After the first wave has passed, his voice changes, his groans turn to whimpers as his legs tremble between mine. He stretches his head back, presenting the long column of his neck to me and I can’t help but lick my tongue over it.
His head snaps forward as his pelvis manages one final thrust, then comes to rest against mine.
He doesn’t move from me. He stays exactly where he is, all hard muscle and sweat slicked skin, kissing my face, my jaw, my neck.
“Are you okay?” he asks after a short while.
“Yes, thank you.” I don’t know if I’m thanking him out of politeness or for having sex with me when I asked. I don’t want to be weird about it so I keep quiet.
“Are you in any pain?” he asks.
I have to think about it, focus on the space where he still fills me. “A little,” I finally admit, “but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Try and relax otherwise it will hurt when I pull out.”
“Don’t,” I say too quickly. “Just stay a little longer. It feels good. Different, but good.”
He continues peppering kisses over my skin, bows his head enough to suck one nipple into his mouth, then the other.
I clench around him and he growls.
“Emma, I’ve just pumped you full of eighteen months’ worth of my cum. Don’t think that means I can’t go again.”
I moan when his cock twitches inside of me.
“You need rest,” he adds. “Relax,sovershenna.”
I do as he says and make a conscious effort to loosen my muscles, then he slides from me and I whimper at the pain, but also the loss of him.
He disappears briefly, returning with a warm cloth which he uses to gently clean up the mess between my thighs. Then, dropping the cloth onto the bedside table, he climbs into bed beside me and pulls me close.
“Next time will be different,” he says, and I want to ask what he means, but sleep is already dragging me under.
Avros
She is exhausted.
Her body gives in in a way that tells me she has been disciplined too hard for too long.
One moment she’s still holding herself together out of habit, muscles tight even in rest, and the next she’s slack against the sheets, breath evening out, lashes resting against her cheeks.
I lie beside her on the bed, one arm wrapped around her waist, hand possessively covering her stomach, and listen to her breathing like it’s the only rhythm that matters.
I expected to feel victorious, but I don’t.
What I feel is something quieter and far more dangerous.
Relief.
The relief of knowing she’s finally stopped bracing for impact. That for the first time since I started watching her, following her, she isn’t holding herself upright through pain simply because she thinks that’s what shemustdo.
I pull a strand of hair back from her face, careful not to wake her. The movement is restrained, almost reverent. My fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary, memorizing the warmth of her skin, the softness that never showed itself onstage.
This was never about sex.
The realization lands fully now, heavy and undeniable.
I wanted her body, yes. I wanted it badly enough that restraint felt like barbed wire in my blood. But what I wanted more, what I waited for, was this moment. The moment where she lets herself rest beside me without fear of being discarded.
