We Both Paid the Same Stranger to Sublet the Same One-Bedroom, and Neither of Us Would Move Out novel · Chapter 19 of 24

Chapter 19: Praise

The bathroom lock worked now.

Randy had fixed it Thursday with a sixty-cent screw.

The first time I turned it and heard the bolt slide home, I'd made a noise he still teased me about.

At six on Saturday morning I turned it behind us, twice, just to hear it.

The nurse wasn't home from her shift until seven.

The students were asleep behind their sheet curtain, and Gloria wasn't due until ten.

The shower ran hot.

I stood under it in the cramped tub with the water drumming my shoulders.

Randy stepped in behind me, enormous in the small space, and the curtain clung to his hip.

He turned me by the shoulders and kissed me under the spray.

"Today," he said against my mouth.

"Today."

"Nervous?"

"Thrilled. Terrified. Hungry."

"I can fix one of those."

"I was going to fix you," I said.

His eyebrows went up.

I put my palms flat on his chest and pushed, gently, until his shoulders hit the tile.

Then I went down on my knees in the tub.

The water drummed on my back.

The porcelain was hard under me and I did not care at all.

He was already hard, and I took him in both hands and looked up the long wet length of his body.

"Tell me what you like," I said.

"You."

"Be specific."

He laughed, helplessly, and his head thumped against the tile.

"I like your hands."

"What about them?"

"They're small and sure. They look like they know what they're doing."

"I do know what I'm doing."

"I know you do."

I took the head into my mouth.

I closed my lips around him and he hissed through his teeth.

He tasted of soap and water and skin, and I swirled my tongue slowly around the rim and heard him swear in Polish.

"Tina."

"Mm."

"Your mouth."

"What about my mouth?"

"It's," he said, and stopped to breathe. "It's hot. It's so hot. God, you're good at this."

I took him deeper.

I wanted to hear more, so I stopped and looked up, with my chin wet and my lips swollen.

"Tell me what I'm doing right."

His eyes opened, black and dazed.

"You want me to talk?"

"I want to know."

"You're going slow," he said, voice cracking. "You're doing it exactly the way I need, slow, then deep, and you look at me the whole time. You look at me, and nobody has ever."

"Keep going."

"You don't rush. You don't make it a chore. You make it feel like it's the only thing you'd rather be doing."

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