It all happens so fast that there’s no time to consider consequences or weigh whether this is a mistake. My body has already decided.
Pressure builds low in my gut, sharp and insistent, blood rushing where I do not want it. Her mouth is warm and open against mine, her soft groans sliding straight through me, loosening something I keep locked down on instinct alone. When my hand slips between us, the slick heat there hits me all at once, undeniable, and the last thin line of restraint snaps.
I push her shirt up, then higher, until there’s nothing left between my hands and her skin. I drag her bra down, and her breasts spill free, heavy and flushed.
My breath catches before I can stop it. She tilts her head back slightly, exposing the long line of her throat, and I trace it with my fingers, feeling her pulse jump under my touch.
I fumble with the waistband of her leggings, my hands suddenly clumsy, impatient. She makes a quiet sound of frustration and takes over, pushing them down her hips and stepping out of them while I strip mine off without looking away from her.
Skin meets skin. Hers is damp with heat, mine hypersensitive.
My heartbeat thuds hard enough that it crowds myears as I lift her onto the counter and step between her knees. My erection presses against her thigh, the contact sending a jolt straight through me.
She’s already ready. Already warm. The proof coats my fingers when I touch her again, and the weight of that knowledge settles in my chest, heavy and complicated. Not triumph. Not victory. Something messier.
My grip tightens as my body strains against the lie I’m telling myself about what I’m doing here with her. I push into her once, hard enough that she gasps and grips my shoulders. The sound hits something in my chest and stays there.
I don’t pace myself or draw it out. The counter digs into the front of my thighs as I drive into her, fast and unrestrained. It’s almost like if I keep moving, I won’t have to think.
She clings to me, breath breaking apart, my name slipping out of her mouth without calculation.
And that’s when my body betrays me.
Not the lust. The awareness. The way my name on her tongue in this moment makes this so much more.
I pull out abruptly, ignoring her startled sound, and lift her down. She looks at me like she’s about to argue, eyes dark, mouth flushed, but I don’t give her the chance.
“Bedroom,” I say.
I carry her without asking. Not because she can’t walk, but because I need the weight of her in my arms, the solid proof of her body against mine.
She doesn’t resist. Her hands stay on my shoulders, not clinging, not pushing away.
The bedroom slows everything down, whether I want it to or not. The light is lower, and the air is heavier. It’s the kind of quiet that makes every movement register.
I set her on the edge of the bed, and then I lower myself to the floor in front of her.
It isn’t submission, but control turned inward. A pause I choose instead of a moment forced on her.
For a beat, we just look at each other.
Her hair is a mess. Her mouth flushed and swollen from my kiss. There’s no calculation in her eyes right now. No angle. Just unguarded awareness, fixed on me like she’s waiting for what comes next.
I brace my hands on the bed beside her thighs and stop there. My right hand aches under the pressure, but I don’t care. Every muscle in my body is tight from the effort of it.
The kitchen was hunger and instinct. This is different.
My pulse hammers in my chest, my body already aching for her. But I hold myself still, waiting, intent to know she wants this, wants me, before I finish what we started.
She reaches for me first and wraps her fingers around my hand. She tugs gently, but not tentatively. The pull draws me forward, and the message lands clear as anything she could have said.
I grab her again, but this time I slow down. I slide my hands over her shoulders, down her arms, feeling the tremor there, the way her breath changes under my touch. Like I’m learning her instead of taking her.
She watches me do it. She doesn’t rush me or look away.
And that quiet consent hits harder than anything she’s done yet.
When I push into her again, it’s slower, deeper. I hold myself there for a second longer than necessary, forearms braced on either side of her head, breath uneven.
