This was about too much.
He stood before the bathroom mirror, hands in fists in his hair, and tried to relax.
He had never thought of himself as a particularly suseptable to lust, but he was shaking so badly that he could actually see it like a fine line along his shoulders. His blood was practically burning with the desire to be inside her. Not even to move or thrust, but just to feel her tight heat sheathing him in pleasure. To be that close to her, that...connected.
He groaned at that, clenching his fingers and pulling his hair, but the pain didn't help.
Nothing helped.
There was a little white showing around his eyes, telling him they were open a little too wide. And his breath was a little sharper than normal, but he hadn't really noticed that either.
It was hard to pay attention to anything besides the dull throb and ache of his body. The zipper pressing into him was sharp, and the pressure was uncomfortable every time he shifted, or even breathed deep. But he welcomed it, oddly enough. He had the feeling that it was the only thing keeping him that last step back from the edge.
Though part of him couldn't see how he could possibly be blamed. She had been teasing and taunting him all afternoon, coming at him with bold words and erotic truths, then backing down with sweet innocence. How was he expected to keep up with such an act? Let alone anticipate her next move and plan accordingly?
And the intimate play that began almost as soon as they were behind a closed door...
She can pretend all she wants...he thought, with a sort of distraction to it. She can keep pushing me away...
But she is still the one that keeps pulling me close...
Very...very close-
And his eyes closed as that memory flashed, not through his mind, but through his body, ripping his hands out of his hair to clutch at the sink edge. His hips seemed to have a mind of their own, as they pushed forward in a move he wished he didn't understand. The muscles of his thighs and buttocks were so tight, angling his pelvis forward.
His body was telling him 'this'. 'This is what we are suppose to be doing.'
Too bad every part of him agreed. It made control a little harder to hold on to.
The sounds she made didn't help either. Or the grip of her hands. The heat of her thighs burning through his jeans...
Aki, he snapped sharply, trying to use his mental voice to reign in his hormones. It wasn't working.
Nothing worked.
Fine, he thought, with a vicious sort of surrender. He slammed his hands down on the fastening of his jeans and ripped the button out of the hole, then he jerked the zipper down with a familiar flick. There wasn't any relief in the sudden freedom. The cold air touched him with stinging kisses, every touch was almost too much. And definitely not enough.
His open jeans slipped down, catching on the sharpness of his hip bones, but stretching tight across his thighs. The shirt was getting in his way, so he quickly ripped it off and let it fall where it may.
Then he laid his right hand flat on the counter, forced his eyes back up to his own, and wrapped his hand around his erection without hesitation.
The rigid flesh jerked in his hold, and so did his hips. A low-groan squeezed from his throat, and he let it. He didn't try to swallow it or stifle at all.
I don't care if she hears me...Let her hear me...
And he tightened his fingers and pulled them to the very end, stretching flesh over veins and muscle. His eyes took on a tortured light, his lips parting on a sharp sound of need and pleasure.
It felt good...but it still wasn't enough.
He took a familiar rhythm with his hand, pushing his hips sharply to meet it. He held his own eyes for as long as he could, until he widened his stance and leaned on his right arm, the muscles tensing to hold him.
Then his eyes fell closed and she was exactly where he knew she would be, waiting eagerly in his mind.
Another soft cry as his body recalled the feel of her in his arms, as he pushed her half-way up the door and her breast was in his mouth.
The flesh was a strange firm softness, light and weighty at the same time, and a little like the Spiced Vanilla lotion she used. He didn't know why her breasts fascinated him-when he sucked on them he felt each pull like a line of ice right down the centre of his body. And when he sank his teeth into her, the ache became a deep throb.
There were so many things he wanted to do to those breasts. To see the ways he could shift those sensations, and make them spread.
And hearing her make that low, gasping sound in her throat was definitely of interest to him, too.
Both her legs were around his waist, and his jeans were undone. She still wore her skirt, but that appealed to him. To feel his body pressed so tight and hard against her. To feel himself rub over her again and again, but not actually see it...
She slid her arm around his neck, curled her body around him and clung, her hips shifting in a way he knew intimately.
Her panties were gone, and he caught her squirming hips, lifted her up. Her eyes flashed open, dark with love and desperate desire, and she arched her spine, helping him find the angle they needed.
Then he was pushing into her, slow and achy. And her breath was coming faster as her body grew wet and tight around him.
It took so long. Longer than he could have born had it been reality. But he wanted to prolong this moment of first penetration, see and feel it from different angles, focus on the image until he could somehow feel it as if it were really happening.
