“God, you feel—” My voice breaks, my rhythm stuttering as her muscles clamp down around me. I lean over her, my chest pressing against her back, my mouth finding the side of her neck. I bite down, just hard enough to make her whimper, and she tilts her head to give me better access, her body arching into mine.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t—”
I won’t.
I reach around, my fingers finding her clit again, rubbing in tight, relentless circles as I fuck her. Her moans turn desperate, her body tightening around me, and I canfeel her getting close again. My own orgasm is coiled tight in my gut, my balls drawing up, but I hold back, waiting for her.
“Come on, Chloe,” I growl, my lips brushing her ear. “Come with me.”
Her answer is a broken cry, her body shuddering as her second orgasm hits her. Her pussy milks my cock, her walls pulsing around me, and that’s all it takes. With a groan, I bury myself deep and come, my release spilling into her in hot, thick spurts. I keep thrusting through it, drawing out every last drop, my hips stuttering as pleasure wracks my body.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. I’m still inside her, my cock softening slowly, my breath ragged against her skin. The water runs over us, washing away the sweat, the blood, the evidence of what we’ve just done. But the heat between us lingers, the connection deeper than just physical.
I press a kiss to her shoulder, my hands sliding up to cradle her breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples. She sighs, melting back against me, her head resting against my chest.
“Still good?” I murmur, my voice rough.
She laughs, the sound warm and satisfied. “Better than good. You?”
“I don’t want to move,” I admit. “I want to stay exactly like this for a bit longer.”
Just. A.Little. Longer.
The dark is soft in the early hours, the sort that feels earned rather than oppressive.
Chloe is tucked into me, warm and solid, her back curved perfectly against my chest like she belongs there. My arm is heavy over her waist, hand resting where it has no right to feel this natural. She breathes out slowly, deep and even, utterly unaware of the quiet crisis happening in my head.
I peek at the alarm on the bedside table.
05:55.
Five minutes.
The alarm is already primed to ruin everything.
We’d made the sensible decision, last night, between spoonfuls of tiramisù alle fragole eaten straight from the dish because plates felt like overkill. It had been late. Too late for her to go home, too early for anything resembling a sensible goodbye. So, we’d agreed she’d stay, set an alarm for six, then she’d race back to her flat, shower, change, and resume being a professional adult with a job and a notebook.
Five minutes isn’t long. It’s nothing. Barely enough time to stretch or regret anything properly. But right now it feels enormous.
I tighten my arm slightly, not enough to wake her, just enough to remind myself she’s real. Her hair is everywhere. Her leg is slung over mine without apology. Her hand isholding onto my forearm like she decided, sometime in the night, that letting go would be a mistake.
I breathe her in.
This is dangerous.
Not in a dramatic way. In the quiet, insidious way that sneaks up on you while you’re busy being sensible. We’d said we’d go back to… nothing, after this. Last night was about pain relief and kindness and a shower that could fit two people without filing a risk assessment.
This morning feels like something else.
I kiss the top of her head, just once, because anything more would be selfish. She shifts slightly, murmurs something unintelligible, and settles again, closer this time. Like her body hasn’t received the memo about restraint.
I close my eyes.
Four minutes.
I tell myself this is the last four minutes I’ll get to hold her like this. That after that we’ll be polite. Careful. Civil. I’ll see her name in print and keep my hands to myself. I’ll remember this warmth like something from another life.
Maybe for a long time.
