how is that not f--

Calden White

The things. She says.

A sudden flare of humor bursts in his eyes. It doesn't matter that even that small, playful slide of her hip makes his breath catch. It doesn't matter that what she says makes his cock give another one of those longing, restless twitches, as though it had a mind of its own, as though it knew very well how close her cunt is, how hot, how tight, how wet and slippery and slick and fuckable she is from coming again and again.

He knows these things too. They're on his mind; he can smell her, and she smells like sex. And even so: he laughs even as he's kissing her, smiles even as he's sucking her taste off her fingers. And that's a lazy thing too: lazy and animalistic in his own right, his tongue tracing rough and warm between her fingers, curling around the very tips with that slow, adoring dexterity she knows quite well.

"I really am, aren't I," he agrees. He doesn't sound the slightest bit remorseful.

When he finishes, he wraps his hand around hers, brings it back to his chest. The back of her hand rests against the center of his chest; that shallow valley where his pectorals insert into the breastbone. His heartbeat is there, deep and solid beneath skin, beneath bone. His thumb traces the side of hers. He leans forward to kiss her again, and this time he stays close, the tips of their noses nearly touching, their faces too near for their eyes to discern features clearly.

Green, though. His eyes are green after all: a greyish, inexact shade of green that changes with the light and the time of day and his clothing and his mood.

And now he's releasing her hand, sliding his palm down her back, slipping his fingers over the curve of her ass, and down, and in, until the pads of his fingers are stroking the lips of her cunt. And now those mutable green eyes are darkening, a lightning bolt of fresh desire crackling through them.

"It's like I can't even help myself," he whispers, and

that slow smirk is back again.

Avery Chase

The intensity with which Calden wants to fuck her now, needs to fuck her now, is abated only by those kisses, those laughs, those slow touches. Avery smirks at him and moves against his cock again, seeing how loudly she can make him gasp. She thinks of mocking him, teasing him, opening her thighs and letting him see her as she stretches, rolling her hips and extending her back,

but it feels so nice, what he does to her fingers. It feels so nice, how he holds her hand and kisses her. It feels nice, how he touches her back and her ass and tries to touch her pussy again. She tsks him, swiveling her hips away.

"That is very sad," she murmurs, without meaning it. She rolls to her side now, her breasts displayed, open, when she already knows he can't seem to stay away from them for long. She opens her thighs. One knee points upward. Her own hand strokes between her legs, fingers spread to either side, making her head fall back and her lips part. "So sad," she exhales, shivering, opening her eyes again while she touches herself, circling her clit without ever touching it, watching his eyes.

"Because I've had my fill of you, now. All that's left to do is wash all your filthy, nasty cum off of me and go home. I wouldn't dream of taking advantage of your hospitality any further."

Her tone is tightened, intensified, when she slips her finger into her cunt. "I just couldn't."

Calden White

The pads of his fingers manage to graze her lips. Then she swivels away, rolling onto her side, leaving him with an impression of wetness that he,

smirking,

sucks off his fingers as she opens her legs. That smirk burns away into something else altogether: a lean, taut hunger, his eyes going immediately to what she shows him as though drawn there by magnets.

"Now you're just being mean," he mutters, and then

she starts to touch herself. A furrow twitches across his brow. His lips part. When her fingers circle her clit -- that clit he's spent the last whoknowshowlong tending to, caring for, worshiping with his mouth -- he lets a short breath out, sharp and tight, his chest moving visibly. And when she says what she does,

had my fill,
filthy, nasty cum,

Calden is licking his lips; one of those big capable hands is grazing down his stomach to wrap around his cock. He's wound so tight that every muscle stands out: every cord in his forearms, every ridge in his abdomen. They tighten on that first, mindless stroke. He shudders; he wasn't lying after all. It's like he can't help himself. His flanks flex and his hips thrust against his own hand, and he's stroking himself, trying to go slow at least, trying not to jerk off like a mindless beast.

All while he's staring at her. All while he's watching her, entranced, aching, wanting to see her touch herself, wanting to see --

she slips a finger inside herself.

He groans aloud.

And then he's on her. He's levering up on his elbow and he's leaning over her, leaning into her, stroking his cock in furious, hard pumps; his mouth utterly covetous on her tits.

Avery Chase

There.

That is what he gets.

That's what he gets for being so rude, for leaving her panties on when he first went down on her, for covering her mouth when she was screaming, for all his pawing and suckling on her breasts, for that time he smacked his palm on her ass, for laying back on the arm of the couch naked and hard and muscular like he wanted her to stare at him. This is what he gets for doing all these awful, nasty things that made her so very wet, that made her so very eager to fuck him.

