"I love these," I pant against her skin, the words coming ragged between thrusts. "The way they bounce when I'm inside you—" Thrust. "How full they are in my hands—" Thrust. "How they move every single time I—"
She grunts. That sound. Small and desperate and involuntary, like pleasure is being wrung out of her faster than she can process it. Her hips are rocking up to meet me now, frantic, graceless, chasing the rhythm with her whole body.
I palm both breasts at once, rough and possessive, thumbs dragging over her nipples, watching them stiffen and flush darker under my hands. She's arching into my grip and my thrusts, pressing herself harder against my palms, and her mouth is open, breath hitching in stuttered gasps that match my thrusts.
"So beautiful," I groan. My hips snap harder. I can't slow down. Don't want to. "I want to cover them. Want to watch myself come all over you—" The words slip out raw and unfiltered and I feel her react before I hear it—her pussy clenching around me in a spasm so tight my rhythm breaks.
"West—" Half-sob, half-prayer.
I'm panting now. Sweat beading along my hairline, sliding down my spine. My hands won't stop moving on her—squeezing, kneading, pinching and pulling her nipples between my fingers and watching her body jolt and clench with every rough touch, making me harder, hungrier, more desperate.
"I can feel you tightening," I manage, voice wrecked. My thumb circles her nipple—fast, relentless—while my other hand grips her hip to hold her steady against my thrusts. "You're close already—"
"I'm—" Her head drops back. Eyes closed. Mouth open. A flush spreading down her neck and across her chest, turning her skin the color of crushed roses. "I'm close already—I can't—"
Her body is moving with mine now—hips lifting, meeting each thrust with a desperate roll that takes me impossibly deeper. Her hands twist in the sheets so hard her knuckles gowhite.
I lean down and press my mouth to the valley between her breasts. Taste salt. Feel her heart hammering against my lips like a fist trying to break free.
"Then let go," I pant against her skin. "Let me feel it."
I want to remember this. How she looks stretched around me and shaking apart. How we move together—instinct, not instruction. Like we've already done this a thousand times. Like our bodies knew before we did. How the bracelet catches light on her wrist as her hands claw at the sheets above her head, knuckles white, tendons straining.
Her beautiful face—eyes squeezed shut, teeth sunk into her lower lip so hard I'm surprised she's not drawing blood—every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the place where I'm buried inside her. Where she's soaked and swollen and gripping me so tight I can feel her pulse around my cock.
She starts making these sounds—small, helpless, mewing noises from the back of her throat that she doesn't seem to know she's producing. Each thrust pulls another one from her, higher and more desperate than the last, and every single one goes straight to the base of my spine.
I'm panting through my teeth, chest heaving, and I can't slow it down. Can't control it. Every time she clenches—involuntary, rhythmic, her body begging before her mouth can form the words—my lungs forget how to work.
Her hips are rolling up to meet me now. Not waiting. Chasing. Greedy little lifts off the mattress that change the angle just enough to make us both groan. Her thighs are trembling on my shoulders, toes curling against the air behind my head, and she's arching her spine to take me deeper—deeper than should be possible—like she wants to feel me in her chest.
I want to memorize all of it. The slick sound of our bodies meeting. The way her stomach muscles flutter under her skin. The sheen of sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat. The way those desperate, keening sounds are getting louder, closer together, more frantic—building toward something that's going to shatter both of us.
I change the angle—fractionally, instinctively—and she cries out.
"Right there—don't change anything—"
I don't. I hold the angle. Hold the depth. My thumb finds her clit between us—swollen, sensitive—and circles it intight, fast strokes timed to each thrust.
"West—I'm—"
"Look at me."
Her eyes open. Dark. Desperate. Locked on mine.
"Let me watch you."
She comes with her eyes on me—mouth open, body bowing off the bed, inner walls clenching so hard the sensation nearly drags me over with her. A sound tears from her throat that's somewhere between my name and something language hasn't invented yet. Her thighs shake violently against my shoulders.
I hold still inside her. Feeling every ripple. Every aftershock. My jaw aches from the effort of not following her over.
Not yet. Not this time.
She's still trembling when I ease her legs down. Kiss the inside of one knee. Then the other.
"I need a second," she pants. "Actually—no I don't. What's next?"
I almost laugh. Instead I say, "Get on top. Face away from me."
