Steamy Jerusalem

The air in Jenny's small Jerusalem apartment was heavy with the scent of old stone and jasmine drifting in from the garden below. She and Dave, both architecture students, had been cramming for a looming deadline, their textbooks and sketches sprawled across her dining table. Jenny's place was a short walk from Dave's parents' house in one of the city's winding, courtyard-lined neighborhoods, and they'd taken to studying together often. Tonight, though, felt charged--her flatmate was away for the weekend, leaving the space entirely theirs.

Jenny lounged across from him, her dark curls tumbling over one shoulder, her tank top riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned midriff. She'd been dropping hints all evening, her voice laced with a playful edge. "God, Dave, these arches are so... rigid. Don't you ever get tired of all this tension?" She stretched languidly, her breasts pressing against the thin fabric, her eyes flicking to his with a smirk.

Dave, lean and wiry with a mop of black hair, tried to focus on his notes, but the room pulsed with her energy. On a shelf nearby stood an African sculpture--a carved wooden man with a massive, unabashed erection, its polished surface catching the lamplight. Above it hung a painting Jenny had done herself: a woman mid-orgasm, her head thrown back, lips parted, thighs trembling. The resemblance to Jenny was unmistakable--those sharp cheekbones, that wild hair--and Dave had caught himself staring at it more than once.

"Water?" she asked abruptly, rising from her chair. He nodded, barely looking up from his sketch of a vaulted ceiling. She padded to the kitchen, her shorts hugging her hips, and when she returned with a glass, she didn't sit right away. Instead, she leaned close to set it down, "accidentally" pressing her pelvis against his knee. The heat of her through the thin fabric made him freeze, his pencil hovering mid-air.

"Oops," she murmured, not moving, her hazel eyes locking onto his. "Clumsy me."

Dave's breath hitched. "Jenny..."

She grinned, sliding onto the table's edge, her legs dangling near his. "What? We've been staring at these blueprints all night. Don't you want to... explore something else?" Her fingers brushed his arm, and that was it--the dam broke. He surged up, pulling her into a kiss, all teeth and heat, her hands fisting in his shirt.

They stumbled backward, lips locked, until her hips hit the drafting table in the corner -- a sturdy wooden slab littered with rulers and tracing paper. She broke the kiss, panting, and shoved the supplies aside with a sweep of her arm. "Fuck me here," she demanded, hopping onto the table and yanking her tank top over her head. Her breasts spilled free, nipples already hard, and Dave groaned, shedding his own shirt as he stepped between her thighs.

She tugged his jeans down, freeing his erection, and guided him to her, her shorts already discarded. He thrust in hard, no preamble, and she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. The table creaked under them, rocking with each deep stroke, her legs wrapping around his waist. "Harder," she hissed, her voice raw, and he obliged, slamming into her until she arched back, her moans echoing off the stone walls. The sculpture and painting loomed over them, silent witnesses to her unraveling.

They didn't last long--the pent-up tension exploded fast. She came with a shuddering cry, clenching around him, and he followed, spilling into her with a low grunt. They collapsed against the table, breathless, her legs still trembling.

"Bed," she mumbled after a moment, sliding off and tugging him toward her room. They fell onto her mattress, a tangle of limbs, and he took her again, slower this time, her hands roaming his back as she whispered filthy encouragements in his ear. When they finished, she rolled off, sated, and slipped into a long Palestinian dress--red and black embroidery flowing over her curves. Dave pulled on his boxer shorts, and they padded barefoot to the back porch.

The night was cool, the garden below spilling into a valley that stretched into the darkness. The porch was a hidden nook, screened by vines and stone walls, utterly secluded. They sank onto a wicker bench, the quiet wrapping around them, the distant hum of the city barely audible. She leaned into him, her dress brushing his bare thigh, and soon her hand was wandering, tracing the waistband of his boxers.

"Again?" he whispered, half-laughing, but his cock was already stirring. She smirked, lifting her dress to straddle him, the fabric pooling around her hips. He slid inside her easily, her warmth enveloping him, and they moved together, slower this time, mindful of the landlord upstairs. She bit her lip to stifle her moans, her fingers gripping his hair as he thrust up, their rhythm steady and hushed. The valley lay before them, oblivious, as they chased another quiet, shuddering release.

After, they sat there, her dress still hiked up, his arm around her, the night settling back into stillness. "We should study," she teased, but neither moved.

The next morning, Dave slipped out before dawn, the streets silent save for the shuffle of early risers. He was halfway home when he spotted his father trudging back home from his morning walk. Dave ducked behind a stone wall, heart pounding, waiting as the older man passed. Their eyes met for a fleeting second--or did they? His father's face stayed impassive, his steps unbroken, and Dave held his breath until he was gone.

Sneaking into his room, Dave collapsed onto his bed, replaying the night--the drafting table, the porch, that almost-encounter. He'd never know if his father had seen him, and somehow, that made it sharper, a secret tingling under his skin.