Filthy bastard.

She has no answer to him: he calls her mean, maybe she is and maybe she knows he wants to watch her. She and he lay facing each other for a few moments, Calden licking his lips and Avery watching his eyes while she plays with herself. He starts jerking off, barely able to keep from just fucking his hand, staring at her, mouth open and lips drying after he licks them because he's breathing so hard.

He groans. Avery laughs, and then she gasps, and she's thinking of rolling onto all fours and fucking herself with her hand, making him watch, or making him so crazy he just gets on her again and fucks her brainless, but she doesn't get that far. He lunges onto her, to suck on her breasts, lick them til they bounce on his tongue, stroking his cock like he doesn't care now, he doesn't care if he comes inside of her or just on her or near her so long as he can come, so long as he can devote himself to her skin like this as he does.

She laughs again, rolling onto her back, but she doesn't open her legs wide and reach down to guide him into her. She strokes his sides and his arms, muttering in his ear, her thighs together and shifting against one another, stroking his cock sometimes 'on accident'. Under him now, Avery takes her finger and slips it into her mouth, sucking on it, sucking on her own taste, while Calden turns into a rutting, mindless beast over her.

"Oh, Mr. White," she mutters, licking her finger, sighing. Her free hand runs down to his flank, fingernails curling under and raking slowly, softly, up his ass. "I don't know if I can take you again. It's such a rough, brutish cock."

Calden White

Calden wasn't exactly restrained out on the couch. He wasn't exactly shy and muttering and biting-back and quiet. On the contrary, he was bold, he was unabashedly confident, he wasn't afraid, not in the slightest, to let go.

But this: this is something else altogether. This is a sort of madness, a rutting-fever of his own. And she's laughing, and he's making that gravelly growling sound again, he's on her tits like maybe if he just sucks them enough, licks them enough, she'll open her legs, she'll let him mount her, good strong well-made son of Stag that he is.

She rolls on her back. He loses her for a moment -- her breast slipping out of his mouth. He bites her bicep, because that's the nearest thing to his teeth, and then he's following her with his forearm braced on that thick mattress of his, his weight slung from one shoulder, one side. It'd be easier if he'd just put both elbows down, but no: that hand is busy, it's occupied, he's pumping his cock as he's following her, moving over her again, and now

his heart is beating so hard she can feel it where they press together, his broad chest against her smooth abdomen. She doesn't open her legs. He ruts against his hand instead, he ruts against her skin, he lets go of himself at last to grasp her hip instead and hold her there, because if she won't let him inside then he can at least rub against those silky thighs of hers.

Arousal makes him hyperaware. His eyes are instantly on her mouth when she sucks her own taste off her finger. His mouth hovers over her tit, his breath humid and hot on her nipple, his tongue pressed against that little bud of tissue, forgotten while he stares. And in counterpoint to all this -- as though she were immune to this, as though she really was the ice-veined blue-blooded thing everyone says the Silver Fangs are -- she's touching him so lightly, so casually; she's saying things that blow his mind, turn him inside out, make him quite literally moan aloud.

"God," he says; he surges up her body, his hand going back to his cock again, stroking, slapping it against her inner thigh, pressing at the seam of her legs. "Stop teasing me and fuck me before I -- "

-- she rakes her fingernails up his ass. He shudders all over, drops his brow to hers, loses his words for a moment, closes his eyes. He's breathing so hard his ribs move, his shoulderblades, every muscle on his torso, and then he's kissing her again, furiously, breathing through flaring nostrils as he eats at her mouth

and grinds against her body

and works his knee between her thighs, trying to coax her open to him.

Avery Chase

And perhaps this is what she needed -- needs -- too: to see him as mindless, as heedless as he made her on the couch when she was bucking and screaming, to send him reeling as hard into his own orgasm as she was just moments ago, whimpering and squirming against his mouth. Maybe she just needs things to be equal somehow, balanced somehow, which

might be why she worries no more than he does about the differences in their nature, their relative strength, the laws that might call him territory and their fucking trespass, those things that say not equal, not balanced, not sane.

The Triat became obsessed with their internal power struggles, their relative strength, their territories. Look where it got them. Look where it got everyone.

