She moans, low and helpless this time, and that sound goes straight to the darkest part of me.
I pull back just enough to stare at her. Flushed, choker still snug at her throat, tits bouncing lightly with every thrust, lips swollen and wet from my mouth.
Mine.
The thought hits hard enough again that I almost say it.
Instead, I drive into her again and again, faster. I bend and kiss her hard, filthy and deep, swallowing the sounds she can’t hold back now. All while I fuck her against the counter with one hand under her thigh and the other at her throat, not choking, just holding, thumb over her pulse.
I don’t stop. I keep going until I’m slamming into her, brutal fucking that nearly strips the air from my lungs. I hold still for one second, just breathing, because if I move too soon, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.
She’s looking at me with this open, dazed expression, as if she feels it too. Then I move.
She grabs my shoulder, and I keep fucking her, harder and faster, the counter knocking softly against the wall behind her, both of us gone from the first thrust.
“Fuck,” I growl, because there’s nothing else for it. She feels too good, too hot, too tight, too perfect, like every filthy thought I’ve had got packed into one impossible woman and handed to me in an airplane bathroom.
“You’re going to destroy me,” she breathes, and her voice breaks on the words. “That’s what’s happening here.”
I grin, pumping into her, never pausing.
She laughs and drags me closer by the back of the neck. I kiss her then, completely at odds with the pace, and the little surprised sound she makes into my mouth nearly finishes me.
So I go quicker.
She’s barely breathing now, forehead dropped to my shoulder. Her pussy is squeezing me, and I can tell she’s close. In moments, she comes apart, a muffled cry shaking out of her while she clenches around my cock in hard, pulsing waves, and it tears straight through whatever control I had left.
“Hell—”
It hits me fast. Too fast.
I pull out at the last second, one hand fumbling blindly for the stack of tissues beside the sink, catching and getting them around myself while she’s still shaking in my arms, still riding it out against me, thighs trembling and breath coming apart in little helpless bursts. We don’t have the luxury of time for me to be knotting inside her right now.
The force of it leaves me swearing under my breath, forehead against her shoulder, one arm locked around her waist to keep her steady while she comes down, and I deal with the mess as quickly as I can.
For a second, all I can hear is both of us panting for air.
Her body is still trembling when I get rid of the tissues and wrap both arms around her properly. We just pause there in the tiny, warm space, pressed together, exhausted and breathing hard.
Then she starts laughing. Quiet and helpless and a little disbelieving, her face still tucked against me.
I laugh too, because Jesus Christ.
“That was absolutely insane,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, still holding her. “Little bit.”
I gently push her hair back from her face, and she lets me, which feels significant coming from her.
She stares at me for a beat. “You’re nicer than you look,” she says.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe.” She pats my chest once, businesslike, and slides off the counter. “Right. I need my shirt.” It’s on the floor, her bra near the paper towel dispenser. One of her shoes has ended up by the door, and neither of us remembers that happening. She finds her bra, puts it on, then picks up her shirt and dresses. I’m pulling my own shirt back on, and we keep getting in each other’s way in the cramped space, her hip catching my elbow, my arm nudging her shoulder as she reaches up.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry.
“It’s fine,” I say and steal a kiss. Then I pull up my jeans, tucking myself away.
