I positioned myself, my tip brushing her entrance, slick and warm. I pushed in slow, inch by agonizing inch, feeling her stretch around me, tight and perfect.
She moaned, her hands gripping my arms, her nails biting into my skin.
I thrust deeper, finding a rhythm that matched her gasps, her hips rising to meet me. It was slow at first, deliberate, each movement a claim, each moan a surrender. I buried myself in her, her heat pulling me in, her body a war I didn’t want to win.
“Harder,” she said, her voice sharp, her legs wrapping around my waist.
I didn’t hold back. I thrust harder, deeper, the bed creaking under us, her cries filling the room. Her hands clawed my back, her hips bucking against me, and I felt her tighten, her body trembling on the edge. I angled my thrusts, hitting that spot that made her scream, her nails drawing blood as she came, her body shuddering around me, pulling me with her. I held on, fighting my own release, wanting to stretch this out, to keep her breaking under me.
“Taste yourself,” I growled, pulling out, my voice raw with need.
She didn’t hesitate. She sat up, her lips finding my cock, licking slow, deliberate, tasting her own wetness.
The sight of her—wild, unashamed, her tongue gliding over me—sent a jolt through my core. She took me deep, her eyes locked on mine, sucking with a hunger that made my knees buckle.
I fisted her hair, guiding her, my groans filling the room as she worked me, her mouth a perfect storm of heat and control.
“Back on the bed,” I said, pulling her up, my voice breaking, my control a thread.
She obeyed, lying back, her legs spread wide, her body glistening with sweat.
“Fuck me from behind,” she commanded, rolling onto her knees, her ass high, her back arched.
I groaned, my hands finding her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh. I positioned myself, thrusting into her, deep and hard, the angle hitting deep.
She cried out, her hands gripping the headboard, her body rocking back against me.
I set a brutal pace, each thrust a claim, each moan a victory. Her skin slapped against mine, the sound raw and primal, and I felt her tighten again, her body trembling, ready to break.
“Touch yourself,” I said, my voice a growl, wanting to push her over the edge.
Her hand slid between her thighs, her fingers working herself as I fucked her, her moans louder, more desperate.
I watched her, mesmerized, the sight of her pleasuring herself while I took her, sending me spiraling.
She came hard, her body convulsing, her cry sharp enough to cut glass, and I followed, spilling inside her, my vision whitening, my heart pounding.
We collapsed, panting, her body under mine, her breath hot against the sheets. I didn’t pull out, didn’t want to, her heat still pulsing around me.
“Touch me,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost vulnerable.
I slid a hand up her back, slow and gentle, tracing the curve of her spine, her skin slick with sweat. My fingers found her breast, cupping it, my thumb brushing her nipple, drawing a soft gasp. I moved lower, circling her clit again, slow and teasing, building her up again, her hips shifting under my touch. She was sensitive, trembling, and I watched her face—eyes closed, lips parted—as she came quietly, her body shuddering under my hand.
“Look at me,” I said, my voice low, needing her eyes.
She opened them, dark and endless, locking onto mine.
“Kiss me,” she said, her voice a whisper, a command I couldn’t refuse.
I leaned down, my lips finding hers, slow and deep, tasting her, us, the mess we’d made. Our tongues met, soft but sure, and I kissed her until the air ran out, until my chest ached, until I forgot the world outside this room.
Her hands found my face, her fingers tracing my jaw, her touch softer than I deserved.
“Stay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her body still pressed against mine.
I didn’t answer, just pulled her closer, my arms wrapping around her, her curves fitting against me like they belonged there. The guest suite was a cocoon—lavender and linen, sweat and sex—and for once, nothing else existed. No Department 77, no mother’s ghost, no war waiting to claim me.
Just Portia, her fire, her skin, her breath. I didn’t know what this was, didn’t want to name it. But I felt alive, not a ghost, and it was her doing.
