"Tell me how badly you need to come again," I command, voice rough, pounding harder to make her jolt forward with each thrust.
"Please, Gabe," she gasps, voice breaking with need. "Rub my clit faster. Fuck me deeper. I'm gonna come so hard. Fill me up, sir."
Her second orgasm rips through her, body seizing as she screams my name, pussy clamping down tight in pulses that milk every inch of me.
Juices drip hotly down her thighs, soaking me, and she's trembling from the force of it.
The squeeze and the sight of her breaking apart shatter my control.
I roar deeply, thrusts turning erratic and brutal through her climax, chasing my own. "Fuck, Lena. Here it comes. Take it all." My balls tighten, cock swelling as I bury deep one last time, pulsing hard inside the condom, spilling thickly while her walls flutter and pull, drawing out every bit.
Our bodies lock together, shuddering until the waves ease off.
All I hear for a long moment is our ragged breathing.
Her body is still pulsing around me in faint waves, her shoulders trembling, fingers bunched in the sheets like she's afraid the room might tilt again.
My arms cage her in, muscles burning from the effort of holding back for so long, and I realize my jaw is clenched so hard it aches.
I force myself to exhale. "Easy," I murmur, my voice rough. "Breathe, Lena."
She lets out a shaky laugh that sounds half broken. "Kind of hard to do when you've turned my bones into soup."
I huff something that might almost be a laugh and press my forehead to hers for a second.
The heat between us softens from sharp to warm. Her skin is flushed, damp, beautiful.
She looks wrecked and soft at the same time, like she let go of something bigger than just her body.
I pull out and roll to the side, giving her room instead of trapping her there.
I take care of the condom quickly, toss it, then grab a clean towel from the dresser and come back to the bed.
"Hey," I say quietly. "Come here."
She blinks up at me, eyes heavy, still in that hazy place between pleasure and sleep.
I move slowly, not rushing her, just guiding. She lets me, and that trust does something to me I don't want to look at too closely.
I sit her up and wipe her thighs gently, carefully, more like I'm tending to something precious than cleaning a mess.
Her hand lands on my wrist, fingers curling there.
"You don't have to do that," she whispers.
"I know," I answer. "I want to."
Her throat works once, and I see emotion flash over her face before she can hide it. I pretend not to notice, just keep going, soft and methodical, until she relaxes.
"Can you stay sitting up for a minute?" I ask.
She nods, hair falling around her shoulders, cheeks still pink. I grab one of my old shirts from the drawer and slip it over her head.
It swallows her frame, but the hem catches high on her thighs, and my chest tightens at the sight.
She looks like she belongs here in my clothes and in my bed, and that thought is a problem.
"There," I say. "You're good."
