Newswomen #04

Her hips rose to meet the first slow push. She felt thick and full in the way silk feels thick when it spills across bare skin. A soft sound left her lips. The little catch that says she is already gone. She shut her eyes, letting the weight of his body press the air from her chest. Warm breath slid across her throat. The next thrust came quicker, slick now, his hand braced at her waist, fingers digging crescents into flesh. She opened to him each time. Let him slide deeper, hit the spot that made her pulse between her legs, that made the room blur at the edges. He pulled back almost to the tip and paused—just long enough for her hips to chase after him—then drove forward again. The slap of skin. The wet, secret sounds she had once been shy about. Now they fed the heat pooling low in her belly. She reached up, dragged her nails down the ridges of his back, left fire-trails behind. He groaned, a low vibration that travelled straight into her. Sweat gathered at the dip of her collarbone. He licked it away, tasted salt and need, thrust again. She felt herself tightening, fluttering, that sudden almost-spasm that warned of the fall ahead. He sensed it too. Shifted angle. Ground deep. One hand slid between them, thumb circling until her thighs began to shake. Another hard push. Another. Her mouth opened without sound, the second-before scream building. Light burst behind her eyelids. He fucked her straight through it, kept the rhythm she begged for without words, rode every jolt until she was limp and laughing beneath him, thighs slick, breath still catching. Only then did he let go, pushing in once more, coming hard with her name broken on his tongue. She stroked the damp hair from his temple, still tasting the salt of his shoulder. Outside, dawn was peeling the shadows off the sheets. Inside, nothing had changed. Everything had.