He pulls me up his body, his eyes blazing. “You want this?” he pants, his hands already on my hips.
“More than anything,” I breathe.
He lifts me, and I guide his rigid length to my entrance. I sink down onto him, taking his cock inch by agonizing inch. A low, long hiss escapes my lips as I take all of him. So thick, so hard, he fills every empty, aching part of me. His depth feels like it’s touching my very center, a pleasure so profound it’s almost pain. I’m in charge now, and the sight of him beneath me—with his head thrown back, jaw clenched, and his face a mask of pure, agonizing pleasure—is the most powerful thing I’ve ever witnessed.
I ride him, my hips moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “You feel that, East?” I whisper, leaning down, my hair falling around us like a curtain. “You feel how good that is?”
“Fuck, Darla…” he groans, his hands tighten my hips, not to dominate, but to anchor himself as I move. “So fucking tight... God, princess…”
His hands don’t stay still. As I rock against him, his right hand snakes up my stomach, his palm covering my breast, his thumb immediately finding and raking over my already-pebbled nipple. I cry out at the sudden electric shock. His other hand slides down between our bodies, his fingers finding my clit. He rubs a slow, deliberate circle, and my breath hitches. The combination of his cock filling me, his hand on my breast, and his thumb on my clit is too much. It’s an overload of pure, agonizing pleasure.
His words, his touch, send me spiraling. I find my rhythm, a frantic, beautiful dance. I feel my orgasm building, a hot, coiling spring deep in my belly. “East—I’m close. I’m so close—” I gasp.
“That’s it, baby, come for me,” he growls, his hips thrusting up to meet my pace.
I watch his face as I come undone, my body arching, my pussy pulsing and clenching around his cock as a ragged cry escapes my throat. I feel the waves of my climax wash over me in a blinding, shattering release. He groans, his hips thrusting up, his face contorting, but he grits his teeth and holds back, riding out my orgasm with me.
Before I can even catch my breath, his grip on my hips tightens. “Not done yet, princess.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he slides out from under me, and I tip forward onto my hands, breathless. I find myself on my hands and knees on the couch cushions, my heart hammering. He doesn’t give me time to think. “Put your hands on the arms,” he commands, his voice a low, guttural rasp. I obey, my hands gripping the worn leather of the couch arms. My ass is in the air, my pussy still throbbing, exposed, dripping. I feel him behind me, the heat of his body a brand.
“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice thick with possession. “Presenting that sweet pussy for me. You’re so good, Darla. So fucking wet.” I feel the head of his cock nudge against my entrance, and I whine a desperate, needy sound. “You want this?” he growls, his hand gripping my hip, holding me still. “Beg for it.”
“Please, East,” I choke out, my voice wrecked. “Please, I need it. Fuck me.”
He slams into me from behind, burying his cock to the hilt. A scream tears from my throat. It’s a different, deeper, more primal angle. He’s huge, filling me completely. He pulls back, just an inch, and slams into me again. “That’s right, princess,” he groans, his pace frantic, brutal. “Take every fucking inch of my cock. You’re mine. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I sob, the words a surrender. “East, please.”
He finds a relentless, punishing, perfect rhythm. His hand comes around to find my clit again, then his fingers resume their merciless rubbing. It’s too much. I’m gone. The world narrows to the sound of our bodies slapping, the feel of his cock filling me, his fingers on my clit. My second orgasm rips through me, a violent, endless wave. “Don’t hold back. Let me feel it,” he growls, his pace relentless, his fingers still rubbing, pushing me over the edge, holding me there. My body clenches around him, and that’s what finally breaks him. With a guttural roar that echoes in my ears, he comes; his release is a violent, shuddering surrender.
He doesn’t pull out. He just collapses on top of me, his weight a heavy, sated blanket, and buries his face in my hair. I’m boneless, trembling, my arms shaking so hard I can barely hold myself up. We’re both panting, our bodies slick with sweat. The silence in the room has transformed, now filled with the heavy scent of sex and the erratic sound of our hearts beating in sync. In a shared rhythm that binds us together in this moment.
I don’t know how long we lie there, tangled on the couch, lost in the sated, peaceful aftermath. The adrenaline from the day is gone, replaced by a bone-deep, heavy exhaustion. I feel him shift, his muscles protesting, and he rolls onto his side, but he doesn’t let me go. He just pulls me with him, tucking me against his chest, my back flush against his front, his arm a solid bar across my stomach. His breathing evens out, and in the safety of his embrace, I finally let myself drift, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I wake up hours later. The light in the room has changed, the sharp morning sun softening into the warm, lazy gold of late afternoon. East is awake, his chin resting on my shoulder from behind, his arm still locked around me. The TV is on, the volume a low, meaningless hum. Some old action movie is playing, all car chases and bad physics.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs against my ear.
“How long have we been asleep?” I whisper, my voice thick with sleep.
“A few hours,” he says, pressing a soft, lazy kiss to my temple. “You needed it.” He nuzzles my hair, and I can feel the smile in his voice. “I have been mentally critiquing this guy’s motorcycle-jumping form. It’s a disaster. His entry angle is all wrong. He’d have shattered his front forks.”
I let out a small, huffing laugh, turning in his arms to face him on the narrow couch. “Oh, so you’re an expert in terrible action movies now?”
“I’m an expert in things that go fast, princess,” he grins, his eyes sparkling with the same humor from earlier in the kitchen. “Big difference.”
“You’re a menace,” I laugh, poking him in the ribs.
“And you’re the one who put salt in my coffee,” he says, his grin turning predatory. “I haven’t forgotten.” His hand, which had been resting on my back, slides down to my hip, his fingers digging in gently. “Payback’s a bitch.”
“I’m counting on it,” I flirt back, the words feeling impossibly, wonderfully normal. The air between us is no longer charged with just tension and fear; it’s light, playful, and easy.
His smile fades, his gaze turning serious. He looks past me, at the clock on the wall, and just like that, the bubble pops. The real world comes rushing back in. He kisses my forehead, a final, gentle press of his lips.
“It’s time,” he says reluctantly. “Time to go to war.”
The comfortable, lazy atmosphere evaporates, replaced by a focused, electric energy. We untangle ourselves from the couch. The next hour is a study in contrasts. While I pull on my new, dark, practical clothes, he stands in the living room, methodically checking his gear. Each click of a magazine, eachtest of a comms unit, is a sharp, jarring sound in the quiet of his home.
