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(≈4.2k words. Established couple. Somnophilia. Rimming. Reunion sex. He's really needy)
She's Thunderstorms (2010)
It was the kind of scorching, sticky July afternoon New York excelled at. Arabella left the office where she works and headed for her flat; on her way to the freedom offered by the front door, she bumped into at least ten colleagues (who would have thought it? with around 5,000 employees in the tower, from different companies, there were seemingly enough people to make it impossible to keep running into the same ones on your block). Everyone made the same comment about the ridiculous heat and how badly they wanted—or how lucky our protagonist was—to go home.
All the while, Arabella could feel an unpleasant trail of sweat down her back, along her side (where her skin, beneath her top, brushed against her Louis Vuitton), and between her breasts, sliding down until it gathered into little pools in her new Chanel blouse.
When she stepped out onto the street, any hope of finding a gentle, indulgent breeze evaporated completely. She took another five steps towards the kerb and waved for a taxi, but despite having lived here for a few months, she still felt completely ignored by the hectic pace of New York life. After several tries, Rachid stopped beside her—though not before performing some daredevil manoeuvre that earned him a string of honks and insults from his fellow drivers and commuters in the overfull road.
When she reached the high-rise building where she shared a home with her partner, she paid the Indian driver she'd almost become half-friends with her ever-so-generous 27.99 dollars (for only five blocks) and headed for the lift, where she would press 65. The truth was, the floor had incredible views—high enough that she didn’t have to face the curious, prying gazes from nearby buildings. And thank goodness for that, because the couple’s habit was to hold nothing back when making love in any corner of the apartment (though it might have been different if they’d had neighbours. Although Arabella didn’t believe that, honestly.)
Anyway, the views were a constant: an obedient, muted blue, briefly interrupted here and there by a couple of clouds some days, and degrading into an orange haze typical of pollution. At the street corner it felt like floating in the same sky, even though the magic wasn’t quite as complete. For despite the height, the unmistakable, clichéd sound of traffic managed to push its way through the 200 metres below.
A fall from that height, Arabella thought, would turn her body to dust before it even touched the ground, occupied as it was by the city beneath.
It was a strange thought. She wasn't thinking of jumping, obviously. Always so curious, she also wondered why she barely ever saw pigeons through the huge windows. She knew they could fly higher than 1000 metres, so that couldn't be the reason. In the end, she decided it must be because there'd be no food and nowhere safe for them to shelter. She wasn't going to jump. No. Not when she was in one of her best moments.
A few months earlier, Alex (her partner) had asked her to come and live with him in New York.
They’d met a year and a half ago at one of his concerts, and the truth was she’d never, ever thought (or even imagined) that after several nights they would end up building a relationship beyond fleeting passion. The truth was, Arabella had always pictured him rather differently—of course, she hadn’t really known him yet. But after dates and details and lyrics and touches, Arabella had learned that Alex Turner was an incurable romantic. And their relationship wasn't perfect. When nothing else was going on—when all the things mentioned above weren't taking over—discussions and distance would creep in (even if they were in the same city, in the same building, in the same room). What can you say... they were both stubborn in the way that made them want to be right.
And without ever really naming it, one day they found themselves celebrating their anniversary after a year together—the date had been improvised, and maybe at some point slightly debated as well—but this time it hadn’t ruined the date.
When Alex decided to move to the States (crossing the pond, as they say) it felt like an ice-cold bucket of water thrown over everything. They considered leaving it all behind, and even genuinely tried. But if it wasn’t one thing, it was the other—they would always end up calling, or when he came through London, they would see each other. And well, apart from love, if it was luck or misfortune, the sex was incredible. Both of them had started to believe the reason was precisely the friction they kept creating in their couple: the inevitable run-ins that made nearly every rendezvous end in reconciliation. And we all know making love to patch things up is the best kind of sex.
