“Let’s Get It On” level of shit.
But “don’t be sad” sex?
Smidge hotter.
It’s the type of thing I imagine Marvin Gaye meant when he sang about “Sexual Healing”.
Gillybean’s heels kick recklessly into my clenching ass cheeks as I frantically pound into her faster.
Harder.
Carelessly.
Vigorously.
Determined not only to drain my shaking frame of every ounce of sadness that’s been conjured up but to fill hers with joy.
And meaning.
And love.
“Such a good girl lettin’ me have you like this Slayer,” escapes in airy praise, hand clumsily slapping Grams’s kitchen cabinet beside her head. “Lettin’ me give you this.”
Wetness steadily seeps past my base, drenching my balls and thighs alike, baptizing them both in the most primordial of ways.
Ways that have me snarling.
Hissing.
Snaking bites of her bottom lip just to hear her sweetly whimper my name. “Jukes…”
Fuck, I love when she calls me that.
I love how it feels.
Heals.
Claims.
Simultaneously resets the track and starts a new one.
A second nip causes her to toss her head back and callously collide with the cabinet on a croaked, “Thirty-five!”
And I love when she screams that.
Claims me.
Surrenders.
That shit’s better than the first sip of brew hungover.
“You’re so fuckin’ close for me, baby,” is whispered along the shell of her ear, dick diving quicker and quicker, pussy swelling tighter and tighter. “Can you give me that dub?” Heat feathering itself against the sensitive territory leads to her shivering. Grabbing a fistful of my orange, vintage Flogging Molly t-shirt to yank me closer and deeper despite my inability to actually get there. “Can you give me one last dub in this barn, Slayer?”
The hitch in Gilly’s breath reverberating around the almost empty house I grew up in is undeniably spine snapping. “Yes…”
My forehead pressing against hers is immediately followed by my nails scraping at the wood without care about the damage that’ll be left behind.
Because it doesn’t matter.
