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He makes a soft sound. Not a word. Just a short, throaty rasp of a breath. Then he bends his elbows and kisses me again.
This kiss lasts longer. So long I feel trapped by his weight and a visceral need that keeps rising inside me. I make a helpless, whimpering sound into his mouth. He immediately moves from my lips and kisses his way down my neck, using his teeth against my throbbing pulse until I arch up with a loud gasp at the sharp tug of pleasure.
He’s breathing as hard as I am when he reaches my breasts, giving them rough, greedy attention.
Maybe Jackson would be different if he were in love. If he were in a relationship. Or if the world outside this room hadn’t fallen into violent chaos, hadn’t become a constant war we have no choice but to fight. Maybe he would take his time. Be softer. Gentler. Maybe he would smile or even laugh.
Maybe I would be different too.
Maybe I wouldn’t need his hungry eyes and demanding hands in the dark.
But this is how we are together every time.
His mouth on my breasts is too much. When I can’t keep my hips still and have to rub myself shamelessly against his erection, I grab his head and pull it away from my chest. Then I reach down between our bodies so I can get my hands on his hard cock.
His breath hitches, but I’m not trying to make him feel good. I just need to touch it. Touch him. Run my fingers along the thick shape of him, the texture of his skin.
He readjusts his legs so he’s on his knees and then pries my legs farther apart to finger me. I’m wet and hot and aching, and I arch my spine and fist the sheet as he pumps his hand. Satisfied that I’m ready for him, he lifts my ass until I’m aligned with his groin, and then he guides his cock inside me.
He feels big and tight and intrusive. I take a few shaky breaths as I settle myself around him. Around the intensity of the pleasure. When I’ve relaxed, he starts to fuck me.
He’s got complete control of my body. I hook my legs around his thighs as best I can, but mostly I can only move when he moves me. His hips pump fast. Vigorous. My breasts jiggle from the momentum, and my hair sticks to the damp skin of my cheeks and neck.
His eyes crawl up and down my body. From my face to the place his cock moves in and out of me. My eyes have adjusted more so I can see more details. His messy hair keeps falling into his eyes, and he’ll give his head a quick jerk occasionally to move it out of the way. His bare chest has a scattering of dark, coarse hair, and the impressive definition of his arms—the strong, corded muscles there—flex and tense.
I have a brief impulse to stroke them. Feel the shape of them. To trace his familiar features with my fingertips. To push his thick waves back from his forehead.
I don’t do any of that. An orgasm is coiling tight at my center, and I flail my arms out to grab the bedding more securely as it comes.
The sensations plateau, even as Jackson fucks me harder and faster. With a soft whimper, I let go of the sheet with one hand and rub my clit instead.
My pussy flutters around his cock. It’s a relief but not enough. Not as deep and intense as I want. I keep rubbing in fast circles and toss my head back and forth, gasping out a sloppy sound of frustration.
It’s not a word. Not any sort of word. But Jackson gives a grunt and pulls out as he lowers me back to the bed. Then he turns me over onto my hands and knees and lines himself up from behind.
I’m swallowed by a deep ache, an urgent need I can feel in my bones. I’m panting loudly as he pushes his way back inside me, squeezing the flesh of my ass with both hands.
He works up to the same fast, rough rhythm, and this time the angle of penetration helps. I whimper as an orgasm tightens again. My hair is in my face, and it ruffles with my breath.
Jackson gathers it in one big handful so it’s no longer in my face. Then he uses the hand to push down against my neck until my elbows buckle and my upper body falls down, leaving only my bottom in the air.
He gives a grunt that’s almost primal. Fucks me so hard the bedsprings are groaning and the bed frame shifts against the old hardwood floor.
My cheek is pressed against the mattress now. I try to keep quiet. I even bite my lower lip. But I make a helpless, sobbing sound as a hard orgasm breaks, spasming out from my core and slicing through my whole body, all the way to my fingers and toes.
Jackson knows I came. Even overwhelmed by the sensations, I hear the rough sound of satisfaction he makes as he watches me, feels me coming all around him. Then he finally falls out of rhythm, giving me a few last hard pushes before he yanks out his cock and gasps wetly as he comes in several spurts onto my lower back.
We stay in position for a minute—me with my face pushed into the bed and my ass in the air, him kneeling behind me with a fistful of my hair. The only sound in the room now is the texture of our heavy breathing.
Then he’s moving. He grabs a piece of clothing from the floor—it looks like the T-shirt he wore today—and wipes his semen from my back in a quick, efficient swipe. I roll onto my side, stretching my back and thigh muscles until I’m confident I can move without wincing.
Then I climb off the bed, grab my gown from the floor to pull it on over my head, and go to pick up my candle from the table.
I don’t say a word and neither does he as I leave, making my way down the dark hall and returning to my room.
There I pee and clean myself up a bit before I fall into bed. This time, when my eyes close, the world doesn’t whirl around me. I’m asleep in less than five minutes.
Maybe it would be different if we were in a relationship, but we’re not. He’s not my friend or my boyfriend, and we don’t spend every night together.
But sometimes I go to his room after the sun goes down. I need to. Not for sweet words or soft kisses but because his arms, like the flickering light of that one candle, are the only things that can hold back the night.
