He bucked up, driving deeper, and for a second I saw white. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said, voice rougher than ever, and I realized I was sobbing his name into the dark, not even sure if I meant it as a curse or a prayer.
When it built—when it finally crested—I came so hard I bit my own tongue, metal tang filling my mouth. I collapsed onto his chest, shaking, and he wrapped both arms around me, pinning me there, refusing to let me go until his own body stiffened and he groaned low in his throat, a sound I wanted to bottle and keep under my pillow for lonely nights.
We lay like that, tangled in sweat and sheets and each other, the only light the flicker of the dick-shaped Christmas strand, and I could’ve sworn I heard angels singing, or maybe just the bar crowd below chanting for another round.
Either way, I wasn’t going anywhere.
I should have known Axel wasn’t the type to take a break. Most guys, after you wring them out, lie back and wait for you to wipe the sweat off their chest. Not him. He barely waited for his own pulse to drop before rolling me flat on my back and stretching himself out beside me, his head pillowed on my stomach, beard scratchy and damp. He just watched me breathe for a minute, asif trying to see if I’d pass out or pull a runner. I didn’t. I was too wrecked and limp, my thighs quivering with aftershocks.
Then he started over. At first, I thought he was kissing me, just soft and slow, but his mouth trailed lower, sucking at the underside of my breast, tracing every vein and curve with his tongue. He paused at my nipple, flicked it once with a lazy swirl, then bit down hard enough to send a lightning bolt straight to my crotch. I yelped. He laughed, but it was more of a low hum, not mean, just pleased. My skin felt like an exposed nerve.
I tried to close my legs, reflex, but his arms were too strong. He pinned my thighs apart with his forearms, wrists digging into my hipbones, and dove. No warm-up, no teasing, just mouth and tongue and the scrape of stubble as he sucked me into his face. I didn’t even know you could come again so soon, but his tongue did things I’d never read in Cosmo or whispered about in youth group sleepovers. Every flick and swirl was precise, calculated, like he was running a science experiment on my clit, and the data was pure dopamine.
I tried to tell him to stop, that I was too sensitive, but the only thing that came out was a strangled, “Oh fuck, fuck—Axel, please—” and then my whole body locked up. I seized, back bowing off the mattress, heels digging into the sheets. His mouth was relentless. Even when I thought I couldn’t take another second, he kept going, slow and torturous, until I melted, every bone gone liquid, drooling onto the pillow and sobbing out broken syllables that didn’t mean anything.
He finally surfaced, face slick, eyes devil-bright. “You all right, Darla?” he asked, running his thumb along my hip like a question mark.
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded, clutching a fistful of sheet in one hand and his hair in the other. He chuckled, nipped my thigh, then flipped me over like a sack of potatoes, ass in the air. I thought he was just repositioning, but then I felt his tongueagain—only this time, lower. The first swipe up the crack of my ass made me jump. The second made my whole body clench. Nobody had ever done that before. Ever. I tried to wriggle away, but he just held my hips steady and kept licking, slow and patient, until I gave up fighting and let the weird new pleasure burn through me. It should’ve been embarrassing, but with him it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
He paused only long enough to spread me wider with his hands, then spat once and rubbed the spit in, circling my asshole with his thumb. The humiliation, the rawness, the utter exposure—my brain short-circuited and all I could do was moan, loud and shameless. The idea of anyone downstairs hearing didn’t even register. I wanted him to keep going, never stop, maybe just eat me alive.
When he pulled away, I whimpered at the loss, but then I felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against my slickness, not forcing, just waiting. He leaned over me, his chest hot on my back, and nuzzled the nape of my neck.
“You want it?” he asked, voice like a dare.
“Please,” I begged, and I meant it more than I’d ever meant anything. “Just fuck me.”
He growled—actual growl, deep and guttural—and shoved inside in one long, deliberate stroke. The stretch was intense, bordering on pain, but it was so, so good. He held still for a second, letting me adjust, then started moving, slow at first, each thrust grinding my clit into the mattress, then faster, harder, until I was gasping with every slap of our bodies. The bed frame creaked like it was about to split in half. His hands gripped my hips tight, thumbs bruising my flesh, and every time he bottomed out he let out a little grunt, as if it surprised him every single time.
It didn’t take long. I could feel him swelling, losing control, and I matched him, thrust for thrust, greedy for the friction.When he came, he bit down on my shoulder, not enough to break skin but enough to claim me. I came again, a wild, shuddering thing that left me boneless. We collapsed together, a heap of sweat and spit and raw nerves.
For a few minutes, all I could hear was the whir of the ancient ceiling fan and the faint whoops from the bar below, like the world’s shittiest Christmas carolers. He pulled me into his chest, wrapping around me, and I could feel his heartbeat slow to match mine. I should have felt dirty, or used, or at the very least, guilty.
After it was done, we didn’t speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because every word felt like a risk and neither of us was built for that kind of gamble. Axel just sprawled on his back, arm slung over his face, other hand cupping my ass like he wanted to make sure it was still attached. I was draped across him, thigh thrown over his hip, cheek pressed to the smooth, faintly salty skin of his chest. Our sweat cooled and dried in the open air, leaving us sticky and half-glued to the sheetless mattress.
I traced the tattoos on his torso, half to keep from trembling and half because I was genuinely curious what kind of man turned himself into a moving Rorschach test. There was a skull riding a piston, a bloody-eyed wolf, something that might have been the Virgin Mary with angel wings, and script in Latin that I couldn’t read but looked like it probably meant “Fuck you” to anybody who asked. Above his heart, shaded so dark it looked blue under the Christmas lights, was a lone maple leaf. I’d have called it corny if it didn’t feel like a brand.
I wanted to ask about the leaf, but the words stuck behind my teeth. Instead, I ran my finger around it in slow, lazy circles. He flinched, just barely, but didn’t move away.
“You always tattoo your own name on your heart?” I joked, voice hoarse. “That’s a little narcissistic.”
He snorted, shifting so the sheet rode even lower on his waist. “You got room to talk. ‘Darla Maple.’ Is that even your real name?”
“More real than yours, ‘Axel.’” I made exaggerated air quotes with my free hand, then let it flop back to his chest. “What was it before? Or do you even remember?”
He went still, just for a second. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t come back.” He rolled his head to look at me, eyes slate and unblinking. “What about you, church girl? Thought you were supposed to be home before midnight, or you turn back into a pumpkin.”
“Joke’s on you. I’m more of a bad apple than a pumpkin.”
He smirked, and for the first time since we left the bar, his hand loosened its grip on my ass and stroked my lower back, slow and heavy. It felt like being petted by a wolf who couldn’t decide if I was a mate or a meal.
We laid there, silent, the lull between heartbeats thickening until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Do you ever regret anything?” I asked.
He turned to look at the ceiling, like he could see straight through the concrete and into the clouds. “All the fucking time. You?”
I laughed, short and mean. “Yeah. Like every fifteen minutes. I’m practically a professional.”
