Summary: Marc and Layla share an intimate encounter, with an unexpected, pleasing result.
Author's note: Just needed to get this off my chest. Feedback is appreciated!
Warnings: Riding, edging, grinding, overstimulation, dom/sub undertones, dirty talk, unsafe sex, cockwarming. No beta. Explicit as f*ck.
WC: 2.400
"Hello and welcome to Staying Awake. Let's start with trying to solve a puzzle. Solving puzzles is a great way to keep your mind awake."
Marc groans, having forgotten to turn that damn device off. He could hardly extend his hand towards the nightstand, but another brutal move devastated the little strength he had left. Layla's pleasant weight bouncing over and over his hips dazed the little self control be had.
"Bored with puzzles? Try a book."
A white lighting daunted the darkness for a couple of seconds. It enlightened a stirring Layla who kept riding him furiously. Neither of them cared about the intense thunderstorm. It just helped to increase the feel of simple, domestic bliss.
"Is there a chapter you'd like to be a part of?"
Marc tries to focus entirely on Layla bouncing over him, but the audio overlapping with her moans makes it impossible. An impatient hiss bared his teeth, waving his hand feebly towards that goddamn cellphone. Layla was quicker. In a blink, the device was muted and tossed aside. Now, Spector doesn't think twice to knead her thighs and up, stopping at her hips to give them a bruisy, vice-like grip. His needy, hungry touches made her feel powerful and desirable. Layla flaunts a devilish grin as she sees her gorgeous crusader completely under her mercy.
Marc twisted his body, turning his head to his left side over the pillow. A few strands of curly, raven hair shook dramatically, leaving a disheveled look Layla was greatly fond of. It makes it feel as if he's under the water, squeezing his eyelids shut. It feels like a second honeymoon, as if time ceased to exist. The sound of rain embellishes the scene, away from the unmerciful sun and its scorching heat, the freshness relieving him just helped him to engulf himself in his own private paradise.
"Is it too much for you, Marc?" She teased, coquettishly.
His hands balled into fists with white knuckles, clutch to the bedsheets, almost ripping them off the couch. A languished roar tore his vocal cords when she broke contact to torture him. But Layla rejoices when he groans in protest once she broke the contact.
"Is it?" She rolled her hips.
"Don't try my patience, Layla–" But she slowly slid it up and down, silencing his growls. Marc gasped when the warm slickness ran up and down his length, placing his bare, stiffened sex with perfect precision between her burning petals, trying to quieten down his thunderous moans that would wake up the whole building.
"Or what? Are you gonna send me more unsigned divorce papers?" The mere act of mentioning a split made him tremble.
"NO!" Marc yelled, anguished now. Layla bit her lip in naughty bliss. She nimbly placed her whole weight on him again, not receiving him yet. She chose instead another tease before properly continuing the consummation of their act.
"Good."
"Stop it," his tortured plea went unheard. She keeps grinding her sex with his, tempting him, reminding him of the warm joy that their imminent union would bring. The exquisite feeling of his pulsing rigidity rubbing against her just elicited more helpless moans, wanting more and more.
"I won't punish you for wanting to divorce me, Marc... But I won't overlook it." Layla couldn't take her eyes off him while the friction between their intimacies drove Marc completely desperate.
Marc grunted, irritated. Their skins slapping at her fast and unrelenting bounce became louder. Layla held to his arms, getting a good feel of the veiny, bony texture of the skin covering it, shuddered moans coming from her mouth, incapable of resisting the pleasure of Marc thrusting up in a desperate attempt (and need) to intensify the friction sensing the peak was close.
"Oh, fucking hell–" he roared, troubled by the lack of attention, "do whatever you want to me, just let me in!" His plea was agonizing. He didn't know what he was saying at this point, "stop it— stop it, please."
"I got you," she cooed sweetly, leaning in to plant a kiss on his lips.
A gasping Layla just got out of her trance, the steady tease by the tip of his hardness against her searing and aching entrance let her know how impatient he was to be inside of her. Triumphant cackles leave his mouth, unwilling to miss any second of watching their differences about to melt together.
