Chapter 6 #3
His words were the final trigger. The coil of pleasure in my belly snapped.
My vision whited out as the climax ripped through me, wave after wave of convulsing pleasure that clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.
With a raw shout, he followed, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside me, his body going taut as a bowstring before slumping heavily against my back.
For a long moment, we stayed like that, fused together, panting against the wall.
The smell of sex and sweat and old paper filled the air.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The solid floor under my feet.
The patterned wallpaper beneath my cheek.
The heavy, satisfied weight of him draped over me.
He softened inside me, but didn’t pull out.
His arms came around my waist, holding me upright as my knees threatened to buckle.
He turned his head, his lips brushing the damp skin of my neck.
“See?” he murmured, his voice a husky wreck. “Consequences.
My lips crashed against his. It wasn’t gentle.
It was a hard, claiming press of mouth against mouth, fueled by the desperate need to anchor us both.
I tasted the salt of his sweat, felt the strain in his jaw under my hands.
The chaotic energy swirled around us, a cold, greasy static, but I ignored it.
I fumbled with the button of his trousers, my fingers clumsy with urgency.
It gave way. I shoved the fabric down his hips, my hand slipping inside.
His cock was already hard, hot and smooth in my palm.
I wrapped my fingers around him, stroking from root to tip, my rhythm a deliberate, furious counterpoint to the madness trying to swallow the corridor.
He groaned, a deep, shattered sound. His forehead dropped to mine, his breath coming in ragged pants. “Anna.”
I kept moving my hand, my thumb sliding over the slick head. “I choose this,” I hissed against his lips. “I choose you.”
His hands gripped my hips, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.
My legs locked around his waist, my skirt bunching up between us.
He turned, my back meeting the solid, cold stone of the wall beside the pulsing void.
He didn’t pause. He guided himself to my entrance, the head of his cock nudging against my wet folds.
Then he pushed inside. The penetration was deep, a claiming stretch that stole my breath.
I cried out, my head thumping back against the stone.
He filled me completely, a hot, hard anchor in the center of the chaos.
The house gave a violent shudder around us, plaster dust raining from the ceiling.
He began to move. Each thrust was a rebellion.
A hard, driving punctuation against the unreal silence of the void.
My nails dug into the muscles of his shoulders, clinging as he fucked me against the wall.
The slap of skin, the wet, rhythmic sound of our joining—it was the only real music.
His grunts were low and guttural in my ear, his hips pistoning.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice raw.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his gaze.
His eyes were black with need, the pupils blown wide.
In them, I saw the swirling grey nothingness reflected, and my own wild face.
I was unraveling, pleasure coiling tight and desperate low in my belly.
“You feel it,” he ground out, his pace relentless. “You feel me making it real.”
I did. The heat of him, the friction, the exquisite fullness.
My climax built, a terrifying wave gathering force.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a storm. My pussy clenched around his shaft, milking him, pulling him deeper with every stroke.
“Virgil,” I gasped, the world narrowing to the point where our bodies connected. “Let go,” he snarled. “Give it to me.”
The coil snapped. Blinding white light erupted from where we were joined, a silent shockwave of pure sensation.
It radiated outwards, washing over the corridor.
I screamed, my body convulsing around him, the climax ripping through me in endless, shattering pulses.
As I peaked, I saw the chaotic void solidify, the swirling grey resolving into ordinary, unmortared stone.
He followed with a broken shout, his hips slamming home one final time.
I felt the hot rush of his release inside me, a flood of warmth that seemed to seal something in place.
His body went rigid, then slumped against me, his weight pinning me to the now-solid wall.
Silence. Deep, heavy quiet. The electric prickle was gone.
The air was still, smelling of sex, damp stone, and our shared breath.
We slid down the wall together, a tangle of limbs and loosened clothing, until we were a heap on the polished floor.
He was still inside me, softening. My legs fell away from his waist, trembling.
I was boneless, spent. The corridor was restored.
A long, dim hallway with paisley wallpaper and a worn runner.
As ordinary as a tomb. Virgil’s arms tightened around me.
He buried his face in the crook of my neck.
His breath was hot on my skin. For a long time, neither of us spoke.
The only sound was our slowing heartbeats.
Then he spoke, his voice hollow, filled with a profound sorrow that chilled the afterglow in my veins.
“Every time,” he whispered, his lips moving against my throat.
“Every time, it binds me tighter to you. And the house to us both.”
I stared at the new stone wall at the end of the hall, perfectly seamless with the old. A prison, not a passage. The warmth between my legs felt suddenly like a chain. I’d saved us. I’d made him real.