“Turn around,” he tells her in a low voice, and she obeys the order on instinct.
She feels him press up behind her, hard and ready, and then the world goes black as he wraps the tie around her eyes, pulling her throat back before knotting the fabric behind her head. She trembles all over, blind and naked, and her mind sparks frantically, recalling her first test at the Observatory, when he’d first done this to her.
In the new darkness, she feels him turn her back around so that she’s facing him. His hand slides down her stomach and her hips and along her inner thigh. She presses against the bed and falls back onto it, and as sheparts her legs for him, she feels his hair brush her thighs, then his tongue sliding against where she has turned hot and wet.
Her mind relents gratefully, and she lets her lust carry everything away.
Her body, arched back with pleasure. His fingers, stroking deep and relentless inside her. His tongue, circling the bundle of nerves buried in her folds. The sand enhances everything, filling every corner of her mind with the sound of her wetness and the slide of the bedsheets against her back and the sun-hot touch of his hands. He works on her until she feels the heat building and building inside her abdomen, and then the wave in her is cresting over, and she lets out a broken gasp, shuddering against him as she comes.
“Bend over.” His whisper is against her ear now.
She does as he says, turning to face the bed and leaning against the frame with her arms. He comes up behind her. He’s naked now, too—she can feel all of him there. He pulls her head back by her hair, and she feels his breath against the nape of her neck. His muscled arm curls around her, his hand sliding along her throat. She shivers at the power of him.
“How long,” he murmurs, “have you wanted this?”
She shudders, doesn’t dare admit the answer, is suddenly ashamed of herself.
“I don’t know,” she ends up whispering back.
His lips press against her shoulder. He says nothing.
And then he pushes fully into her.
Her body has to stretch to accommodate him, but she’s so wet that he’s in with a single try. She winces and loves it, a hoarse cry breaking from her as she braces herself against the bed.
When he fucks her, it’s hard and merciless and there is no hesitation at all; he’s done this plenty of times before. He goes until she’s trembling again, her orgasm taking her breath away as she claws at the bedsheets. Then he’s telling her to lie flat on the bed, and when she does, he yanks the necktie off her eyes.
Suddenly, she can see everything—the dark hotel room, Will’s naked, muscular form towering over her, his gaze dark and possessive and ensnaring her.
He pushes into her, and she cries out again, her arms locking around his neck. The bed shudders, she’s crushed beneath his weight, she can barely catch her breath. When she slides her hands down his body, he gives her an impatient look and grabs her wrists, then forces her arms over her head,where he transmutes a strip of the headboard to strap her hands firmly in place. Helpless, trapped, she squirms as he drapes her legs over his shoulders, and then he’s fucking her hard, the bed thudding against the wall with the force of him. She can feel the violence in him pulled taut, as if on a leash that might snap. There is the hint of a snarl on his lips. She pushes back, defiant with lust, baring her own teeth at him, and she can tell he likes this. When he kisses her harshly, she bites his lip, drawing blood. She hardly knows what she’s saying to him.
Yes, please. Yes, again. Yes, more.
Her brain records everything. She’s all too eager to replace the events of the evening with him, erase her mind with the feeling of him. He makes it easy for her. She’s so wet that the slick of her drips steadily onto the bed. Her world has become nothing but feeling. He’s rough with her, but he gives her enough room to fight. They fuck like they’re angry with each other but don’t know why. She’s sweaty, slippery against him, whimpering as another wave rises in her. His hand grips her face, holding her steady.
“Look at me,” he orders.
She obeys, eyes on him as her body blooms once again, the ache rolling on and on and on, each crest overlapping with the last, and god, it should be impossible to feel this good. She loses track of everything except him, his jaw clenched, his brows furrowed, his eyes furious and hazy with desire.
And then he’s cracking, gifting her this moment, this absolute want in his gaze, this weakness, this clenching of teeth, when his eyes shut and he rasps out her name,Sam, fuck,and he spends everything he has inside her. This moment. Oh, it is everything, the attention she has hungered for all her life, the need to be seen, the power to make someone want her. Tonight, to him, she is not invisible. And maybe, for this, she was always willing to sell her soul.
She can’t tell if she’s in love with him, or whether she is starving after so many years of longing and desire, or whether she truly just wants to forget, to make the scream inside her go silent. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe happiness only exists in fragments. Maybe it is only the absence of grief.
When she turns her head to the side, she can see the skyscrapers in the night, the cityscape filling up the wall of windows. Everything looks infinite, like it’s all possible, like she can become anything. All is one, and one is all.
And isn’t this worth it? Isn’t she worth it?
At today’s press conference, the mayor again dismissed allegations of dark money donations from illegal sources to his campaign, calling them unfounded speculation designed to slander him during a competitive election year. But Thursday morning’s leak of documents threatens to overshadow his campaign as he struggles to hold his lead against challenger Doherty. […]
“Angel City Mayor Grayson calls claims of fundraising scandal ‘completely unfounded,’” analysis by Steve Collis, CNN, updated 12:15P.M.EST