Avery kisses him, adoringly, sweetly, the goddess giving back blessing and forgiveness and sanctity to the steadfast pilgrim. She cups his face in her hands and she pulls his mouth to hers and he can't kiss her with any thought, he can't do anything but eat at her mouth and growl at her and gasp half-sentences, but this is right, and good, just as it is right and good for him to rub himself on her thighs where he can't enter her pussy. Just as it is right and good for him to groan like that, growl and grunt and thrust like that,

good, strong, well-made son of Stag that he is.

He knows she's not blue-blooded. He knows she isn't icy; just look at her, suckling her finger like that. Just feel those silken thighs, hot to the touch. He knows already how far she'll go. He presses his cock between her legs, he begs, and he starts trying to get her thighs apart so he can fuck her.

Avery makes him work for it. She squirms and whines against his mouth, like she doesn't want to, like he's being so mean and nasty, he's too dirty, she can't take it again. She laughs, breathy and warm, when his mouth loses hers for a moment or two. She meets his eyes and he knows. That look in her eyes, even if she won't say a word.

The strange, heart-plummeting thing is, that look also bespeaks trust.

She makes him push her legs apart. She laughs when he does and opens them wider, the inner arches of her feet against his hips, her hands running down his back to his ass, pulling him forward. She probably doesn't need to.

Calden White

There's a subtle delicacy to this moment. As much as she may have needed that first shattering orgasm, she needs to see him like this: losing himself, forgetting himself, rushing headlong into want and need and desire and pleasure. As much as she needs that, he needs,

right now,

to be pushed this far and no farther. He needs to be taken apart into raw want, but to not be ground down into humiliation. He needs her to let him in, because there's a thread of real, incandescent need in him. There's an honesty to what he asks, what he's begging for, and the truth is he's confident, he's sure, he's secure in himself, but he is not without pride. In some ways, it's that quiet pride -- that intrinsic backbone -- that makes all the rest of it possible.

She lets him in. She cups his face, the angle of his jaw hard against her palms and the bristle of his beard rough against her skin. She kisses him like that, so sweetly, so adoringly, even though right now he's not capable of much more than roughness, plunder, need. He kisses her like he might find something hidden in her, something precious and rare. And all the while he's working his leg between hers, he's putting his hand between her thighs and he's working her legs apart, he's urging her open, open.

She makes him work for it. She squirms like she doesn't want it, can't handle it, can't take it again. He pants against her mouth and he's muttering something but they're just sounds, they don't string into words, and she's deflecting his hand and closing her thighs and

that is when his mouth loses hers. That's when he draws back, just for a second, and looks for her eyes. Finds them.

And there it is: he needs this, too. He needs -- paradoxical as it seems, when she's what she is and he's who he is and she's driving him mad and he has his pride and she has her claws and --

he needs to see what he finds in her eyes. He needs to see the want in her eyes, and the laughter, and the warmth, and

the trust.

His mouth finds hers again. Oh, it's a strange, tender thing, that kiss. It goes on forever, it's slow, it's rich, it's adoring, it's drenching as an april rainstorm. He's kissing her and for the span of that kiss he's not prying at her legs, he's not clutching at her body. He's grinding against her but even that's slow, and tidal; matches the rhythm of their breath and their pulse and their mouths, moving over each other.

When it ends their eyes meet again. He's seen her in the shape of a monstrously large wolf, and yet it's her eyes that mark her most indelibly as a wild thing, not quite of this world. He holds her gaze and

now, suddenly, they're back where they were. That hunger that had him staring, groaning, begging -- it flares to life again in his eyes. She keeps her legs together. He pushes them apart. He's rough about it, he growls as he does it, the muscles in his chest flex against her breasts. He's between her legs then, the hot hard curve of his rough brutish cock heavy against her cunt. He flexes against her, thrusts against her, and they've had each other so many times and so many ways that there's no telling whose wetness it is that slicks that contact, smooths that friction. He grunts as he fucks her like this, moves against her without entering her, and she

laughs the way she does, opening her legs to him now, which makes him a little crazy, makes him see stars, makes him come back to her mouth for another kiss. This one's as rough as the way he opened her up, as rough as the way he's holding her down now, holding her hips in place with one hand even as she's pulling him into her, weighing her body down beneath his even as she's pressing her feet against that indent of the muscle of his ass tucks beneath the muscle of his thigh. He takes his cock by the base; she feels him pressing against her, all heat and strength and reckless, mindless want.

" -- god!"

