The rain was everywhere. Sticky, warm. It got inside your sleeves, your collar, the back of your knees. It didn't fall hard, it just... settled. Like it had decided to stay. Marie had pulled up her coat, but it was already too late. Her hair clung to her skin. Her neck looked wet and soft. She smelled like the street. Like warm asphalt and perfume diluted in water.
I was right next to her. Not touching her, but I could feel her through the air between us. The heat of her skin, the way her breath moved the space. The line wasn't moving. No one spoke. We were just there. Breathing. Damp.
Monday nights. That had become our thing. Kind of by accident. Foreign films, long silences, theaters with five people max and the sound of fabric when someone shifted in their seat. It felt quiet. Chosen. Maybe even intimate, in a way that didn't require effort.
Except that night. That night felt off. I don't even know why. Nothing had happened. But something in her body told me--something wasn't in place.
Not wrong. Just... off. Like a note you almost hit but miss slightly. And don't know how to fix.
She kept twisting the strap of her bag. Her eyes weren't watching the street. Her mouth looked soft. Too soft. Like it remembered something her brain hadn't told her yet.
Then someone said her name.
--Marie?
She turned like her name had touched her spine. Fast. Not afraid--just... lit up.
And then she smiled.
God, that smile.
Not mine. Not the one I got in bed, or over coffee. This one was deeper. Older. Like something had slipped loose inside her. Something that had teeth.
The man who stepped forward wasn't wet. Not a drop on him. Tailored coat. Grey at the temples. Steady as hell. He didn't look at me. He looked at her like she had never stopped being his.
They started talking. Quiet voices, too close. I heard almost nothing. I saw everything.
The angle of her body shifted. Her shoulder tilted toward him. She smiled again, lips barely parted. Her tongue touched her upper lip, fast, like punctuation.
He said he was seeing the same movie. She laughed. Lower than usual. Throatier.
Then he looked at me.
One glance. A handshake. Firm. Dry. Done. He knew who I was. And more importantly, who I wasn't.
When we went inside, he walked with us. Not ahead. Not behind. Just beside her. Like it was normal.
We sat at the back. His idea.
She sat in the middle. I took the left. He took the right. But the air leaned toward him. She leaned toward him.
The room was mostly empty. Just flickers on the screen. Warm, heavy air that smelled like carpet and skin.
Her dress was still wet. Pale, loose fabric that hugged all the wrong places. Her thighs. The underside of her breasts. Her lower back. Every move she made let me see something I didn't want to admit I was looking at.
She fanned herself with the ticket stub. Her skin glowed. Her chest rose and fell too slowly. I watched her from the corner of my eye. I think I forgot the film had started.
And then I saw his hand.
Just his thumb at first. It reached across and touched her lips.
She didn't move. Her mouth parted like she'd been waiting for that exact gesture.
He stroked again. Slower. More deliberate. Then slid his thumb into her mouth.
And she closed around it.
I saw her jaw move. Gently. Slowly. Her lips curved over him with something terrifyingly familiar. Her cheeks hollowed, just barely. Her breath came through her nose.
She sucked his thumb.
She sucked it like she knew exactly what it was replacing.
And she did not stop.
My hands gripped the seat. My cock pressed hard against my zipper, and I didn't adjust it. I didn't dare. I hated myself in that moment. For watching. For wanting. For not interrupting.
He let her do it for a while.
Then pulled back. Her lips stayed parted, like they missed him already.
He brushed her cheek. His hand slid down her neck, slow and warm. Down over the swell of her breast--she wasn't wearing a bra under that dress. I knew it now. The way her breath caught confirmed it.
His other hand crept along her thigh. The fabric lifted. She didn't resist. Her knees parted--barely.
He touched her.
Between the legs.
Through the fabric.
She tilted her hips up to him. Not a twitch. A deliberate offer.
I saw her exhale, her eyes closing halfway. Her mouth wet and slightly open. I felt myself pulsing through my pants.
Then he stopped.
Just... withdrew. Calm. Like he was saving something for later.
She made a sound. A soft, choked little whimper.
He didn't even glance at her.
And still--she understood.
She stood up. Right there, next to me.
Her fingers gripped the hem of her dress and peeled it upward. Over her hips. Her belly. Her breasts.
It fell.
She stepped out of it.
She wore thin white panties. No bra. Her nipples were already hard. Her chest moved with each breath like she was preparing herself for something she hadn't even questioned.
She turned to him.
He reached out. Touched both breasts. No ceremony. Just took them in his hands like he was measuring something that belonged to him. Her back arched. Her head tipped. She moaned so softly I felt it instead of hearing it.
His hand slid lower. Pressed between her legs. Through the thin fabric. Two fingers. One move. A quiet gasp.
Then he pulled her panties down. Slowly. She stepped out.
Then her sandals.
And that was it.
She was naked.
Right there.
And she knelt.
Not facing him.
She turned to me.
