She reaches between us. Her fingers find my waistband and tug. "Off."
I strip off my boxers, and she wraps her hand around my cock and I stop breathing. Her grip is firm and confident, and she strokes me once, twice, and I have to grab her wrist because I'm closer than I want to be and we haven't even started.
"Condom," I say through my teeth.
"Please tell me you have one."
"Bag. Side pocket."
She laughs. Low, throaty, a sound I haven't heard from her before. "Of course you packed condoms."
"I pack everything."
"Strategic."
"Shut up."
I reach for the bag by the bed, dig through the side pocket, and find the strip. I tear one off and roll it on while she watches, her eyes tracking the movement with an attention that makes my hands unsteady.
I settle between her legs. The tip of my cock presses against her entrance and we both go still.
"Look at me, principessa," I say.
She does.
I push in. Slow. Her lips part and her eyes widen, and her hands grip my shoulders, and I feel every inch of her taking me in, tight and wet and so fucking good that my arms shake. I bottom out and hold. Her legs wrap around my waist and her ankles lock at the small of my back, and we stay like that, connected, breathing each other's air.
"You okay?"
"I'm perfect." She rolls her hips and I groan. "Move."
I move.
Slow at first. Long strokes that drag out and push back in, and she meets every one with a tilt of her hips that changes the angle until I find the spot that makes her eyes roll back and her nails dig into my shoulders. I memorize it. The angle, the depth, the pressure. I commit it to muscle memory the way I commit everything worth keeping.
"Harder," she says.
I brace my forearms beside her head and give her what she's asking for. Same pace. Harder. Over and over, snapping my hips into hers. The bed frame hits the wall and neither of us cares. She's making sounds now, real sounds, the kind she'd never make in daylight. Moans and gasps and half-words that dissolve into breath, and I swallow them with my mouth on hers.
"You feel so good." My voice doesn't sound like mine. Rough, low, needy. "Fuck, Charlotte. You feel so fucking good."
Her nails rake down my back. The sting is sharp and real and I love it, love the proof that she's here, she's present, she's not behind the mask or inside the armor, she's underneath me with her walls down and her body open and my name in her mouth.
Reaching between us, I press my thumb against her clit. She cries out and clenches around me so tight my vision blurs.
"Come for me," I say against her mouth.
She breaks.
Her whole body locks up, back arching, fingers digging into my back hard enough to draw blood, and she comes with a sound that's half my name and half something wordless, and the clench of her around my cock drags me over with her.
I come hard enough that my arms give out. I catch myself on my elbows, bury my face in her neck, and the groan that comes out of me is the most honest sound I've ever made. She holds me through it. Her arms around my shoulders, her legs aroundmy waist, her hand in my hair, holding me against her while we shake apart together.
Then everything is quiet.
I pull out carefully. Deal with the condom. She's lying on her back with one arm across her stomach and the other above her head, staring at the ceiling with an expression I can't read and don't try to.
I lie beside her. Not touching. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin. The room smells like sex and sweat, and the cold mountain air seeping through the window frame.
