His palms caress down my body, leaving my nipples cold and aching when they had been on fire only moments before. His teeth scrape my neck, his hands press under the cotton of my leggings and drag them down. I toe off my shoes, and he lifts me, tugging away my clothing. But there’s no time to process how naked I am while he is not. He steps to my right, his legs in front and behind my leg, and reaches around with one hand and drags my mouth to his, while his other hand slides down my belly and two fingers press inside my sex.
“Oh God,” I murmur against his lips. “God. Luke, I—Please.” It’s a desperate plea, but his fingers, they’re relentless, demanding I press against them, pump against their movement, and I don’t want to come like this. But I might. I really, really think I will.
Soon.
Now.
No.
He drags his fingers out of me, and I gasp, only to realize that he’s shoving his pants down.
Moments later, that feel like a lifetime, he’s lifting my leg, anchoring my hips to his hips, and pressing inside me, thrusting deep, and hard, his cock thick as it settles in, all intimate and right. And then he’s shackling my hips, thrusting, and thrusting, a frenzied rhythm to the way he pumps inside me, rubbing me all the right ways, inside and out. I’m so close to the edge again, but it’s so far away, and I like it like that.
Harder.
Just fuck me harder.
I don’t want this to end.
When he pulls out and turns me around, kissing me all dirty and messy, and shoves his fingers in my mouth even as he pushes his cock inside me, all I can breathe out is, “Yes.” I don’t even know what the question is. But the answer is yes.
I suck on his fingers, and he pushes deeper inside me, lifts me, anchors me on the counter, and just grinds with me. His eyes are all over my breasts, watching them sway and bounce, and again, I just whisper, “Yes.” He never asks what “yes” means.
Yes, is pretty clear.
Keep doing what you’re doing and do more of it.
Eventually more is too much, or not enough, however, you want to look at being driven to the most intense orgasm of your life. My body quakes and jerks, and it’s like this earthquake erupting in my body. I take him with me too, drag him to the point of no return, but how can he not come with me? My sex is spasming so hard, that his cock never has a chance of holding back.
He shudders and roars out this guttural reaction, that is as primal as it is hot.
We crash into each other, melt there, me on the sink, and him holding me, neither of us speaking. Perhaps because we both know when we do, the rest of the world matters. And the rest of the world is going to scream loudly to be heard. It’s already screaming in my head and I don’t like anything it says. Yet I know I have to listen. And so does Luke.
We break apart, staring at each other, that understanding in our shared look.
But there’s also another understanding.
One that says we both needed this. We both need each other. He grabs a towel and presses it between my legs, and then rights his pants. My gaze lowers and lands on his hand where it rests on my leg, a bloody cut on top. I catch his fingers. “What happened?”
His blue eyes burn with shame. “I punched him.”
“I wanted to punch him. He deserved it.”
“He was tied up Ana, which I’m not proud of.”
Honesty.
That’s how I see his confession. He was honest, despite how he felt that might affect my narrative about him. “Why did you punch him?” I ask, which seems to me to be the real way to define a bitch move, as he calls it.
“He made you go to his funeral and then held a gun to your head, Ana. I was scared shitless I was going to your funeral. And I swear to you, he would not have lived to see that day.”
My heart swells all over again, emotions trembling in my belly. “How am I supposed to be angry with you when you were just protecting me, Luke?”
“Punching a man who’s tied up is not protecting you.”
“You forget that you’re the one who held a gun on him when he was holding one to me. He sucker punched us with the funeral and used me as a shield. He deserved to be punched, Luke. How can you think I’d look down on you for protecting me and my honor?”
“I thought you didn’t want to be protected?”
“That’s the thing about being protected when you can protect yourself. It still feels good.” Those emotions in my belly now burn my chest. “Fuck Kurt,” I whisper.
Luke slides a hand over my hair and tilts my face to his, but he doesn’t say “Fuck Kurt.” “We both needed to say those words, baby, but they won’t solve our problems. As much as I want it to be that simple, it’s not. We have to face this, whatever the hell this is, and get as dirty as we have to get to make our happily ever after, and it won’t be the good kind of dirty.”
He’s right.
It won’t be the good kind of dirty.
In fact, this is all a little too dirty, in all the wrong ways.