Grey makes a sound I've never heard, his jaw clamped shut. He sucks in a noisy breath.
"Tell me I can move," he manages, his voice shredded, every muscle locked and straining.
"Move," I whimper. "Do it," I beg.
A shudder works through him as he pulls back, careful and controlled, the drag of him inside me sparking pleasure deep in my core. He pushes back in, just as measured, with steady pressure. Filling me again, his pelvis bumping my clit.
My back arches off the bed, gasping— his name. "Again," I beg. "Please--"
He does, this time more sure, steady and controlled. Again, each one easier than the last, discomfort fading with every stroke, replaced by quiet, rising pleasure. I don't know when it shifted, can't pinpoint the moment, but I'm not just enduring--I'm feeling everything, the drag, the press, the fullness, the heat growing low in my belly.
My hips move on their own, rising to meet his thrusts, matching his rhythm instinctively. It feels right, it feels good.
"----" he groans. "That's it. Just like that."
His rhythm picks up, more urgent, deeper, hitting something in me that makes me see stars.
"Oh god--"
I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, holding on to the sound of skin against skin, wet and slick his breath, harsh and ragged, my.M gasps and moans, the creak of the bed.
"So perfect," he grits out. "You're fucking perfect."
His words wash over me, through me, stacking that pressure inside of me. His rhythm breaks--he drives into me, each thrust pushing me up the bed only to rebound down into him again. There's not enough air--I'm gasping and dizzy and it's so much that it's everything, my legs locking around his, trying to pull him closer, deeper. And it builds, the heat coiling, electricity webbing across my skin, but unlike any orgasm I've had. Deeper. Consuming. It's him. It's us.
"Grey, I'm--…something's--"..
I can't form a sentence, the pressure unbearable, wound so tight I might shatter, every nerve in my body converging on where we're joined, so close, I need, I need--
"Please," I sob, not knowing what I'm begging for.
But he does. He shifts, does something with his hips, stays deep inside me but thrusts shallower to grind against my clit, and says, “I’ve got you. Let go, baby."
The pressure breaks, and I come with a cry, body locking for a long moment before pleasure slams into me, wave after wave. Every rippling pulse of my pussy tightens around him, so intense it almost hurts, pleasure so sharp it's blinding, my body shaking and trembling and out of my control. When the waves start to ease and I'm gasping for air like I'm drowning, I realize he's still, and then realize it's because he can't move, met with resistance every time he tries. But then, I open up, open deeper. His eyes roll back as he begins to thrust again, pumping his hips, chasing his own release, swelling inside me. I open my eyes, needing to see his face. He's gorgeous like this, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched, neck corded and muscles flexed.
One more thrust, deep and hard, buried deep as he can get, and his body goes rigid.
And then, he shouts my name as he comes.
I can feel it, the pulse and throb, the new heat, and he pumps his hips, making a guttural, grunting, primal sound as he empties himself in me.
He collapses onto me, crushing me perfectly, and I take the weight of him, solid and real, hearts thump against each other until I don't know which is his and which is mine. Neither of us moves. I'm not even sure I can. Instead, we lay there, still connected. I don't want him to go. I don't want to be empty again.
Slowly, he lifts his head to press soft kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, gentle and reverent, his fingers twisting my curls. Leans back to look at me.
He's tender in a way that hurts.
"You okay?" he asks.
I nod. "Don't move yet," I say, squeezing him tighter. "Stay here."
"I'm not going anywhere, Molly." He says it with such longing, I ache. And then he kisses me until, inevitably, we have to separate, his cock easing to the point that I suspect we'll have a condom problem if he doesn't.
Carefully, he pulls out, and the emptiness and longing is immediate. A small sound of protest slips out of me before I can catch it.
"I know," he murmurs, kissing me softly.
When he shifts away and the cool air hits my overheated skin, I shiver. Between my thighs is a slickness, a tenderness. Sore. Not painful, not exactly. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I watch his muscles bunch and shift, sweat glistening on his skin.
