Page 90 of Gravehouse

Because I fuckingcan’t.

She catches my face in both palms, and a sound escapes me.

Searching my eyes, she pulls herself closer. Her lips feather over mine, and I suck in a breath. Too fucking gentle for something that feels like my heart getting ripped out of my chest.

Tell her.

I kiss her instead, pulling the shirt over her head. My shirt.

She lifts her arms, helps me strip it off, and then she’s bare beneath me except for black lace that’s already damp when I drag my knuckles over her. She tries to work my shirt off with her feet, giving up and coming to her knees to drag it over my head.

Her mouth finds my tattoo, and my skin burns when I feel the soft slither of her tongue trace the lines that lead up my neck.

Fabric tears when I rip her underwear away and neither of us stops, her hands already shoving at my sweats, dragging them down over my cock. We’re all desperate hands and tangled limbs, and I flatten her against the mattress with my fingers wrapped around her throat.

I shove her thighs wider with my own, dragging my heavy length straight over her slick clit, wetting every inch as her hips jerk up to chase the friction.

She reaches for me, but I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. My free hand guides me to her entrance, and I groan when she throbs around my tip. Her hips tilt up, and my breath catches as I push in slow. So fucking slow it’s almost torture.

Her mouth falls open on a gasp, and I cover it with mine, swallowing the sound as I fall deeper and deeper into her.

I bottom out and hold there, my forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard through my nose while her body adjusts around me.

“Ash,” she whispers, the word a broken exhale.

I pull back until only the tip remains inside her, then slide back in just as slow, deep and deliberate, feeling every inch of her wrapped around me, every flutter of muscle trying to pull me deeper. I set a rhythm that has nothing to do with fucking and everything to do with possession.

Mine.

My tongue strokes hers, matching the drag of my cock inside her.

Her hands flex in my grip.

I release her wrists, her arms locking around me, nails digging into my shoulder blades as I rock into her, slow and unrelenting. The headboard knocks the wall with each thrust, the wet slide of our bodies the only other sound, and I grip the top of it to hold my rhythm.

Her legs wrap around my waist, heels pressing into my lower back, pulling me deeper. I groan into her mouth and she swallows it, kissing me harder. She fists my hair, holding me to her like she’s afraid I’ll pull away.

I grind, hitting an angle that makes her gasp against my lips. Her body arches, chest pressing against mine, nipples dragging across my skin. I shift just enough to get my hand between us, thumb finding her clit and circling.

She breaks the kiss on a moan, head tipping back into the pillow, and I bury my face in her neck, sucking at the skin there.

Nails scrape down my back.

I hiss, a second away from snapping.

“Don’t stop,” she pants, desperate.

I wasn’t planning on it.

I keep moving, keep kissing her neck, her jaw, back to her mouth where she kisses me hungry and half-broken. My thumb presses harder against her clit, circling faster now while my cock drags through her in long strokes that make her thighs tremble around me.

She clenches so tight I almost lose it, but I keep moving through her orgasm. Every thrust feels like I’m trying to fuck my way back through time to the moment before I lost her.

She falls apart under me, thighs shaking against my hips, her pussy gripping my cock in waves that almost take me with her.

I need to go slower before I rip us both apart.

Her hands cup my jaw, and she kisses me like she knows. Like she can taste the desperation on my tongue.