2. Adrianos
Adrianos
The lock turns, and I have her against the wall before the sound of it finishes.
She doesn’t startle. I’d watched her not startle all night, absorbing what most people flinch from, still underneath the heat, and that stillness had been the first thing that interested me and is now the thing I intend to dismantle in a bar bathroom under lights that do everyone a disservice.
She takes my hands at her hips without flinching and tips her chin up and meets my eyes, and her chest rises before she’s cleared the response, the involuntary tell she’d been paying all night.
I run my hands up the outside of her thighs and take the dress with them. She rises onto her toes. That small cooperative lift tells me more than her mouth spent the last hour qualifying, and I don’t need to hear the rest.
She’s soaked before I reach her. Her underwear dark with it, and when I drag one finger across the fabric, her hips press into the contact, catch themselves, and press again.
I give her two seconds of that, the thin cloth between my fingers and what’s underneath, and then I pull the underwear down and drop it, and she steps out without being asked.
“We’re not doing foreplay,” she says. “Get your cock out and get on with it.”
“That wasn’t foreplay.” I unbuckle my belt, pull the leather free, and drop it. My pants open next, and I get my cock out, already hard, and her eyes drop to it and stay there. “That was inventory.”
Her mouth had been open in an argument, but the argument doesn’t come back.
I take her thigh in my hand, hitch it up, and get the head of my cock against her.
She’s soaked, slick against me, and I push in slow enough to feel every inch of it, feel her stretch around me and grip and take more, and I don’t stop until I’m buried to the hilt and her toes have left the floor entirely.
Her palms drive into my shoulders, and all ten fingers find grip, and the sound she makes she doesn’t try to contain, bouncing off the tile.
I go still and give her the second she needs, because her cunt is gripping me so tight it’s its own argument for patience.
She’s never been this full. I can feel her working it out, the way she exhales through the stretch, the tiny adjustments her hips make, testing, correcting, her body getting acquainted with every inch of my cock inside her.
“Too much?” I ask.
“No more talking,” she says, and rolls her hips forward to prove her point. “Just fuck me already.”
I set a pace, hard and steady, and she picks it up without lag, her hips rolling up to meet each thrust, her heel digging into the back of my thigh to pull me deeper.
I can feel how wet she is every time I pull back, the slick drag of her cunt around my cock, and I push harder, and her head goes back against the wall, throat exposed.
I put my mouth there, drag my teeth along the tendon, feel her pulse against my lips.
She’s taking all of it. Every thrust drives her up onto her toes, and she comes back down onto the next one, her body working with mine, her thigh hooked over my arm, and the sounds she’s making are getting louder and less contained with every stroke.
“You’re still thinking,” I say against her skin.
“I’m thinking you’re not fucking me hard enough.”
I pull back and drive into her harder, and her next thought exits as a sound with nothing coherent left in it.
I set a rougher pace, each thrust pushing her up the wall, and I let myself have it, the full weight of a good night behind me, a deal closed, a room full of men who’d underestimated me and paid for it, and now this, her cunt slick and tight around my cock and her body taking everything I give her and asking for more.
I grip her thigh harder and fuck her like I’ve earned it, because I have, driving in deep and pulling back and doing it again, and she stops trying to muffle anything and just takes it, her nails in my shoulders and her heel locked at my thigh and her hips snapping forward to meet each thrust like she’s as hungry for it as I am.
A breath, unsteady. “That all you got?”
I push in deep and hold there and feel her clench.
“Your pussy’s gripping me like it’s never had this much,” I say against her ear, giving her a moment to think she’s caught her breath. “I’ll ruin you properly, koukla. Since you asked.”
I pull back and slam into her, all of it, no rationing left, and she cries out, and I do it again, and again, setting a pace that’s got nothing measured in it anymore.
The wall takes the impact of each thrust, her back against it, her whole body jolting up with every stroke, and I grip her thigh so hard I’ll leave a mark, but I don’t stop.
I can feel everything, the slick heat of her cunt around my cock, the way she’s dripping down my shaft, the wet sound of each thrust obscene and loud in the tiled room, and I drive into her harder because I want that sound, want all of it.
