Disclaimer: Don't own them. Make love, not lawsuits.
Thanks to my beta reader, maybebaby1280. Concrit and feedback always welcome.
He wants her to fuck him, all wild hair, sharp ruby fingernails, and swollen, glossy lips.
He speeds over cracked asphalt, cold, crisp air whipping his face, stinging his eyes. Beneath him, the engine rumbles like a mounting earthquake and his stomach tenses, a sparking, hot coil of anticipation and urgency. The road twists through a grove of barren trees and, as he leans into the curve, he hears her giddy laugh and feels her arms squeeze a tighter circle around his waist, the warmth of her body rushing through him like a shot of Tennessee whiskey.
He glimpses her face in the side mirror—chin tucked against his shoulder, chestnut eyes squeezed shut beneath the visor, the collar of his own leather jacket grazing her jaw. Absolutely fucking gorgeous.
Twisting the throttle, he relishes the sudden surge of speed, the wind drowning her high, girlish laughs. If she fucks him, makes this about sex and not about them, he might be able to chalk up the tightness in his chest to overexertion, physical strain. Not this need, this desperate, gut-twisting, pathetic need.
When he finally pulls her across the living room and into his bedroom, stumbling over his own clumsy feet, he realizes that she might actually consume him. Her stare is hungry and never leaves him as clothes meet the floor and he falls ungracefully backwards onto the bed, his soft grunt dissipating between them. She hovers over him like a predator, a giant praying mantis. The muscles in his stomach tighten and he lies beneath her, suddenly hoping that once she's finished with him, she'll kill him, bite his head off in a crimson rush of passion. Because if she touches him, kisses him, with the gentle familiarity of a lover and deserts him, flees Princeton for good, he'll face a fucking existential dilemma worse than Hamlet's.
He studies her eyes for a moment, searching, then pleading. Stacy, just fuck me. The words nearly leap from his mouth, but as he parts his lips to speak, her tongue, her delicious, cherry-sweet tongue, traces his bottom lip in a slow, silken caress that renders him speechless. He meets her tongue, closing his lips over hers, tasting her. Her hands draw slow patterns across his chest, his arms, his hips—patterns she invented, perfected—and, damn it, he can't stop his body as it responds to her, rising until he's flush against her smooth, soft skin.
His hands flatten against her back and press her against him. The frantic beat of her heart thunders against his chest and he buries his face into her neck, inhaling hundreds of sun kissed, hazy mornings, their bodies tangled together in wrinkled sheets. Trailing his fingertips along the curve of her spine, he plants lingering, open-mouthed kisses behind her ear and feels her throaty hum on his lips. Damn. His hips jerk, and, fuck, his cock slides between her thighs. He'd be a goddamn liar if he said he didn't want this, wanther—he fucking dreamed of it—since she reappeared and uttered his name with a voice that made his breath catch.
He groans as she grinds against him. His back arches and she kisses the center of his chest before rising up. When her hands glide over his body and she touches him right there, he shudders. He spies her smug grin, but can't repress another deep, rumbling moan as she wraps her fingers around him and guides him into her.
The last time they did this, he hated it. Her body, her whole, unmarred, goddamnperfect body, suffocated him and he hated it. He drove into her fast, then. Hard, fast, and it hurt, but the end came quickly.
Now, his hands guide her hips and he thrusts slowly upwards to meet her. His lips search out her mouth when she leans over him, her hands drifting up his body and into his hair. She tightens her knees against his hips and drags her lips, wet from their kiss, to the shell of his ear, drawing from him a ragged string of half-moans and broken syllables, foreign sounds in his own ears.
He feels the weight of her body lift and their eyes meet, unblinking and unguarded, a complement of warm and cool. His jaw hangs stupidly as she lowers a hand to touch herself, his eyes darting from her hand to her eyes. Jesus. He hears the rasp of his own shaky, shallow breath. She rolls her hips and he slides within her, enveloped by so much heat, until she drops her chin and whispers, "Come on, Greg."
A raw, guttural moan leaves his gaping mouth as his stomach clenches and he pours himself into her. Still pumping inside her, he feels her body tense under his hands and her tight, hot muscles flutter around him. He relaxes into a heap of pillows as she collapses onto him, his arms encircling her waist, his chin resting against the top of her head. On his shoulder, he feels the brush of her lips, the soft tickle of her eyelashes.
He doesn't trust himself to speak as they separate, drawing deep sighing breaths. He reaches for the bedside lamp as she smoothes warm sheets over their bodies. When he lies against the mattress, he feels her body press against his left side, her leg curled around his, her hand settling over his chest. Cold metal—her wedding band, he realizes—stings his skin and he blinks, squeezing his eyes, before he notices her smile, wide, familiar, and positively stunning.
Later, after he hangs up the phone, he rolls on top of her—damn his leg—and fills her like she's his.