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My fingers tangle in his hair, static electricity sticking to my palm. He hums around me, and the vibration travels up my spine until my toes curl against the cheap motel sheets.

“Holy fuck.” My gasp comes out broken. Desperate as hell. He pulls back slowly, dragging his tongue up the underside, and I have to bite my own knuckle to keep from making too much noise.

The popcorn ceiling keeps shimmering, and I can’t tell if it’s the bad lighting or my brain finally calling it quits. My head feels disconnected from my neck, and the whole room moves with me when I push myself up to my elbows to watch him.

Beckett releases me with this soft pop that makes me shiver. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and the look in them—hooded, half-feral—

I need him inside me.

Right fucking now.

I grab his wrist and pull him up without a second thought. He comes easily, crawling over me with this expression like he’s not fully awake yet, like it’s my fault he woke me up with a blowjob. God, I hope it's not the concussion—I really hope he just woke up horny.

My underwear comes off the rest of the way, and I kick them off my feet—one sock goes with it. "Are you okay?"

He nods. His face burrows into my neck, his cock grinding against my hip, already slick with precum.

Good.

One less thing to worry about.

“Fuck me,” I whisper, so eager that I almost cringe. “Please, please, please, please, fuck me.”

He makes a sound against my throat, something between a groan and my name, and I feel his hips stutter against mine. “Ira—”

“Please.” I arch up into him, my dick sliding against his stomach, and he shudders full-body. “I want your cock so badly. I want—” My voice cracks when he bites down on my collarbone, leaving dozens of baby hickeys from one side to the other. “God, Beckett, please.”

I’m embarrassingly close to coming, and when his tongue snakes against my neck, I can’t hold back my whimper.

“If I just do it now,” he mumbles, rocking into my hip, desperate and uncoordinated. “It’ll hurt. We need—”

Nope.

If he's fine, there's no more planning. I’m so fucking sick of it all. Needing to make adjustments. Sacrifices. Hyper-fucking-vigilence. I just want one goddamn morning of normal, run-of-the-mill, raunchy, wake-up sex before we have to go back to being America’s Most Wanted.

“I need your cum.” I grab his face and make him look at me. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, and I swear to God he stops breathing. “I need you to fuck me.”

His whole body goes still above me, like someone hit pause on a movie. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, rabbit-fast and heavy, and for one terrible second I think I’ve been too greedy when he needed me to be understanding—

“We don’t have lube,” he says.

“Spit.”

He scrunches his face. “Are you sure?”

No.

I’m not sure.

That’s the beauty of it.

Instead of answering, I roll onto my stomach, resisting every single urge to fuck the bed and pull my knees underneath me.

I hear him shift behind me, the mattress dipping as he kneels between my legs. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs pressing into the bird tattoo above my ass.

“Tell me if you want to stop.” His voice is so much more careful than it’s ever been, and I’m grateful, yeah, but that’s not what I need. We can be careful later.

We have forever to make boring, careful decisions.