Chapter 39 Lance #3
She looks over her shoulder, cheeks flushed, lips parted, and my heart stutters then kicks as I run my hands down her spine, tracing every dip and slope. My palms slide lower, over the curve of her ass, and I pause, letting my thumbs press into the soft skin, parting her.
The sight of her open and glistening nearly kills me. She’s so wet I can see it on her thighs, and my cock aches, but I don’t touch myself. I can’t. I’m too locked into the image of her spread out for me, trusting me with everything she has.
I lean in close, my chest brushing her back, my lips at her ear.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
She shivers, hips tilting back.
I press the head of myself to her entrance, and just that first inch sliding in makes my head drop to her shoulder with a groan.
She’s warm and tight and fluttering around me, and this angle lets me feel every inch of her.
The way she grips me, pulling me deeper, clenching like she doesn’t want to let go.
“Fuck. You feel…”
She moans, pushing back. “More. Lance, please.”
I grip her hips and slide in deeper. She gasps when I bottom out, her body arching into mine, and for a moment we both go still. Her breath catches. Mine, too.
It’s possession and devotion and everything I’ve been holding back poured into the feel of her taking me this deep.
Then I move. My ribs scream at me, my knuckles are split, and my lip burns, but I don’t care. Not when the pleasure of her drowns out the pain.
I pull back slowly, dragging out until only the tip remains, then slam back in.
The sound of skin on skin is filthy and loud in the quiet room, and she cries out.
I set a rhythm. Deep and rough. Each thrust drives into her harder, the wet sound of it relentless, and she meets every stroke, crying my name.
I slide one hand around her waist, down to where we’re joined, and rub her clit in tight circles.
“Come for me again, I want to feel it while I’m inside you.”
“Pull my hair.”
The words hit me in the gut. I fist my hand into the copper strands at the base of her skull and pull her head back just enough to make her gasp.
She moans when I do, clamping down around me so hard my vision blurs.
“That’s it. Just like that.”
I keep the rhythm brutal and deep. One hand locked in her hair, keeping her spine arched, her head tilted, mouth open. The other hand tight on her clit, rubbing fast, wet circles, until I feel her body jerk with every pass.
It’s building in her. I know the signs. The way her thighs tremble.
The way she tightens around me. The way her moans pitch higher.
It’s doing something to me, too. My legs burn from the force of it.
Every muscle is straining to hold on. I’m dripping with sweat and it only makes our bodies slide together more.
She cries out, her back bowing.
“Give it to me,” I say, pulling her hair again, holding her in place.
Her body locks down. Every muscle goes taut, and then she’s coming hard, clenching around me in sharp flutters that make it almost impossible to keep moving.
She sobs my name, her arms giving out as she collapses forward, face pressed to the bed, hips still tilted, and her body milking me like it’s pulling me down with her.
“Come inside me.”
My rhythm shatters. I bury myself one final time, and it tears through me. A sound rips out of my throat that I don’t recognize, and my whole body shakes. There’s heat and relief and devastation of finally letting go inside the only person who’s ever made me feel like more than a weapon.
When it’s over, I don’t move. I stay inside her, both of us trembling, still clenching in aftershocks.
I press my forehead to the space between her shoulder blades and breathe. Her skin tastes like salt and mine and something that I’ll never get enough of.
Eventually I pull out, and she collapses flat onto the mattress, boneless. I drop beside her, and she immediately rolls into me, throwing a leg over mine and hiding her face into the crook of my neck.
We lie there for a while. Her finger traces shapes on my chest. Letters, maybe. Words I can’t read but feel anyway.
Eventually, she drifts off. I’m exhausted, and sore, but I don’t want to miss a moment of having her here, just like this, so I watch her instead. Trace the freckles on her shoulder with my eyes. Count the seconds between her breaths.
The next morning, light filters through the blinds, and she’s twisted around me. Her hair is everywhere, copper against the white sheets and my skin, and her breathing is slow and steady against my chest.
Tomorrow is here. Boston. Her father Leo. Answers she’s owed and truths that will probably gut her. The real world, rushing back in like water through a cracked dam.
But right now, in this room, in this bed, with her breath on my skin and her hand over my heart and a floral bedspread that’s older than both of us, I’m not a weapon. I’m not Excalibur. I’m not a Calloway or a fighter or a murderer or a throwaway.
I’m just a man in love with a woman who chose him back.
“Half-Pint.”
She smiles and her arms tighten around me.
“Five more minutes,” she whispers.
I press my lips to her hair and close my eyes.
“Let’s make it seven.”