So one night they were tangled up in sheets, skin sticky and hot, but held together as if it was life itself. There were so many touches and kisses, all of it threaded through a silence that gave them room to reflect. And Arabella was ready to tell him that if they weren’t going to be together again, she would rather put an end to those stray nights when Alex stopped by that port and let them both get on with their lives.
And then, out of nowhere, Alex said it. “Do you want to move in with me? We’ll make it work.”
And even though it wasn’t an immediate yes, within a month Arabella was packing up the life she’d fought for so hard and had already built in her beloved London—and heading on a flight of about seven hours to Brooklyn.
To sum it up, the start was all passion—they couldn't stop being on top of each other. Then things cooled down a bit, not because of anything they chose, if you asked them... Alex was being pulled into the studio. A new album was taking shape there—not as ambitious as the last, but one where Alex was letting himself bare his soul the way he hadn't yet done musically. And Arabella, after getting her work visa sorted, had managed to join the same company. She was meant to start straight away, but you know how it is: American bureaucracy is a thing of beauty—or, at least, of stubborn nonsense.
It wasn't at all like London. New York simply wasn't her place. She didn’t know whether it was because she was English, since her beloved compatriots lacked that big, ambitious streak for pretending and consuming. Or maybe it was simply that she was starting to think she might not actually want to move after all. So she rejected the Yankees, even though they didn't really treat her badly—except she was tired of them trying to imitate her accent.
Did she want to be with Alex? Fuck, yes. But both of them were from England—so why did they have to live there? Yes, it was more convenient, easier for Alex. But he'd painted it as temporary. And now he was tossing out little phrases like "Deadass" or "Say less." Or saying things like, “I’m not going anywhere near Central Park. Let’s go to Prospect instead. There are fewer tourists.”
And Arabella would think: darling, we’re the tourists.
But now Alex was looking for somewhere more lowkey, because the fever of living big in a new city had burned out—since, well, it wasn't new anymore.
In any case, Arabella managed to make a friend at work (and outside it). Amber was the living image of what you picture when you think of New York: every day a different outfit, no fixed style except whatever was fashionable at the time. More handbags and shoes than books or trips, but she was a good friend—and, even though not in every respect (or, fine, in almost none), she was sensible when it came to relationships. She’d had several herself, despite being 22.
And Amber’s advice made perfect sense: first, to have patience; second, don’t ruin the relationship because of a past decision.
Since she was already here, the best she could do was enjoy it. Make a life for herself in this wonderful, frantic city.
So instead of waiting for hours and hours until her boyfriend came back from recording—or from drinks—or from some concert trip, or whatever Alex got up to in his busy life—Arabella made more friends. A fairly interesting, wildly varied group, one that shared the same uncertainty: about having changed city, even changed continent, among other things (including hobbies).
She’d also started going out with Amber’s group—exclusively girls—and their plans always, always involved going out to drink at night, dressed impeccably, and flirting. The last two weren’t followed 100% by our protagonist.
The dressing-up thing: Amber treated Arabella like a mannequin, and Arabella took it as a night of costumes. Depending on the mood or room, she would even invent a character. And as for flirting, Arabella found it fun and flattering to see that she had no trouble finding suitors—causing, on multiple occasions, jealousy among the girls—but she never crossed any line.
I don’t know what your lowest level of infidelity is, but Arabella cut it off instantly the second a hand slipped past a boundary—like brushing suggestively and insistently anywhere on her body.
And other things she did—following Amber's advice—meant she began to enjoy the apartment too. Especially when Alex was there, but more so when he wasn't. The apartment she’d once dismissed because it made her feel like she was pretending to be more than she really was. And yes, she came from a humble family, and Alex had too, if she was being honest. But now he could afford it. And even though he could have looked for something a bit more discreet, he was delighted to share it with her—to make sure she felt comfortable—and, if it was possible, to do it loudly (never the best word, but you know what she meant).
