I've never seen her so hungry for me that she'd take charge, and I don't mind yielding.
After hours of being in charge, letting her have her way feels like a treasure.
Each rise and fall drags a low moan from her throat, muffled against my lips as she continues kissing me.
I thrust up to meet her, limited by the injury, but she takes control, grinding down harder, chasing friction against her clit with every circle of her hips.
The cot’s springs squeal in protest.
The metal frame rattles against the wall with every impact.
Sweat beads between her breasts, trickling down the valley of her cleavage and vanishing into her nightgown, but I have the rest of my life to enjoy her.
I lean forward to lick it away, tasting salt and her, the faint floral trace of her soap now mixed with the musk of sex.
She shudders, pace faltering, then rights herself, riding me with single-minded focus.
Her thighs tremble against mine; the muscles in her back ripple under my palm as I slide my hand up her spine, under the dress, fingers splaying over the sweat-damp skin between her shoulder blades.
The saferoom’s sterility amplifies every sound—her breath hitching in tiny, staccato bursts, the wet slide of our bodies, theslap of skin on skin, the creak of the cot’s springs in a frantic, syncopated rhythm.
The air grows thicker and humid with exertion and my shoulder throbs in time with my pulse, a dull counterpoint to the sharp pleasure building low in my gut.
“Dante,” she gasps, voice breaking on my name, “I’m?—”
“Come for me,Bella.” I slide my good hand between us, thumb finding her clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes. “Let me feel it.”
Her walls flutter, then clamp down hard.
She cries out—my name, a broken sob—her body seizing as she comes, pulsing around me in waves that milk my cock.
The sight of her unraveling, head thrown back, drags me over the edge.
I thrust up into her and spill inside her with a guttural groan, hips jerking as pleasure rips through me.
She collapses forward, forehead against mine, both of us panting.
The cot's too small.
Her knee slips off the edge, but I catch her, holding her close.
My shoulder throbs but the pain's distant, drowned out by the warmth of her body, the steady thump of her heart against my chest.
After a moment, she lifts her head, eyes soft, sated.
"So, it's really over?" she asks with my dick still buried inside her.
"It's really over."
Her head turns, eyes fixing on the wound she lightly touches.
"This is going to need stitches."
"I know."
Her eyes fill with tears again and she sits up to look me in the eyes.
"I can't lose you, Dante. I can't do this without you."
