She has found her angle, and she is using it, her hips rocking in a slow, searching rhythm. One of her thighs presses forward against mine like she's trying to get closer, get more, get exactly what she needs, and every movement drags her against me, and the friction is?—
I press my forearm flat against the wall above her head and drop my face into the curve of her neck and breathe through my nose.
“You’re killing me,” I say, low and rough against her skin. “I need you to know that.”
She laughs and tips her face up to kiss my jaw.
Then she shifts, bringing one leg slightly forward so my thigh slots between hers even higher, and the next roll of her hips drags her clit directly where she needs it. The sound she makes is different this time. Shorter. Sharper. Like everything has lined up in the perfect order.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
Mentally, I’m teetering right on the line of losing it. The sounds she’s making have me nearly coming undone, and that is the last thing I want to do right now.
I keep my thigh firm and still, giving her something solid to move against, and I press forward just enough to increase the pressure without changing the angle, because she is taking exactly what she needs, and I am not going to interrupt that.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to see anything more than I want to see her come apart.
“Don’t stop,” she begs, her breathing turning more erratic.
“I won’t,” I say against her temple. “Take whatever you need, baby. Use me.”
She moves faster against me, and I press my mouth to her hair, keeping my body exactly where it is. I am doing everything in my power not to make this about me because she is so close, I can feel it in the way her whole body is pulling taut, the way her breath is becoming even more ragged and uneven.
But she is not making this easy on me in any way.
Every movement she makes drags against me, and I’m surprised there’s any blood left for the rest of my body when it feels like it's all rushing to my dick. Every sound she makes lands somewhere in my chest and reverberates outward. I can feel the heat of her through my slacks, and my jaw is clenched, and I am white-knuckling every shred of composure I have left.
Her hips stutter.
“Grayson—” My name breaks off. She says it like a warning, like a plea.
“I’ve got you,” I say, low and steady. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”
Her whole body tightens, and then she breaks, quietly, shuddering against me, face pressed into my shoulder, the sound she makes swallowed in the fabric of my shirt. Her hips press forward and hold, trembling, and I keep my thigh firm, with my hand at her hip and my mouth at her temple, and I do not move.
I just hold her through it.
All of it.
Until her grip on my shirt loosens. Until her breathing starts, slowly, to come back down.
When the shaking finally settles, she goes soft against me, her forehead dropping to my chest.
I stand there and breathe and try not to combust.
Her hand is still fisted loosely in my shirt. She hasn’t moved it.
Then, without looking up, she shifts. Her palm flattens against my chest.
Slides down.
“Harlow—” My voice comes out cracked, like it lost structural integrity somewhere in the last five minutes.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are dark and soft, and she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing.
She presses her palm against my dick deliberately.
I make a sound that I will be thinking about with great shame in approximately four to six business hours, involuntary and completely wrecked. My hips jerk forward without my permission, chasing the pressure once, twice, and then she keeps her hand exactly where it is and squeezes. I bury my facein her hair and grip the wall as I come in my pants in a long, shuddering wave that takes most of my remaining dignity with it.