So when she came back from work, Arabella dropped her keys and bag on the little table in the hallway, put her Louboutin in the shoe rack by the entrance (they didn’t happen in London—but apparently in this branch of the company it was almost mandatory to turn up looking polished), went to the fridge for a very cold Budweiser, then went to the bathroom, where she undressed and had a shower while she drank her cold beer with whatever she was currently obsessed with playing in the background. Today it was Brothers.
When she came out of the shower, Arabella dried herself, put on a fresh, loose dress that reached her thighs—an audacious zebra print. The fabric fanned out, letting the cool air from the AC slip everywhere, and added to the genuinely necessary shower and the beer, Arabella was in her best mood. She weighed whether to open another beer, but between this morning’s shift on a Friday, the long week, and the way the beer was already hitting her, she decided that a deserved nap was the better idea.
The living room was one of the parts of the apartment Alex was most proud of. The rest was just as it had been when he rented it: that in-between modern and contemporary minimalism that dominated this era. It was dull, cold, and soulless—the two of them once joked about it while they were cuddled up in bed after a long session where they’d assessed it room by room (the evaluation wasn’t rushed and didn’t exactly have much judgement behind it).
But he decided to put his own touch on the living room. And, no surprise at all—certainly not for Arabella—it was a completely different style. It was a proper grand lounge setup: bold colours, dynamic patterns, and furniture choices with neo-seventies design. A sneak peek into the head of Alex.
At first she'd hated the feeling of leather from the corner sofa brushing against her skin whenever she sat down in shorts. But now she loved lying there, because it stayed so cool and firm—perfect for her occasional rests after work. The black leather of the wide couch stayed pleasantly cool during the nap thanks to the air conditioning. So Arabella lay face-down in the corner of the sofa, with another two metres of sofa stretching under her feet. This is heaven, she thought while stretching out and closing her eyes. She opened them briefly once more to look at the sky around her and smiled—because yes, literally, heaven.
Her breathing slowed, and she slipped into a deep, heavy rest so complete that she didn’t hear the key in the front door, didn't hear it shut. She didn't hear Alex moving things at the entrance—his suitcase, his bag, his guitar case.
And she didn't hear the soft voice—slightly tired and rough—calling out.
"Bella? You home?"
Then Alex turned the wall that separated the hallway from the living room and saw her there—stretched out. Her legs looked miles long, starkly white against the colour of the leather. Above that: a small dress tangled around her, covering very little of her bottom.
Alex took a few steps towards her and saw her angelic, sleepy face. Her cheeks were pink from the heat, squashed into the cushion—also leather. Her small mouth, which looked babyish when she slept like this, slightly open, with a little thread of drool creating a little pool.
Arabella’s gentle breathing made Alex’s chest tighten. He stroked her hair then. He was afraid of waking her, but he couldn’t help himself in that moment.
He went to put his things away in the bedroom, trying not to make a sound. In normal circumstances, he would have woken her already. In fact, he had almost done it. Because he hadn’t expected her to be asleep. Arabella wasn’t the type for naps.
So reason number one for letting her rest a little longer was that she must have been genuinely exhausted.
The second reason—actually the main one—was that Alex had come back as a surprise. He hadn’t been expected to return until next week. But when the last Ohio date was cancelled due to the weather, instead of being annoyed like he might have been in other circumstances, he was eager to get back to her. Lately he’d been finding it too hard to be away from home for more than one or two weeks at a time (maybe this last record had hit harder than he’d thought).
Anyway. He was going off on a tangent. The real second reason was that Alex was going to wake her soon—but in a way that had occurred to him the second he saw that dress tangled around her legs and what he thought was proof that there was basically no resistance left anywhere.
You’re like this around the flat when I’m not here? he thought, unable to disguise his excitement.
First, he showered. Alex guessed the bathroom air was still slightly charged, and the vanilla-and-peach smell from Arabella’s body wash suggested that she’d washed just a short time ago as well. Great, he muttered to himself. He loved how good Arabella smelled from that soap—but above all, he loved how even the faintest trace of summer sweat wasn’t there to get in the way of fully savouring her skin.
