“Talk to me,” he says. “Please. I need your voice.”
“You feel enormous.” My voice doesn't sound like mine. “I feel you everywhere. I can feel you in my spine.”
He makes a sound. Low, wrecked.
I keep going. Working myself down, pulling up slightly when I need to, sinking back further each time. The oil is doing its work. His hands stay on my hips. His fingers trace the crease where my thigh meets my hip and the gentleness of it, the fact that he can be this gentle while he's clearly losing his mind, makes my throat ache.
When I've taken all of him, I stop.
We're both breathing hard.
“Maren.” His forehead drops against my shoulder. His breathing is harsh against my skin. “You took all of me.”
“I told you we'd fit.”
I don't move yet. Let my body settle. The fullness is immense, but the burn is gone, replaced by a pressure that's right on the edge of something I can't name yet. His heart is hammering against my chest. Through the bond I feel what he's feeling. Not details. Everything at once. The tight heat of me around him, the desperate effort of holding himself still, the hunger that goes so deep it doesn't have a bottom.
I rock my hips.
His hands spasm on my waist. The sound he makes is a groan that starts in his chest and never quite finishes, and I do it again, a small motion, testing the angle and the depth and what makes him grip harder and what makes his breath catch.
“There,” I say when I find the angle that lights up every nerve in the lower half of my body. Something in me clenches around him and his hands jerk on my hips. “Right there. Don't move. Let me.”
He holds himself still while I move on him. It costs him. The strain shows in his neck, the tendons standing out, the way his fingers press into my hips hard enough to leave marks. I'll have bruises tomorrow. I don't care.
I grind down against him at that angle, feeling him press against the spot that keeps sending heat up through my stomach and into my chest. Each motion is small and deliberate, and I am soaking wet, the oil and my own slickness making the friction unbearable, making the sounds between our bodies obscene, and I don't care about that either.
“Faster,” I whisper. “Help me. Move.”
He moves.
His hips roll up to meet mine and the depth changes and I cry out, sharp, loud enough that his hands go gentle immediately.
“Don't stop.” I grip his shoulders. “That was good. That was very good. Again.”
He does it again. And again. We find a rhythm, his body rising to meet mine, my weight pressing down against him. It's not graceful. It's two people figuring out how their bodies work together and adjusting as they go. My knees ache on the stone floor and I don't care. His back must be raw against the wall and he doesn't care.
The heat builds. Low in my belly, spreading outward, pooling between my hips where he's buried in me. His hands are everywhere now, my hips, my back, my breasts, and I've stoppedthinking about technique or angles. I'm just here. Moving on him. Feeling him fill me and withdraw and fill me again.
“Maren.” His voice has changed. Rough, urgent. “I'm close. I can't hold on much longer.”
“Then don't.”
“You first. I want you to come first.”
His hand slides between us. His thumb finds the spot above where we're joined, and the pad of his thumb is bigger than I expected, the pressure different from my own hand, broader, and I can feel the calluses on his skin, and I'm already so wound up that the first stroke makes my vision blur.
“There,” I manage. “Don't stop.”
He doesn't stop. He circles his thumb over me while I ride him, his other hand on my hip keeping the rhythm, and the tension builds in my thighs and stomach and the base of my spine until there's nowhere left for it to go.
I come with my face pressed against his throat, my body clenching hard around him, pulling tight and releasing in pulses that I feel all the way up into my ribs. My nails dig into his shoulders. I can't hear anything except my own blood and the bond surging between us, his sensation flooding into mine until I can't tell where my body ends and his begins.
He follows. I feel it through the bond first, a wall of heat and release, and then he's gripping my hips and pulling me down hard against him and he groans my name into my hair. I feel him spill inside me, deep, his whole body going rigid and then slowly, slowly letting go.
I hold him through it. My arms around his neck, my face in his hair, both of us shaking.
The room is quiet after.
