She moves her hips and it's game over. She immediately finds a rhythm, greedy and perfect, grinding on me,fucking my cock as if she’d been waiting all day and refused to waste a single second. Wet sounds fill the room, slick, obscene, and wonderful. Her breathing starts to catch in little gasps. Her breasts bounce in my face, and I take a nipple into my mouth and suck, and she melts against me.
“…oh God, I…”
“I got you,” I mumble against her skin, one hand sliding back between us to rub her exactly where she needs it, small tight circles, pressure and rhythm, not stopping, not letting go.
She shatters.
That’s the only word for it.
Her whole body contracts, then trembles, her wings spread wide, feathers brushing my shoulders, my throat, my jaw. Her cry is muffled by my mouth as I kiss her, swallowing the sound so no one in the hallway hears the way I make her come on my cock.
I feel it. I feel every pulse, every squeeze. It drags me right to the edge with her.
I thrust into her, hard now, chasing her, holding her tight to me as if I’ll never let her go. The couch creaks. The piece of lace that covered her intimacy and which I pushed aside tries to return to its place. But there's no contest. That spot is mine.
I’m lost, I spill with a groan I can’t swallow, my hands digging into her hips as if I could anchor us both to this exact moment and never return.
We stay like that.
Breathing.
Trembling.
Alive.
Outside, the bass keeps pounding. People are still laughing. The world keeps turning.
But in here, it’s a whole other world.
Her head is on my shoulder. Her lips are against my throat. I feel her heartbeat through her ribs, fast and frantic.
I run a hand down her back. Over the lace. Over the curve of her spine. To the base of those beautiful wings.
She trembles.
If I end up in hell for this, I might be okay with it.
1
Pff
Cohen
I’m in hell.
Not the one with the red angel and the vanilla scent.
The real one.
The one with the air that smells of plastic and disinfectant, and a clock ticking like a death sentence.
The coach's office is a cell.
No windows, just the constant sound of the air conditioning and the feeling that the air shrinks every time someone talks.
Or screams.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve gotten yourself into?”
