He didn’t knock. He never did.
If she was home, she’d answer. If she wasn’t, he’d move on.
But she was there — she was always there — and she opened the door like she knew exactly why he’d come.

There was no point in wasting time.
The back of her head thudded against the wall before she had the chance to step aside,
his hand closing around her throat to keep her still.
Her eyes widened for a second, but she didn’t resist. She never did.

Her skirt was short. Easy.
Her panties softer than he expected, but just another barrier in the way.
He moved them aside without ceremony and slid his fingers between her thighs.
She was wet. Already ready for him.
That pleased him — not because it meant she wanted him, but because it meant he wouldn’t have to work for it.

He freed himself, lined up, and pushed in with one hard stroke.
She gasped, nails biting into his shoulders, but he barely felt it.
Her legs came up around him automatically — muscle memory, not invitation — locking him in place as he started to move.

The pace was steady and unforgiving.
Her breathing hitched; he ignored it.
The way her lips parted, the quiet sounds slipping out — all just byproducts of the act.
He wasn’t here to see her. He was here to take what she could give.

When her body tightened around him, he felt it as a reflex, not an accomplishment.
Her release shuddered through her, and he pushed harder, chasing his own.
When it hit, it was a low, guttural exhale — sharp, final — as he emptied himself inside her.

He stayed inside her just long enough for the twitch in his muscles to subside.
Then he stepped back, watching his release slip down her inner thigh.
Her lips were swollen, her hair mussed, her skin marked from his grip.

He didn’t kiss her.
Didn’t smooth her hair.
Didn’t say a word.

Zipper up. Eye contact for half a second — just enough to let her know he’d be back when it suited him —and then he left.

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