She’s stopped trying to form words. Every thrust knocks the breath out of her, punches a sound out of her throat, and her hips are working back against mine with a desperation that matches mine stroke for stroke.
I pull back until just the head of my cock is inside her and slam back in to the hilt and feel her walls clench and do it again, and again, and again, finding a brutal rhythm and holding it, my hips driving forward with everything I have, the slap of my body against hers filling the room.
I get my hand in her hair and pull her head back and fuck her harder, feeling her stretch around me with each stroke, feeling the grip of her tighten each time I bottom out, and she’s making sounds now that have no composure left in them at all, raw and broken and loud, and I want more of them.
I pull out and get my hands under her ass and lift her off the wall entirely, and she wraps her legs around my waist before I’ve finished the move, ankles locked at the small of my back, and I push back into her in the same motion, and she gasps, the new angle taking all of me, nothing held back.
I walk her back into the opposite wall and start moving, and there’s nothing controlled left in either of us.
Her hips roll down to meet each thrust, grinding herself onto my cock, taking more than I’m giving and pulling for the rest, her hands fisted in my hair, her mouth at my throat.
I grip her ass in both hands and pump up into her, hard, feeling her cunt swallow every inch, feeling how soaked she is, how slick, how her body’s been ready for this since before we walked in here.
She rides me back. That’s the only word for it, her hips working in counterpoint to mine, rolling and grinding and snapping down onto each upward thrust, her thighs locked around me, her whole weight moving with me, and the sounds coming out of her are pornographic and she doesn’t care, not anymore, all the pretending gone, stripped out thrust by thrust until there’s nothing left but this.
I drive up into her harder, and she moans, loud and broken, and I do it again, and again, slamming up into her with everything I have, her back hitting the wall with each stroke, and she takes it all and rolls her hips back for more.
I can feel her dripping onto me, feel the wet heat of her every time I pull back and the slick clench every time I push in, and the sound of it is obscene, and neither of us is doing anything to muffle it.
“Don’t stop,” she says into my throat, “don’t you dare stop—”
I don’t stop. I pump into her relentlessly, my fingers digging into the meat of her ass, holding her exactly where I want her, and she’s grinding down onto me between thrusts, chasing it, both of us past any pretense of rhythm or control, just two bodies taking what they need from each other in a bar bathroom at midnight with the bass bleeding under the door.
But then she’s close, and I want to show her who’s in charge here. I can feel her orgasm building in the rhythmic tightening, in the way her hips have stopped being deliberate and started chasing, her whole body pulling toward the same conclusion, and I slow down.
The sound she makes could strip grout.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Not yet.”
“You don’t get to—”
I pull out entirely, set her down, and turn her before she’s formed a word, one hand at her hip and one flat between her shoulder blades, pressing her chest to the tile.
She goes, both palms finding the wall, and I get my cock back inside her from behind in one stroke, and she goes up onto her toes, a long broken sound pressed against the tile.
The angle is deeper this way. I can feel it in how tight she is, how her cunt grips every inch differently, and I get both hands locked at her hips and pull her back onto me and start moving.
Each thrust drives her into the wall, and she pushes back to meet it, her ass pressing back against my hips, taking all of it.
I can see the side of her face against the tile, eyes closed, lips parted, cheek flushed dark, and her curls are loose against her neck, and I grip a fistful of them and pull her head back and thrust harder, and the sound she makes is loud and shameless, and I do it again just to hear it.
I can see where my cock is disappearing into her, slick and soaked, and I pull back slow just to watch it and push back in hard, and she cries out, and her palms slap the tile.
I reach around her and find her clit, and she loses whatever was left of her composure entirely.
“There,” she says, “don’t stop, right there—”
I work her with two fingers and keep the pace and feel her start to unravel, the grip of her cunt going rhythmic around my cock, clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, her hips losing all coordination and just taking what I’m giving her.
I can feel how wet she is, soaked through, dripping down my fingers, and I curl them and press, and her knees buckle, and I hold her up with my hips and my hand and don’t let up.