As soon as he came out, he didn’t bother dressing. He padded into the living room on tiptoe and, thank God, she was still there, lying down, still out of it. He climbed over the far arm of the sofa and crawled slowly towards her, stopping just short of touching her—pausing as he let himself decide how much he could get away with. He let out a lost-man sigh. Drunk on the view, and to guarantee himself even more access, he moved Arabella’s leg, taking her foot between his fingers. She wasn't wearing anything. Not a thing.
Alex dropped his head to the sofa.
Then he carefully inched himself a little closer and kissed her calves, the back of her knees, and her thighs. Arabella shifted slightly, but with Alex between her legs she couldn't close them.
He stayed still, waiting—on edge, to see if she was going to wake up or not. Wishing for the second. Even if only for a while longer. When she woke, he wanted to be properly between her legs.
For his luck, she didn't.
Alex carried on. He kissed the short remaining distance until her bottom, took her in his hands, and kissed the peach-coloured skin of her. He buried his face there and inhaled—and an involuntary growl escaped him, making him lift his head again to check that it hadn’t woken her either.
So he decided to control himself. He needed his plan to be fruitful all the way through.
He settled carefully, separating Arabella’s firm cheeks with gentle hands—hands that seemed not to be registering anything to her, asleep as she was.
Then he licked from below up to the crack. She was already a little wet, and Alex couldn’t help thinking that maybe she’d been thinking about him right before she fell asleep—just like he’d been thinking about her every day for the past three weeks, falling asleep with a painful erection that he only managed to calm from time to time because the heat was unbearable to ignore.
And feeling that sticky wetness unmasked just how little patience Alex had. His next licks became more insistent, pushing further and further: his tongue entered her opening, though in that posture it could only reach the tip. He tried again to go further, but still couldn’t—so he travelled back from there and focused on the other opening. He kissed and played with it using his tongue. So concentrated, he almost startled when Arabella shifted slightly and made a nearly inaudible sound—like a breathy moan. It seemed she was slowly coming back out of Morpheus. Alex moved faster.
“Al?” she whispered, and that made him smile. She could have said another name—confirming his worst travel-nightmares: that she used his absence to meet up with some Josh… or maybe a Cole.
Alex didn’t answer. He grabbed her hips and, carefully but firmly, turned her on the sofa by rotating her on her axis, drawing a complaining sound from her because he’d woken her. Arabella only half understood what was happening. Between the exhaustion that made her limbs and eyelids feel heavy, she relaxed again in that position.
Now that she was awake, Alex dropped the delicate approach and replaced it with pure desperation. He grabbed her legs, lifted them over his shoulders, and exposed her—ready for him. And from that position, with the stubbornness we mentioned earlier, he pushed his tongue into her cunt twice more, making her sigh. Now she finally moved one hand, gripping his hair.
"What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to be back till next week," she asked, her voice still sugary from sleep—and slightly horny too.
He only hissed for her to be quiet. Then he kissed her bottom lips as if it were her mouth. He focused on the clitoris—insistent, but applying the exact pressure that such a sensitive part deserved. When he heard her agree and take pleasure in it, he kept that rhythm and added another point of pressure: a finger, to the extent he could reach inside her.
And now Arabella fully moaned. Alex let out an incredulous laugh.
“God, I missed hearing you like that,” Alex admitted—continuing immediately, almost without managing to finish the sentence—because he was already busy giving Arabella pleasure.
He didn’t stay there long. His erection was too insistent. The towel he’d been using was already pressed into the side a while back, and now he needed release—so urgently it made him think either he’d finish right then—or he might actually explode. Alex crawled a little higher between her legs and kissed her mouth, a bit rough, making her whine.
