I slid my hand up her back, fingers splayed to the curve of her spine. The bra clasp was old-school, two hooks. I worked it open, let it slip off her shoulders, and caught it before it hit the floor. She looked down at her own body, as if surprised by what she was offering, then back up at me with a challenge in her eyes.
I ran my thumb over her nipple, slow at first, then circled it, feeling it tighten under my hand. She bit her lip and arched her back into my palm, letting out a sound that landed somewhere between a moan and a dare.
My own hands felt too clumsy, too brutal, for the soft reality of her skin. I wanted to be gentle, but I also wanted to leave marks. I settled for both, squeezing her breast just enough to leave finger prints, then kissing down the line of her throat to the hollow between her collarbones. She tasted like sweat and cheap perfume and the remnant of coffee we’d shared at the overlook.
She tugged my shirt the rest of the way off, then hooked her fingers into my waistband and pulled me in, so we were hip to hip, nothing but denim between us. I slid my handdown, under the band of her jeans, and found the heat there, the damp proof that she wanted this as much as I did.
She let her head fall back against the wall, exposing the long column of her throat. I kissed it, then bit down, hard enough to make her gasp. Her hands fisted in my hair, then traced the line of my jaw, the goatee rough against her skin.
She reached for my fly, unzipped me, and let my cock spring free into her hand. She stroked it once, twice, eyes locked on mine, then let go, as if to say, now you.
I didn’t wait. I shoved her jeans down, panties with them, and lifted her so her ass braced on my forearms. She wrapped her legs around my waist, strong as a clamp, and we stumbled together into the wall.
Her mouth was on my neck, biting, her nails digging into my shoulders. I lined up and slid into her, slow but not gentle. She was so wet I thought I might lose it right then. The tight heat of her almost made me see stars. She exhaled a curse, her breath hot in my ear.
I set a rhythm, slow at first, just grinding our bodies together. She met every thrust, hips bucking, her back arching so the curve of her body molded to me. I braced one hand on the wall, the other under her thigh, holding her up with the leverage I’d learned from years of bar fights and prison-yard scuffles.
Her moans turned to words, some of them soft, some filthy, and I let them wash over me. I kissed her, swallowing the sounds, then trailed my mouth down to her chest, sucking a nipple between my lips and biting, then soothing it with my tongue.
She clawed at my back, leaving marks I’d feel tomorrow. I loved it. I pressed harder, deepening the angle, feeling her clamp down on me. Her face was flushed, hair stuck to her cheeks, eyes almost gone feral with need.
I felt her start to shake, and I knew she was close. I fucked her harder, the slap of our bodies echoing off the cinderblock. She came with a sharp cry, her body locking up around mine, then shuddering so hard I almost lost my grip. I kept going, chasing my own release, and when it hit, it was blinding. I groaned into her shoulder, biting down to keep from yelling.
We hung there for a minute, bodies still joined, sweat slicking us together. I set her down, careful, and she leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, a wild grin on her face.
The cut had slipped off the chair in the commotion. It lay on the floor, leather dark and soft, the patch visible in the hall light. I picked it up, brushed it off, and hung it back on the chair.
She watched me, then crossed the room and pressed her body to mine, naked now and unafraid. She kissed me, soft this time, lips lingering.
“Next time,” she whispered, “we make it to the bed.”
The next time came thirty minutes later.
We made it to the bed with all the subtlety of a car wreck. Emily pushed me down, a hand on my chest, surprising me with the force. I let myself fall, the mattress springs shrieking under my weight. She straddled me, her knees pinning my hips, hair still wild, eyes sharp as surgical steel.
The room was low-lit by a single lamp on the dresser, its shade cocked at an angle. The walls were papered with photos of rescue dogs—some smiling, some scarred, all of them looking straight at the camera like they dared you to find them wanting. The bedspread was a mess, corners pulled loose, sheets tangled. It felt more honest than anything I’d seen in years.
Emily leaned down, her hair curtaining our faces, and kissed me slowly this time, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to prove anything. I let my hands roam: up the outside of her thighs, over the curve of her ass, up to her waist. She grabbed my wrists, pinned them to the mattress above my head, and held me there, her grip bruising and steady.
“You’re not in charge tonight,” she said, soft but unyielding. Her mouth brushed my ear, teeth nipping the lobe.
I wanted to laugh, or maybe challenge her, but the look in her eyes shut me up. Instead, I nodded, letting her have it.
She slid down my body, never breaking contact, her lips following a line from my throat to my collarbone, then down the center of my chest. She licked the sweat from my skin, then sucked a bruise into my left pec. I felt my heart hammering under her mouth, each beat louder than the last.
Her nails traced every line of tattoo: the compass on my forearm, the script across my ribs, the old scar on my side. She stopped at the scar, pressed her lips to it, and held there a moment. It felt like a benediction, a laying on of hands. I closed my eyes and let her map me.
She worked my jeans the rest of the way off, then sat back, taking in all of me. For a second, I wanted to cover myself, the way you do when a new lover sees you for the first time. But her gaze wasn’t judgmental—it was greedy, curious, appreciative. She leaned down and kissed my stomach, then lower, her tongue leaving a wet trail that made my muscles jump.
When she took me in her mouth, it was slow, like she wanted to taste every inch. Her hand cupped my balls, squeezed just enough to make my hips twitch. I watched her, the dark fall of her hair, the soft curve of her back, the way her ass lifted when she shifted for leverage. The sight made my breath stutter.
I reached for her, needing to touch, but she slapped my hand away—gentle, playful, but firm. “Not yet,” she said, her voice a growl. “Let me.”
I let my head fall back, eyes on the ceiling, and tried to focus on not losing it. She took me deeper, tongue swirling, then let me slip out, stroking me with her hand while she licked the tip. I felt myself start to shake, the urge to come almost unbearable.
She stopped, then climbed back up, grinding her cunt against my thigh. She was soaked, slick, and hot against my skin. She kissed me again, her mouth messy with spit and want. I tasted myself on her lips.
This time, I didn’t ask. I rolled us over, pinning her to the bed. She let me, her thighs wrapping around my waist, heels digging into my ass. I kissed down her body, slow, memorizing every inch: the freckle on her left breast, the birthmark at her hip, the small tattoo of paw prints behind her ear.
