15. Emma #3
He reaches around, sliding his fingers between my legs to find the swollen, oversensitive peak of my clit. The dual sensation of his cock stroking deep and his fingers working me with precision makes my whole body tighten. A broken moan spills from me.
His thrusts grow harder, more urgent, the careful control beginning to fray. The mattress shifts beneath us with every powerful thrust of his hips. I feel it again, the climb, not so slow this time.
When it breaks, it tears through me in long, shuddering waves.
My body clamps down around him, pulsing, and a raw cry leaves my throat as the orgasm rolls on and on.
He follows almost immediately, driving deep one final time and holding there as he spills into me with a low, guttural sound against my neck.
I feel the hot pulse of him, the way he keeps moving through it in small, involuntary thrusts, as if he cannot bear to stop being inside me even as he comes.
We stay locked together afterward, both breathing hard. His weight settles over my back, protective rather than heavy, and his mouth finds the damp skin of my shoulder in a soft, lingering kiss.
We lie there in silence. His cock is still buried in me, softening only slightly, and the intimacy of it, of remaining joined while the aftershocks fade, feels almost more intense than the climax itself.
I don’t know how long we stay like that—seconds or minutes—before I feel him hardening again inside me. I cannot resist pushing back, taking him deeper.
“Belle?” he asks, unsure of what I want. Probably surprised I need him again so soon. But he is hard, and he needs me too. Typical Alex, already worrying whether I am sore.
I don’t care. I just need him. So I thrust back in answer, and when I feel him sinking deeper, I moan into the mattress.
That’s when he moves.
He starts slow, but it does not stay slow. My hands grip the headboard, and he drives into me with a force that rocks the bed, that pushes me forward with every thrust, and I am making sounds that are not words, that are just need given voice.
“Harder,” I say, and he gives me harder.
“Like that?” His voice is ragged.
“Yes— yes, like that, don’t stop?—”
“Tell me you thought about this all day.”
“I did.” The words come out broken by the rhythm of him. “I thought about you — every hour — I couldn’t— I couldn’t focus on anything?—”
“Tell me.”
“I thought about your hands. Your mouth. The way you feel inside me. I thought about it in the shower. I thought about it while I was putting away the groceries. I— Alex?—”
He slows. Deepens. Each thrust is a powerful, all-consuming thing.
“You’re insatiable,” he says, and there is wonder in it, and a little bit of awe.
I am insatiable. “Alex?—”
He tells me so between kisses, voice rough. “What’s gotten into you?”
You’re going to leave me. Or I’m going to be forced to leave you. And every time might be the last time, so I need to make it count. I need to take as much as I can before the mirage clears.
“I just need you,” I say instead, because the truth is too heavy, too sharp-edged. “I just need you right now.”
He pulls out and turns me over and I wrap my legs around him and he sinks back into me and this time it is face to face, chest to chest, his forehead pressed against mine, and it is slower and deeper and it aches in a place that has nothing to do with my body.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I open my eyes. He is right there, so close I can see the flecks of silver in his irises, the slight tremor in his jaw.
“Don’t look away.”
I don’t.
He moves inside me and I hold his gaze and it is the most exposed I have ever felt, more than naked, more than undone, because he is seeing all of me, every wall down, every defense surrendered, and I am seeing him too, the cracks in his composure, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes go soft and fierce at the same time.
“I need— I’m close—” I breathe.
“Let go. I’ve got you.”
I let go. He follows seconds after, burying his face in my neck, his whole body shuddering against mine, and we stay like that, tangled and trembling, the sweat cooling on our skin.
We do not sleep.
An hour later, I am on top of him, riding him slowly, my hands flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my palms. He watches me with heavy-lidded eyes, his hands on my hips, guiding my rhythm.
The room is dark now, just the ambient glow of the city filtering through the curtains, and in this light he looks like a painting, all shadow and gold, the lines of his body sharp and beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and I do not know where it comes from; it just falls out of me.
His hands tighten on my hips. “You are the only beautiful thing in this room,” he says that with such reverence, an ache starts to bloom in my chest.
I lean down and kiss him, and he rolls us over so I am beneath him again, and we start over.
Hours blur. The city lights shift outside the window.
The sheets end up on the floor. At some point he carries me to the wide armchair by the glass and settles me on his lap facing him, thighs spread wide over his, so he can watch every expression that crosses my face while he moves inside me.
Later we end up on the soft rug in front of the cold fireplace, my back arched, his mouth on my breast, one of his hands working between us where we are joined.
Again and again.