She had a drink although, for once, she didn't want it. She sipped, and her stomach ached and her head throbbed and she swallowed it. He smelt wrong. His lounge chair smelt musty and kind of damp. She put her hand under her skirt where she was sitting but it came out dry.
She, herself, was not dry. she was damp and slippery. Felt the slick chafe of it when she shifted her hips. She was never wet and this disturbed her, wet settling down into the scent of old dog. Wet, and he wasn't her thing anyway. He was someone's thing but not hers. She refused to be turned on by his nervous shuffling in the seat beside her. His attempts to perch his feet on her seat, his inability to look into her eyes, the shiftiness of him.
She angled her knees away from him and asked about the music. He seemed to like to talk about the music. She barely listened. She nodded. She was thinking about his penis against her better judgement. In the kitchen, earlier, she had reached past him and he had leaped away too fast, but she was certain she had felt the little nub of his erection graze her knee.
Someone aroused by her presence. No one was ever aroused by her and perhaps this small unwanted attention was enough to turn the juice on. She couldn't be certain why she was so wet all of a sudden. There was nothing about him that would in anyway complement her. He didn't really like her for a start. When, like now, there was work to be done together, he dragged himself to her place or reluctantly opened the door to her. She became an imposition the moment she crossed the threshold.
Dog. Old dog. The smell of her childhood. An unwanted reminder. She felt a sudden jet of liquid and she squeezed her knees tighter. She would leak out onto the old dog couch at this rate. She would melt onto the furniture. He was talking about music and it was too late to stop the little palpitations that had suddenly taken hold of her. She was certain she was blushing, could feel her nipples tug into angry little darts. An ache as if someone had inserted something spiked and swelled into her, her body responding as it shouldn't. She closed her eyes and it was too late. She held her breath and rode it. The flush on her chest. Her skin stripped bare. She hadn't orgasmed like this since she was 19, hiding the race of it as it overtook her on the bus.
She opened her eyes into a new quiet. He was not talking about the music anymore. He was looking at her, his eyes perfect and large and dark and, she noticed now, quite beautiful. She had to look away. She knew she was blushing. He wouldn't know what had just happened. He couldn't, but she imagined his finger inside her, testing the palpitations of her orgasm, feeling the force of it, and it was all she could do not to go again.
Wide beautiful eyes but he was not her thing. He was for someone else. She barely liked him at the best of times. Maybe it was the smell of old dog, erasing the years between middle age and childhood. Maybe it was the little bow mouth that made her want to bite down. Maybe it was the hard little brush of his penis against her leg, an accidental revolation. Whatever it was it would not ever happen again.
She shifted the notebook and pen in her lap, glanced nervously towards him and away again.
"Chapter 3, part 2," she said.