hold it for me."

I held it.

I bit the inside of my cheek and held it.

I saw white at the edges of the window, and the moan I made wasn't a sound I'd ever heard from myself.

"Look at me."

I opened my eyes on the glass.

His face was hard and tender, his mouth open, the muscles in his jaw standing out.

"Now," he said. "Come for me. Now."

I came.

It hit me from the base of my spine and tore up through my whole body.

I screamed into the crook of my own arm.

My legs went.

He held me.

He fucked me through it, steady and deep, with his fingers moving on my clit until every muscle in me went tight and then went loose and then went tight again.

I came a second time right on the heels of the first, shaking, gasping his name into the laminate.

"That's it," he said. "That's it. God, you feel good."

His rhythm broke.

He gripped my hips with both hands and drove into me hard, three times, four, and then he went still with a hoarse groan and I felt him pulse deep inside me, hot and heavy.

He leaned down over my back and put his forehead between my shoulder blades.

We stayed like that, both of us breathing hard.

After a minute he slid out of me, slowly, and I felt the wet run down my thighs.

He pulled his jeans up.

I stayed where I was, bent over, because I wasn't sure my legs would work.

He put the cardigan back around my shoulders.

He didn't say anything soft.

He buttoned two of the buttons, very gently, and picked up his tool bag from where he'd left it by the door.

"Rafa."

"Yeah," he said.

"That was..."

"I know."

He stopped at the door.

I looked at him over my shoulder, with my hair falling around my face and my skirt on the kitchen floor.

His eyes went down my body and back up, and the tooth showed when he smiled.

"Lock this," he said. "Then come to the window."

I locked it.

I stood there a moment with my forehead against the door, and then I walked in my cardigan and nothing else to the front window and pulled the curtain back.

The courtyard was empty and dark.

He came out of the back door below with his bag on his shoulder and walked across the cobbles under the lamp, with his head down.

He did not look back.

I watched him all the way to his door, and I said it to the glass, out loud, to see how it sounded.

"I am not fine."

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