"I know," it made the brunette lower on him in a delicate but needy move, "that's it, baby… take a seat," Marc chuckled. Layla continued the wild straddle struggling to breathe as she realized Marc intended to pursue a more intense exploration of her body, refusing to let any inch of her unexplored.
She did not oppose, seeing the perfect chance now to touch his arms, lolling her head back, so weak at the harsh pursuit of the pleasure in its rawest form, slowly surrendering to the eventual exhaustion the act would lead to.
The former mercenary was infatuated with the sight of his stiffened sex disappearing and appearing inside of her over and over again. He couldn't do anything but stare in silent and aroused awe. It wasn't just for a matter of carnal desire. Layla always proved him wrong when it came to love and being worthy of being loved, that he was a man, a human at the end of the day, despite his former servitude to a vengeful god.
Her moans sounded so soft and hopelessly submissive to his avid insistence on a rougher contact, despite the fierce ride she gave him. The unrelenting bounce of her body was more than a reason for Marc to not blink at any moment. It was ironic that now the tables had turned; as much as Layla lied above him, Marc was the one in control.
He shut his eyes tight, managing to lift his hands to touch her chest, tangling a few curls in his fingers to reinforce his mind that this wasn't a dream. A vertiginous shiver nested in his abdomen, announcing the inevitable. He looked so beautiful like this; vulnerable, at his most human, at her mercy.
"I can't resist any longer," he gasped, arms falling brusquely to his sides, unable to keep touching her body anymore.
"I'm counting on it," Layla resumed the agitated rhythm, causing Marc to moan while catching air in short inhales, "please..." she grunted for air while lolling back her head. The feverish onslaught made her curve her lips, silencing any vocal expression of ecstasy.
"I like it when you beg," he hissed, lacking breath just as much as her, smirking as he saw the perfect opportunity to give her body another thrust so her voice would break again on those thunderous, scandalous moans he loved so much. He tries to warn her about the impending climax but she nods frantically.
"Then finish," her voice whimpered, anguished. Layla had her chest rising up and down in such a dramatic way, almost making a superhuman effort to pronounce.
The explicitness of it overrode his mind, compelling him to grant her wish. Layla abruptly stopped to process the thrilling end. The raw passion caught him unprepared. Marc kept his eyes open to not miss her reactions to make his own climax better, but a violent jolt made him spill all of himself deep inside her.
Marc's howls were loud enough to wake an entire block. Regaining his humanity had never been so wonderful, but it certainly overcame his strengths, fearing to pass out. Suddenly, his vision became blurred, making even more difficult to get the full satisfaction of seeing his beautiful wife quivering all for himself to feast on.
Dead silence followed their scandal. Layla caught her breath, but a sudden, brutal slam up her body ripped a sharp cry from her throat. It was as if Marc had been electrocuted.
Then a pitiful sob made her look down.
Layla widened her eyes. She felt her heart stop beating. That look in his face…
"Love?"
For some reason, it made the climax more intense, especially when she contemplates an aroused but absolutely ruined Steven Grant not believing what just happened. His pleased yet panicked expression mesmerized her senses.
"Layla?" He called her.
"Steven?" She asked, breathless and just as stunned as he was. It took him several seconds to respond, recovering from the impactful feel of being one with her so abruptly after witnessing her sensuality from afar, much to his frustration.
"I'm sorr– It's just the shock– of seeing you" he was barely breathing. The mild mannered man tried to break the contact quickly, nervous to displease Layla.
He tried to get up but Layla prevented him from doing so, obliging Steven to lay on his back again. Layla loved how he looked at her: A gaze full of aroused disbelief and pure bliss, admiring her despite the overwhelming pleasure crumpling his lungs.
"Not so fast, Mr. Grant," she whispered, keeping his strong form underneath her legs. Hearing him screaming out of his mind, as if his life depended on it just caused the wet narrowness to clamp even more to his length.
