17. Enley #2
We don’t make it to the cot. We don’t make it anywhere. The wall holds me up and he holds me up and the space we occupy is about three square feet of storage unit that’s become the entire world.
It’s not graceful. It’s not the slow, careful intimacy of people who have had time to learn each other’s bodies.
It’s desperate and messy and half-dressed because the urgency won’t allow anything else.
He shoves the thermal shirt up and his mouth finds the skin of my stomach, then higher, and the heat of his tongue makes me gasp and arch against the cold metal.
“Look at you,” he mutters against my skin, voice thick and filthy. “All this time and you’re already shaking for me. I’ve wanted to get you like this for years. Wet and desperate and making those little sounds just for me.”
His hand slides between us, finding the waistband of my pants, and when his fingers slip inside I make a broken noise that turns into a moan the second he touches me properly.
“Fuck, Enley.” His forehead drops against mine, breath ragged. “You’re soaked. You’ve been wanting this as bad as I have, haven’t you? Sitting next to me for days, letting me almost touch you, knowing I was hard and aching for you the whole time.”
“Yes,” I manage, the word half a sob as his fingers work me open. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He strokes me with a rough, focused intensity that makes my hips rock against his hand. His mouth is at my ear, voice low and dirty and completely unrestrained.
“I’ve thought about fucking you against every wall in every room we’ve been in. Thought about how you’d sound when I finally got inside you. Thought about making you come so many times you’d forget how to stand.”
I pull at his pants with shaking hands. He helps me, shoving them down just enough, and when I wrap my fingers around his dick he curses hard against my neck.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Touch me. Feel how hard you make me. Years of wanting this and you’re finally in my hands.”
He lifts me higher against the wall. My legs wrap around his waist. The head of him presses against me and we both freeze for one heartbeat, the last possible second to change our minds.
We don’t.
He pushes into me in one hard, deep thrust that forces a cry from my throat. The stretch is perfect and overwhelming and exactly what I’ve been starving for. He holds still for a second, forehead pressed to mine, both of us shaking.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel even better than I imagined. So tight. So fucking perfect around me.”
Then he starts to move. Hard. Deep. The rhythm is urgent and relentless, the wet sound of our bodies and the metal wall creaking under the force of it.
Every thrust drives me higher against the cold surface.
His hands dig into my thighs, holding me open for him.
His mouth is at my ear, filthy and continuous.
“That’s it. Take it. Take every inch. I’ve waited so long to get inside you and now I’m going to fuck you like I mean it.”
I dig my nails into his shoulders and meet every thrust. The pleasure is sharp and building fast, coiling tight in my lower stomach. He shifts the angle and hits a spot that makes my vision go white for a second.
“Right there,” I gasp. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t. I’m not stopping until you come all over me. Until I feel you break. Come for me, Enley. Let me feel it.”
The orgasm hits hard and sudden. I cry out against his mouth as it rips through me, clenching around him, shaking so hard I’d fall if he weren’t holding me up. He follows a few thrusts later with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep and pulsing inside me as he comes.
We stay like that for a long moment. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing hard. Bodies still joined. His hands are still shaking. So are mine.
“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice rough and wrecked. Not past tense. Present. Ongoing. “I’ve wanted this since before I had any right to want it.”
“I know.”
“You don’t. You don’t know the half of it.”
I take his face in both hands and force him to look at me from three inches away.
His eyes are dark and wide and completely unguarded.
Every wall is down, and what’s behind them is exactly what I thought I’d find if I ever got close enough to look: a man who’s been standing at the edge of this for years, terrified by how far there was to fall and how fast the ground came up.
“Then tell me,” I say. “After. Tell me the half I don’t know.”
He kisses me again. Slower this time. The urgency has spent itself and what’s left is something quieter but no less intense. The kiss of a man who's finally letting himself feel things he'd buried for a long time.
When it ends we stand against the wall in the dim storage unit with our clothes disordered and our breathing uneven and the air between us changed in a way that can never be unchanged.
I can feel his heartbeat through his chest, still fast, still running at the elevated frequency that I’m starting to think of as our shared signal.
He steps back carefully. Adjusts his clothes. Runs a hand through his hair. The gesture is so human, so ordinary in its self-consciousness, that it makes my chest do something warm and unexpected.
“Five hours,” he says.
“Five hours,” I confirm.
He holds my gaze.
The room hasn't changed. The concrete walls. The metal shelves. The locked door. The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Everything is exactly where it was.
But something between us has shifted.
There's no pretending it didn't.
We're not who we were when we walked into this room.
And we both know there's no going back.