“Jesus,” he swears, gravelly and low. “I’ll bury myself in you, if you let me.” Then he moves faster, small stabs of his hips pushing deeper and deeper while his skin slaps my skin louder and louder. The smell of sex, sweat, and musk fills the room.
I’m completely overwhelmed. It’s too perfect. It’s everything, everything. I close my eyes and imagine what we look like to someone else, the ropey muscles of his arms as he digs his fingers into my hips, the raw, uninhibited fucking in this cold, dim and empty place, the sight of his thick cock sliding into me from behind, his heavy balls swinging against my inner thighs.
He leans forward, his fingers sliding down and finding the smooth, swollen face of my clit. He always wants me to come with him, so I know he’s about to unload at any moment. But for some reason, I hold back, as hard as I can, wanting to pay attention to the way he so beautifully lets go without losing myself at the same time.
Drops of his sweat fall on my back. He continues pounding me, his hips changing the angle until it makes me gasp for air, my back arching. His breathing is shaky and his muscles are trembling from the strain, but he keeps going and going, whimpering now, clawing me in desperation.
There’s a moment, a pause, a sharp intake of air, then the room fills with the sounds of his harsh, sharp grunts, the sound of him coming, a sound I love so much that it pushes me over the edge. It’s the signal of his undoing, and his fingers press so hard into my skin that I’m afraid I might break in two. I am breaking in two. I am stretched thin, a plate of fragile glass, and I am breaking and breaking and breaking as he pounds me from behind.
I can barely hang onto the bars. I can barely hang onto myself. Wave after wave of emotion slams through me, filling the blank spaces, the cracks, the parts of me that have shattered off into space. I can barely breathe, and the ache, the fucking ache, is no longer between my legs but throughout my entire body.
“Kayla,” Lachlan whispers hoarsely, leaning forward against my sweaty back. “Oh, love.” He rests his cheek on my shoulder blades and his ragged breaths rise and fall against me.
I close my eyes and will myself not to cry. It’s silly. Stupid. It’s just sex. It’s just fucking sex. But the emotion doesn’t go away. It sits on my heart, and I can’t tell what it wants from me. Are these happy tears? Sad tears? Why do I have to feel anything at all but release?
My fingers on the bars are beginning to slip, so I readjust my grip, and somehow that breaks the spell. Lachlan lifts himself off of me, and with a hand on my hip, pulls himself out. I take a moment to run my fingers under my eyes before turning around to face him.
He stands there, pants at his ankles, shirt bunched up, showing off his ink and glorious six-pack. He’s pulling off the condom and tying it at the end but I’m barely paying attention. It’s the look in his eyes that gets me, steals my breath. They don’t have the peace, the softness that he usually gets after sex. He looks haunted instead, like I’m a ghost before him.
I swallow, my mouth parched, and try to think of something to say, but words escape me. I stare at him and he stares at me, electricity built of unsaid words and unknown feelings thrumming between us. There’s nothing awkward or uncomfortable about it. It’s just us, doing what we do, trying to glean something from each other that we don’t know ourselves, forever locked in each other’s eyes.
Finally he pulls up his pants, comes over to me, and pulls me into a wet, passionate kiss, his lips pressing hard against mine, his tongue tasting like me, like salt, like sweat.