The Key Under the Mat

The key was under the mat like a cliché that still worked. I was twenty-eight. He was forty-two. He had said, if you get off early, go in, don't sit on the porch like a delivery. I got off early. I went in.

His house smelled like coffee grounds and cedar. I stood in the kitchen feeling like a thief and a guest at once. When he came home he stopped in the doorway, took me in, and smiled like the day had finally done something right.

“Good,” he said. “Stay there.” He crossed the room and kissed me without putting his bag down. The bag hit the floor a second later.

He is built like a decision — chest, belly, the kind of arms that make a kitchen feel smaller. I am a cub and I fit against him like I had been measured for it. He got my shirt off at the counter and palmed my chest with frank hunger. “I thought about this at a red light,” he said. “That's unsafe.”

We made it to the couch. He told me to stay on my knees facing the back. He opened me slowly, talking, then pushed inside with a groan I felt in my teeth. He fucked me like he had come home to this specifically. I came first, messy, grabbing the cushion. He followed, deep, his mouth on my shoulder.

After, he put the key on my ring without asking. “Mats are for people who still need permission,” he said. I stopped using the mat.