Page 84 of Dominion's Guard
"Observations. You're very far away."
I settle over her. The press of my body on hers, skin to skin, draws a groan from my chest and a hitch from hers, and the slick heat of her along the underside of my cock where it rests between her thighs makes my hips flex involuntarily. She rolls into me, a grind that drags the length of me through her wetness, coating me in her, and the friction on her swollen clit makes her jaw clench and her teeth sink into her lower lip.
"Inside me," she says. The command is wrapped in want, delivered with the directness that replaced the deflection somewhere between the first night in this room and now. "Stop being a gentleman."
"I'm never a gentleman." I line up and push into her in a single stroke, feeling her body open around me inch by inch, the tight heat of her swallowing the head and then the shaft until I'm seated fully and the pressure of her clenching around the base of my cock drags a groan out of me that I don't bother controlling.
"Prove it," she says, all brat, all Renata, the woman who will push until the pushing becomes the point.
I draw back until only the head remains inside her and thrust forward, deep and firm, and the wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the quiet room. Her legs wrap around my waist, her heels pressing into the small of my back, pulling me deeper with each stroke, and the grip of her body around me tightens each time I bottom out, the inner muscles fluttering and clenching in a rhythm she can't control.
The banter doesn't stop. It drops a register, the words getting shorter and rougher as her body tightens around mine.
"Harder."
"No."
"I hate you."
"You really don't."
"Harder, Andy."
I give her harder. I plant my hands on either side of her head and drive into her with the full length of my body behind each thrust, and the change in force pushes her up the mattress until I grip her hip to anchor her in place.
The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room and her cry is high and broken and continuous, pulled from her with each impact, and her fingers bite into my shoulders with a force that will leave marks I'll find in the mirror tomorrow. I angle my hips to grind her clit on every downstroke and the friction of my pelvis on the swollen nerves while I'm buried inside her makes her clench around me so hard my vision narrows.
Her second orgasm builds differently from the first, slower, deeper, the kind I can feel tightening around my cock in increments, her body gripping me harder with every stroke until the friction is so intense that maintaining the pace costs me everything I have. Her lungs stutter. Her nails carve crescentsinto my skin. Her eyes fix on mine with an intensity that strips the room down to the two of us and nothing else.
"Let go," I tell her. "I've got you."
She comes apart with my name on her lips and her body locking around me in contractions so deep I can feel them at the base of my cock, pulling at me in rhythmic waves that drag me to the edge and hold me there.
I bury myself to the hilt and let the orgasm take me, the release crashing through my abdomen and my thighs and the full length of me inside her in pulses I feel through her walls, my face pressed to the curve of her throat, her pulse hammering under my mouth while I empty into her with a groan that has her name in it and not much else.
The quiet after is ours. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my back while we come down, and my weight on top of her is grounding rather than confining, a pressure she leans into rather than away from.
"You stayed," she says. The words are soft, and they might be about tonight and might be about everything.
"I stay."
"Every time."
"Every time."
She presses her mouth to my shoulder. The kiss is small and unperformed and sinks into a place I stopped guarding weeks ago.
I roll to my side and pull her with me, tucking her against my chest, and the aftercare settles into the rhythm we've built across weeks of this: scenes and nights and the stubborn construction of something that holds because neither of us pretends it shouldn't cost.
"Your steadiness terrifies me," she says into my collarbone. "You know that."
"Yes."
"It's the thing I need most, and it scares me because it means I'm depending on it. On you."
"That's how it works."
"I know how it works. Knowing doesn't make it less terrifying."