"Fuckfuckfuck– I can't– I can't –"
"Steven."
He stopped breathing.
"Hush".
It took a moment of stillness to process what just happened. Through her lack of movement, her body didn't give him relief through the thrilling climax. Steven thrusts his hips up to keep up with the orgasm, feeling the falling creeks of his seed erupting from their union.
"L—Layla! La—," He kicks and arches his back, loudly bawling as Layla slowly picks up her straddle, eager to hear more of those pretty sounds of his. It arouses her as much as the insertion itself. She loves how much he struggles to keep composure.
("Marc's gonna kill me")
He managed to regain some strength through his faltering breath. Layla felt his large hands snaking up her waist, squeezing her breasts while looking to extend the pleasure as humanly possible.
"Wait–please wait–", he whispered, mind blown. He got up just to wrap his arms around Layla, clashing his lips with hers while looking to roll over her body, with rampant need. She latches to his neck, and wraps his hips with her legs.
This fulminant display of lust moved her to keep provoking him, heavily falling over the bed.
"Do you like what you see, Stevie?", Layla observes her man, looking at his neck, his curls, his eyes, that necklace with a small Jewish charm on it.
"Yes!" Steven screamed, not caring if he sounded indecent, "You're so good at this… you feel so amazing" he exhaled, arching his back painfully at the loss of individuality. He leaned to devour her mouth with famished vehemence. She responds to the caress with unmeasured enthusiasm, tangling their tongues in a frenzied dance. Steven marveled at her boldness, remembering the awkward, yet sweet first kiss back in Egypt.
Layla ran her hands down his ribs, reaching his hips to scratch his lower back. He broke the kiss, bottoming out. Both lovers moaned into each other's mouths.
He drags himself out through it just to sink deep inside of her in slow moves, making her body slide with him in perfect unison over the bed. Steven's expression did not display anger but it did show impatience. Her ride was so fucking spectacular, he couldn't do anything but returning the favor, loving the unspoken, beautiful eroticism of their sopping sexes, oozing abundant, niveous flow.
His spasms and the dramatic rise and fall of his chest tempted Layla to move both hands over it, trying to calm his heart down. It had the opposite effect, though. The accelerated beating ruthlessly hammers his ribcage, which convinces Steven that a heart attack is going to kill him. He maybe doesn't remember their life together but she'll make sure he won't forget this night. She attracts his tremulous form, running her hands through his hair to kiss his jawline, down the neck.
Steven remembers the price of kissing Spector's wife back in the desert. He'll gladly take any punch if he'd ever experience crashing his lips against Layla's again, but he would gladly die if that meant being desired and loved by her, squirming, dissolved beneath her into a noisy mess.
"Don't hold back," Layla muttered lovingly.
Steven hardly nodded, too lost in those sensations surrounding him.
"After all, you were the one who stole a kiss from me back in the desert, remember?," he felt a cold shudder running down his spine, especially with her tightening throb around him. Steven smiled as if he was being blessed, a few tears fell down his cheek. Another orgasm hit their bodies.
"Oh, God… so that's–that's how it feels like," with half closed eyes, lips slightly parted he caught his breath as his body did his best to process the intense sensation Layla bathed him in. Her vocal cords broke in a desperate grunts at the rawness of the climax.
It was one wonderful thing to see her naked, but it was more wonderful to see her naked body climaxing once again with him inside of her. Layla coveted his touch so shamelessly, whether he spoke with a British or American accent. It was the same face, the same hands… the same masculinity.
But then, he got her out of her daydreaming and thoughts about him.
"Uhmmm… love?"
"Yes?"
Steven stared at her for long seconds, as if looking for the right words to pronounce himself. He clicked his tongue, looking down at her body, covered in sweat.
"I'm so glad I didn't sign those papers."
Layla giggled at this nervousness.
"I could never divorce you… not after this" Steven hid his face in her neck.
She planted a soft kiss on his forehead.
"I know", she muttered before realising Steve had already fallen sleep.