“Easy, Al,” she pleaded, her brow furrowed. But the moment he apologised properly, looking her in the eyes, she smiled—mouth crooked, eyes narrowed in a way that showed complete honesty and trust. Alex melted completely.
“I missed you,” she said, watching him still, then her hand slid between both their bodies and wrapped around Alex’s cock. Alex shuddered exaggeratedly.
That gesture, and how hard he was, told Arabella exactly how desperate he was. In other circumstances, she’d tease him a little. But she'd missed him so much. She missed his face waking up beside hers. Missed his music playing until the late hours without letting her sleep. (Not that it was worse than the ghostly silence that used to exist when he was away—because it wasn't. Not even close.) She missed the smell of freshly made coffee that seemed to exist only when he was around.
Arabella positioned him at her entrance and pulled her hand away to wrap it around his neck. Alex pushed his hips in, sinking into her until the end. He sighed and she moaned at the intrusion—more wanted than he could possibly imagine. Even as she moved her hips to start that frantic rhythm she needed so badly, Alex still paused for a moment, staying there, sunk, holding for several long seconds.
"Fuck, Bells... this is the absolute heaven," Alex murmured, and Arabella laughed at his over-the-top phrasing. And because she’d said exactly the same thing about half an hour or an hour earlier, lying there with no idea about the surprise.
And before she could say anything, Alex began to move.
The rhythm was fast and desperate. Unfortunately for Arabella—who would have kept going for hours—and luckily for Alex, who needed to come right now, propelled by a primal instinct, everything unraveled into his orgasm in less than 15 minutes. His face buried in her neck, his high, sharp sounds matching the spasms of his dick inside her.
When it finally faded, he didn't move away. He didn't try to get out of the warm haven of her. He collapsed fully onto Arabella instead, throwing his entire weight down like surrender.
Arabella laughed and covered his forehead, his cheek, his hair in kisses until he lifted himself slightly and slid out of her.
"Fuck, you were really in need," she said, amused.
And again, Alex didn't respond—more than aware that she hadn't cum. Ignoring completely that his semen was still flowing inside her, Alex lowered himself again with renewed energy. This time, it wasn't dulled by lack of sex. He sucked at her entrance until he reached her most sensitive point, where he sucked quickly and expertly. He varied the pulses with his lips, then introduced his fingers again—this time two.
Arabella immediately fell apart into brazen moans.
For a moment she’d even thought he might leave it alone—like he didn’t know her well enough, or the other way round.
After demonstrating his love for her in various ways, her moans stopped being exaggerated and became honest. Alex loved it when they stopped being screams and turned into broken sounds mixed with strong, guttural breaths—signs that she was nearing climax. He loved reading her body that well. He knew exactly what he had to do now to make her jump into the void.
Either powerful and gentle sucking on her clitoris combined with brushing the tip of a finger at the internal spot close to her navel. Or, if he was still able—and now he definitely was, after hearing her like that—he went back inside her. And that was what he did.
With a fast move, Alex rose onto his knees, which drew a complaining moan from Arabella, because she was right there on the edge. He lifted her legs up so they were stretched high, and drove himself into her with a single thrust. Incredible, he thought—how only a few more pushes had been enough for her cunt to pulse her orgasm outside of her system, right around his cock.
Alex looked down at her. Her dress was wound around her ribs, one breast pushed out. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open and twisted, making sounds of pure pleasure. He smiled because he adored knowing perfectly how to get her to look like that. It was one of his favourite ways of seeing her.
After that, both of them moved to the shower—where, for your information, they were absolutely determined to go for more again. They barely had time to rinse off the soap properly before they were hopping back into it, stumbling into the bedroom, getting everything wet as they went. But it didn’t matter. All they could think about was making up for lost time.
Oh, being 24. That youth and that ability to fuck endlessly without ever getting exhausted.
And in moments like this, it didn’t matter where you were—London or New York, heaven or the most exhausting yet wonderful city. You were with him. You loved him, and he adored you.
