Her hips buck, eager for more, and I thrust into her, hard and slow, like she likes it. All while watching for the moment her body reaches its limit.
I know what I’m looking for.
That little crinkle in her brow as her mouth falls open. Her shallow, staccato breaths as she whispers my name like a sigh of relief. A slight flush to her soft, brown skin as the blood pools between her legs.
I’ve seen it a hundred times, the moment she comes apart in my hands, and I’d like to see it a hundred more.
She arches back into the bookcase, and I brace her with my knee, giving her the leverage she needs to grind into my fingers. Her walls tighten around me, and I know she’s close when her power begins to pull.
The burn starts in my stomach, then spreads to my groin, and my dick feels like it’s going to snap in half as her fingers palm my shaft through my jeans.
I groan, tail wagging.
“Fuck yes, baby. Take it. Take what you need.”
I keep my rhythm steady so she can find her release, but as my mouth moves to her chest and her heart begins to race, her scent turns sour, mixing with the musky fragrance of fear.
“Wait!” she snaps, shoving me. “I can’t…” she cries out. “I-I…”
I can still smell her need, but her face is pinched tight, and her body is suddenly stiff in my hands as I too still.
“Elliot…” My dampener tightens as she whispers my name. “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe,” she says. “I can’t…I feel…”
She repeats the words, her voice shaking as she clings to me, and I pull back slowly, careful to ease out of her gently.
“Okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s fine, Iris.”
Her eyes shut tight as I do my best to ease her worries, but her breath does not slow.
“Is it me?” I ask, suddenly conscious of how I’m crowding her. “Do you want me to?—”
“No. No,” she blurts, clutching at my jacket. “ Please, don’t.”
“Okay.” I nod, brushing her hair out of her face. “Let’s just go then. Yeah? Back upstairs?”
“No, no. I’ll be…okay…”
Her words are broken up by sharp inhales, and I’m already scooping her up.
Fuck this. We’re not sitting in this shoebox of an archive so she can keep hyperventilating.
“Keep your eyes closed,” I direct.
“What?”
There she goes again, always asking ‘what.’
“Iris. Just trust me.”
I rope her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips to carry her back up the two flights of stairs and through the rusted metal door. She doesn’t open her eyes until we reach the main floor, where I find a quiet corner away from watchful eyes and try to cool her with my tail.
“You okay?” I ask once her muddled scent returns to its usual soft, spiced sugar.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
She’s no longer heaving as she breathes, so I take that as a good sign, but her cheeks are still flushed, and I’m beginning to doubt those words.
I should’ve known better. I saw the look in her eye that night at the grove. That’s not something you can wash away in a day. Hells, I haven’t been able to wash it away in twenty-two years.
