I stroke myself again. Twice more. Watching her watch me. Her lips part slightly. Her chest rises and falls.
I pull her to the edge of the table. Lean down and kiss her, deep and slow, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She moans into my mouth.
I position myself at her opening. Feel the heat of her against the tip.
Then I slam in.
She cries out. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her back arching off the table.
We both go still.
She's looking at me. Really looking, with those blue eyes that have seen every part of me I tried to hide. The addict. The failure. The man who killed his uncle in this very room. She's seen all of it.
And she's still here.
I start to move.
Slowly at first. Deliberate. Watching her face for every reaction, every shift in her expression. She's so tight around me it's hard to think.
"More." She grips my shoulders. Digs her nails in. "William, I need more."
I give her more.
I fuck her on the table, and I don't hold anything back. She meets me thrust for thrust, her heels digging into my lower back, her body rising to take everything I have.
It's not gentle. It's not sweet.
It's two people trying to survive.
I reach between us and find her clit. Circle it with my thumb while I drive into her harder. She cries out, her whole body tensing, and I feel her start to clench around me.
"That's it." My voice comes out rough. "Let go."
She does. She shatters against me, her body arching, her walls gripping me so tightly I can barely move. I thrust through it, prolonging it, watching her face as she falls apart.
Then I follow.
The release crashes through me. I bury myself deep and come so hard my vision whites out. Her name is the only thing in my head.
We stay like that. Connected. Breathing each other's air.
I don't move. Don't want to. The world outside this room can wait.
Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder. Her breathing slows. Mine matches it.
Then I see the tears.
Not sobbing. Just tears, sliding down her temples, catching what little light comes through the window. I brush one away with my thumb.
"Hey."
She doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those blue eyes, wet and tired and something else underneath.
I pull out of her slowly. She winces slightly.
I grab my t-shirt from the floor and bring it between her thighs, cleaning her gently. She watches me do it, something unreadable in her expression. When I'm done, I hold the balled-up shirt in my hand.
She slides off the table and pulls on her sleep shirt. I pull on my pants. We move in silence, and it's not awkward. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after something shifts between two people.
