I pull back just enough to look at her again. Her eyes are dark, her breathing uneven.
“Layla,” I say, my voice low. “If we keep going like this, I’m not going to want to stop.”
She meets my eyes without flinching.
“Then don’t,” she whispers.
Something in me snaps. I stand with her still wrapped around me and turn again, laying her back on the workbench long enough to shove my shorts down and kick them away.
Gently, I pull down her black bathing suit. It’s dryer now than when we entered this cramped space. Layla helps as she steps out of it, revealing the beautiful curvature of her hips as she bends.
When I sit back down and pull her onto my lap once more, there’s nothing between us but skin and heat and the last of my restraint.
She settles over me, and for a moment we both go still. The feeling of her against me, bare and warm and wanting, is almost too much. My hands grip her hips, holding her there while I breathe through it.
Her forehead drops to mine. “Hudson…”
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, even though I’m the one coming undone. “Just… tell me if it’s too much.”
She answers by kissing me again -- slow and deep and certain. Layla raises one leg and reaches for my cock, stroking it up anddown and lingering near the tip which is wet and ready. I feel her point it right at her entrance. Then she starts to move.
It’s slow at first, almost tentative, like she’s testing how this feels. How we feel as I enter her. My hands tighten on her hips, guiding her without forcing. The heat of her against me is almost unbearable. Every slow roll of her body sends another shock of pleasure through me, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from rushing her.
Layla’s breath stutters against my mouth. She kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel the moment she stops thinking and just lets herself feel. Her hands slide into my hair, holding on as she moves with more purpose. The bench creaks beneath us with every shift of her weight.
“Fuck, Layla…”
The words come out rough. I drag my mouth down her throat, tasting the salt on her skin. One of my hands leaves her hip to slide up her back, then around to cup her breast again. She arches into my touch with a soft, broken sound that goes straight through me.
I can’t get enough of her like this. The way she moves. The way she sounds. The way she’s trusting me with this.
She rocks against me again, and this time there’s nothing careful about it. The friction is maddening. I’m hard and aching, and every time she presses down, I have to fight the urge to flip her onto the bench and take over. But I don’t. I let her set the pace, even when it’s killing me.
Her breathing grows faster. I can feel the tension building in her body, in the way her thighs tighten around mine and her fingers grip my shoulders harder. I slide one hand between us, my thumb finding that sensitive spot above where we’re joined, rubbing slow circles in time with her movements.
“Hudson -- ” My name breaks on her lips.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her mouth. “Let go if you need to.”
She shakes her head, but it’s not a refusal. It’s overwhelm. Her forehead drops to my shoulder as she keeps moving, chasing something just out of reach. I keep my thumb moving, steady and patient, while my other hand grips her hip and helps her rock against me. The sounds she’s making are going to ruin me
.I kiss the side of her neck, then higher, catching her earlobe between my teeth.
“That’s it,” I tell her, voice low and rough. “Just like that.”
Her rhythm falters. She presses down harder, and I feel the exact moment it hits her. Her whole body goes tight, a choked sound escaping her throat as she comes. I hold her through it, one arm banded around her waist, the other still working between us, drawing it out as long as I can.
She’s still trembling when she lifts her head. Her eyes are glassy, her lips parted. She looks wrecked in the best possible way. Before she can say anything, I kiss her again -- hard and deep and grateful. Then I shift my grip, lifting her just enough to change the angle. When I pull her back down, the new friction makes us both groan. I’m close. Too close. But I want to feel her come apart again if she can.
“Still with me?” I ask against her mouth.
She nods, breathless. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I move with her now, meeting every roll of her hips with my own. The bench is too small, the space too cramped, but none of it matters. All that exists is the heat of her, the way she clings to me, and the building pressure low in my spine.
When it finally hits me, it’s sharp and overwhelming. I bury my face in her neck and hold her tight as I come, a low, guttural sound tearing from my throat. She stays with me through it, her hands stroking the back of my neck, her body still moving in small, soothing rolls until the last tremors fade.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sounds are our breathing and the rain still tapping against the roof, softer now. I keep my arms around her, one hand splayed across her lower back, the other cradling the back of her head. She’s still straddling me, still pressed close, and I’m in no hurry to change that.