And when they fit, as snug as matching puzzle pieces, he froze the picture in his mind, slowing down the movement of his hand as he memorized the details. His actions had been harsh and desperate, but now there was a smooth rhythm to it, now his hand was wet with sticky fluid, and the sense of weak pleasure was rocking through him, sharpening occasionally when he squeezed his imagination down so hard that he managed to squeeze a drop of belief out of his body.
He couldn't hold the image clear all at once, but he could focus on details and make them seem almost real.
He seemed especially caught by the image of himself completely swallowed up by her, pressed tight and deep, and strangely enough like they were one being. When he drew back, then slowly pushed back in with one deep stroke, it was still that moment when he was completely sheathed within her that jolted sharp heat through him.
Again, the door didn't afford such a view, so she was now sprawled beneath him on the bed, her legs spread wide as he held himself over her on one arm, and drew back with the other. The action twisted his hips slightly, and he watched her shudder, felt the shudder where he couldn't see it, deep in her centre.
With a sort of predatorial slowness he drew back, watched the hard, throbbing piece of him steadily pull out, until only the head remained inside her.
She fluttered around him, her body tightening and sucking at him. He liked the feel of it so he stayed where he was a long moment, nearly slipping free of her and feeling himself leaking out to mix with her body's own natural wetness.
The shift of her hips was insistent, the push of her heels. He set his hand on her thigh and held her in place. Pushed a little to open her wider. Slowly he pushed back in, watched his flesh disappearing into hers with a shivery pleasure edged with fascination.
As deep as he could go, he still pushed further, feeling her squeeze the very base of his body, seeing them fit together seamlessly, but he wanted to be deeper. His buttocks clenched, dimpled as his hips actually lifted hers, and he made little thrusting motions, not pulling out, but actually shifting inside her.
But he wanted, needed to see it again, so he pulled his hips back again, then thrust deep. Deep and slow, angling his hips up at the end of the stroke to again push that last space deeper into her.
She made a sound that was more surprise than pleasure, but there was definite pleasure there. She lifted her arms to wrap around his neck, but he caught them quickly, thoughtlessly. He pushed them over her head and held them down with one hand. Her wrists crossed under his fingers, his hold was gentle but inescapable.
And it wasn't conscious on his part. He just wanted her to feel what he was feeling. To savour the feel of him inside of her, to remember every detail.
Every other touch would just distract them.
The backward push of her arms thrust her breasts up at him, and he found his eyes sliding away from hers to stare at them.
Another long, deep thrust, and he watched them bounce with a feeling that could only be described as deep hunger.
It felt good, so he did it again. And again. A slow, building pressure started at the base of his spine, his arms were shaking, the one holding him up, and the one holding her down. But he wasn't going to compromise. He couldn't look away, and he wasn't going to let go of her . The restraint of her hands was what had her breasts bouncing so enticingly. He licked his lips, and then without further thought, leaned forward and licked her breast, mouthing it wetly as her hard nipple bumped over his lips, his nose. It took a few tries, but he finally caught it, pulled on it gently with his teeth.
Her moan became a cry, and she struggled in his hold. But he tightened his hand and thrust harder, letting her breast pull free of his mouth before turning his attention to the other one.
Then he didn't need to see himself inside her. He needed to see her, feeling him inside her.
He grasped her wrists in both his hands and beared down. Pushed up on his knees until his position mocked a shallow curve, with their lower bodies pressed tight together, and him hovering over her.
It felt amazing, to feel his hips so snugly between her thighs, to feel her body completely surround him, clenching and sucking at his rigid flesh as he moved. He rocked into her again, and again, lifting her hips up with each deep thrust.
She didn't struggle in his hold, but lay gasping and panting, her eyes squeezed tightly closed as she tossed her head without discernable pattern. She couldn't move her hands, so she moved what she could. She couldn't move her hips with his pinning hers, so she pushed at the bed with her heels.
He bore down on her hands a little harder. He wanted to see her eyes, so she opened them. Stared up at him with eyes that looked almost blind with pleasure. The blue swam to deep eddies of almost purple, the colour almost shrunken to a mere ring.
The half-wild look in her eyes dragged him forward, dragged something equally wild out of him. He licked her mouth, her face, her tongue, in kisses that weren't quite human. His thrusts grew harder, faster, with each moment that that darker instinct grew in him.
There was a definite sound of flesh slapping on flesh now, and he liked it, so he made it louder. Her cries grew in sharpness to his escalating movements, and he liked that, too. Even the old, worn bed began to squeak rhythmically, and spurred him on. Spurred him to make the silent pauses between shorter.
Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, made his fingers slick around her wrists. It tickled the end of his nose, but he didn't notice. He rose up over her again, groaning when it pushed him harder inside her. Exhaustion was creeping into his legs, but that was secondary, that was something he couldn't understand.
He pulled her arms tighter over her head and curved her spine more, shifting the angle of his penetrations only a touch, but making a nearly desperate cry spill from her mouth. And then she was struggling, forcefully shoving her hips against him to take him in, but twisting her arms in his hold and clawing at his hands. She lunged her head up off the bed and closed her mouth over his, thrusting her tongue deep in his mouth in a strange echo of what he was doing to her body. But even while she tore him through that feverish kiss, she continued to spill those desperate cries, continued to struggle to get free.
He didn't. He couldn't. His hands tightened on her wrists, and he pushed the kiss back on her with just as much fierceness, finding it was easier to mimmick with his tongue the movement of his hips, rather than focus on sensuality or finesse.
With the pressure of his mouth he forced her back down to the pillow, then he let go of her lips, but did not stop the kiss. His tongue swirled around hers, tasting and stroking and drawing hers out of her mouth to play with his.
There was moisture gathered on her eyelashes, but he couldn't quite call it tears. It seemed a reaction that she wasn't even aware of.
He had to stop the kiss. He had to draw back, because he had to focus on the feel of his flesh sliding inside hers, had to imprint the feel of her so hot and tight and wet, and grasped so close around him that she seemed to cling to him whenever he withdrew.
More, he thought, and his hips drove forward faster. There were no pauses between now, just a sweet cacophony of sounds that clawed through his stomach. His breath was harder than a pant, not words, he couldn't think for that, but not quite moans either. At least, not consistently. The squeak of the bed had a sharp rythym to it, a constant noise that rose and fell, rather than stopped and started.
She was drawing breath so fast, that her moans continued to rise into those sharp cries, that some times she couldn't even catch her breath enough to make them.
He knew he wasn't being gentle now, there was too much desperation here for gentleness, and though he restrained her hands, she continued to arch her hips up to his with clear abandon.
He loved her gentle and sweet, and he loved her wild. After he filled her up with his seed, he wanted to roll her over onto her stomach and sprawl across her back, slowly part her thighs and gently slide into her. He wanted to see if the new angle changed the way it felt, and if he could make her come with shallow pushes while he licked the back of her neck.
How strange, to have a fantasy within a fantasy, he didn't quite feel real for a moment, as his consciousness hovered between pleasure, fantasy, and the physical boundaries of his real body. But he could feel that familiar tightening in his stomach, his back, and he almost didn't want it. He wanted the image to last longer, to draw the pleasure out, but it was too late to slow down. He was too close to the edge to stop going now.
He tried to focus on the part of the fantasy that had hit him the sharpest with pleasure, but his mind began to flash on details too quick for him to hold on to. A tangle of her hair around his fingers, the hot silk of her thighs, the edge of her teeth as he drew his tongue back over them. A gasp, a sharp jerk of her head that bowed her neck and bared her throat.
And then the memory, sweet memory of him licking her lips, and her tongue, hesitant and tentative, flicking out to lick across his. Of him, asking for a kiss, and of her, rising instantly up on her toes to oblige him.
He gasped aloud as his hips shoved forward hard, as his fingers convulsed around his length, and thick, hot liquid splattered across his hand, and the sink, and the mirror.
His braced arm shuddered, then bent, bowing him forward in a weak slump. His whole body shook as he squeezed out a few more drops, and the pleasure almost shifted into pain. His spine seemed to turn to liquid, and he wasn't sure what kept him on his feet, because it definitely wasn't strength.
He braced his other hand on the countertop, spaced between the sink, and panted. Something told him he might not have been exactly quiet in his orgasm, but he didn't really care. It wasn't as if she didn't already know what he was doing, and he wasn't ashamed. Strangely enough, he really wasn't.
He managed to lift his head, and through the fall of his bangs, he caught his eyes. Or tried, he had to really work on getting them to focus. They were nearly all-pupil, and dazed, and oddly there seemed to be a fissure of pain in them.
His lips were swollen, too. And he wondered if he had bit them. Or maybe these were bruises left behind from her kisses.
Too soon, but a dull spark of pleasure still looped around his spine. He could do little more than twitch in reaction, and take a harder breath that wasn't much more different than its predecessors. Then his eyes focused beyond him and he noticed the mess he had made of the sink, and mirror...and himself.
Not quite steady, he grasped the end of the nearest towel and drug it weakly over the rack. His hands shook as he began to clean up.