Park Bench Passion

The estate park at midnight was for dog walkers, insomniacs, and people who'd given up on finding peace indoors. I was the insomniac variety, walking off a brain that wouldn't switch off.

She was sat on the bench by the pond, vaping something that smelled like strawberries, watching ducks sleep.

"Can't sleep either?" she asked without looking up.

"How'd you know?"

"The walking. And the face." Now she looked. "You've got insomniac face."

I sat down on the opposite end of the bench. She was thin—willowy—with choppy dark hair and too many rings on her fingers. The kind of woman who looked like she'd seen things.

"I'm Jay," she said.

"Callum."

"Nice to meet you, Callum." She took another drag of her vape. "What's keeping you up?"

"Work stuff. You?"

"Ex stuff." She shrugged. "He's gone but my brain didn't get the memo."

"That's shit."

"Life's shit. We adapt." She moved closer on the bench. "Want some?"

She offered the vape. I took it—strawberry, definitely—and handed it back.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." She was looking at me now, something calculating in her expression. "Can I tell you something?"

"Go on."

"I've been sat here for two hours, thinking about how lonely I am. And you're the first person who's stopped." She moved closer still. "That either means something or nothing."

"What do you want it to mean?"

"I want it to mean you're going to kiss me."

So I did.

She kissed like someone who'd been starving for it—hungry, desperate, grateful. Her hands found my face, my neck, pulled me closer.

"Fuck," she breathed. "I needed that."

"Same."

"More?"

"Yes."

She glanced around—the park was empty, the streetlight conveniently broken. "Here?"

"Unless you've got somewhere better."

"My flat's got my ex's boxes in it. Here's better."

She climbed onto my lap right there on the park bench, straddling me, her short skirt riding up. I could feel her heat through her thin underwear.

"This is mad," I said.

"Best kind." She was grinding down, already breathless. "Touch me."

I slid a hand between us, pushed her underwear aside. She was wet—properly wet—and gasped when my fingers found her.

"Yes—there—"

I worked her while she kissed me, her moans swallowed by my mouth. She came fast—needed it, clearly—shaking on my lap.

"Need you," she said before she'd finished trembling. "Inside."

"Condom?"

"Bag." She gestured vaguely. "Side pocket."

I found it while she freed me from my jeans. Rolled it on while she positioned herself.

"Ready?"

"Been ready for hours."

She sank down, and we both groaned. The bench creaked beneath us.

"Fuck yes—"

She rode me on the park bench under the moonlight, her thin frame moving with desperate energy. I grabbed her hips, helped her rhythm.

"So good—harder—"

I thrust up to meet her. Somewhere, a duck quacked in protest. Neither of us cared.

"Gonna come again—already—"

She came with a muffled cry, shaking around me. The feeling pushed me over.

"Inside—do it—"

I came hard, buried deep, feeling her pulse through it.

We stayed there for a moment, connected, breathing hard.

"Well," she said eventually, "that's one way to cure insomnia."

"Better than warm milk."

"Much better." She climbed off carefully. "Same time tomorrow?"

"If you're here."

"I'll be here." She kissed me—soft, sweet. "Maybe we'll even make it to a bed eventually."

"No rush."

I came back the next night. And the one after.

The bench became our spot. The ducks got used to us.

Sleep got a lot easier.