It's not even a groan. It's a shout, it's a snarl; he pushes into her in one hard slide, and his back bows as he pounds in to the hilt. There's another thrust right on the heels of that one, a second, rougher, harder slam as though to drive the first home. He lays his weight on his forearms, leverages himself over her just enough to look down between them, see where they're joined.

When he raises his head he kisses her again. Fervent; thankful; worshipful. He seems to have forgotten chivalry, forgotten hospitality, forgotten all those trappings of civility and civilization. He wraps his arms around her when his mouth loses hers. He kisses her and he fucks her, recklessly, wildly, pounding her against that rather luxurious mattress, grunting like a beast.

Avery Chase

They collide. Her feet on his flank, his arms on either side of her to hold himself up, but barely. Even the rough sliding of his cock against her makes Avery pant, makes her shudder, makes her hands come up to clutch suddenly at his biceps. She tilts her head back, and it's pleasure, even if that pleasure is almost unbearable. She laughs, and the laughter has an edge of gasping to it.

Oh, it's a lovely sound.

Calden enters her. Hard. There's something ferocious in it, almost violent. She thinks of frenzies. She thinks of her own hunt, and the hunger that surrounded her like a miasma as she tore into the belly of the elk. She thinks of need and of relief. She thinks that she teased him into this, and that this is what she asked for, and that as much as he taunted her into screaming and bucking against him on the couch, she didn't lose her mind like this. She was wild then, and fucked him back quite hard as she came, and she was mindless.

None of those thoughts stop her from feeling a sharp pain when he thrusts into her. She was not (entirely) kidding: she almost can't take it. He is rough, and he is brutish, and he turns her on, and she likes him, and,

right now,

he is hurting her. Avery's back straightens, the arch in it unbending to lower her to the mattress, her body resisting even when she hasn't made the decision yet to do so. She trembles under him, hands loose on his biceps for a second, then smoothing up to his back. He thrusts again and sees her eyes, widened for a moment, an edge of pain and even simple startlement in her gaze. That second rough, growling thrust begins to slide away and she unlocks her fingernails from his back, only then realizing she dug them in to begin with.

Avery is no delicate hothouse flower. She is slim but only because she is strong, because she is athletic and graceful. She is not as hearty as he is by a very long shot, though, not in this form. This round feels like the last, must be last, because her muscles quiver from exertion, her heart trembles from all of these spikes of arousal and need and want. She is strong, though, and her legs show him her strength. He pounds himself into her, grunting and groaning the way he is, and her legs wrap around him, her thighs pressed onto his hips, using that leverage to slow him a little, to ease him a little. She watches his eyes, pain giving way to adaptation and, far beneath all of that, perhaps even farther than he can see right now, playfulness and trust giving way to a hint of wariness.

He can have her. But he may not be reckless with her.

Calden White

So -- all the time she kept herself closed, all the coy little things she said, the way she touched him and stroked him and slowed him and made him wait for it -- there was an element of truth there, or at least of necessity. It's not just that she was teasing him, she was enticing him, she was driving him to distraction and madness. It's that she is, in fact, close to a limit, and even were she not,

this is rough. It's too rough, and now,

now there's a no implied in her body, or at least a wait. There's wariness in her eyes. There's an answering stillness in his body, there on the end of that second brutal thrust; two, and no more. Under her hands, he seizes and quivers with strain like some animal ridden too hard; like one of his horses, one of his bulls. He drops his brow to her shoulder for a second, his breath hot over her breasts.

Then he lifts his head and finds her eyes. That one bedside lamp is still on, and it casts enough light for them to find each other. He shifts over her, raising a hand, his palm brushing her temple and his fingers stroking back her hair. And he eases a little inside her, drawing back, sliding halfway out.

"...okay?" -- it's a pant; it's meant to be a sentence, are you okay, but that's the only part that makes it out.

Avery Chase

Is she?

Avery stares at him, eyes open and bluer than blue, those silver edges giving her eyes a youth and brightness that will never leave her, even if she survives into ripe, wolf-less old age. Her lips are parted, her body underneath his trembling still, though not from fear. They are both shaking, then. He draws back, though perhaps it's almost too much to bear, and asks that single word.

Her cunt, involuntarily and perhaps traitorously, clenches slowly, wave-like, around him.

There's a flash of creamy white as her throat moves, swallowing, lips sealed for a second. They open again to exhale; her eyes open, too, finding his. Her thighs, still holding him back, relax slowly. Those hands of hers run up his nail-scored back to his face, and she draws him to kiss her, It makes her shudder. Their mouths meld together, hers warm and wet, all of her warm and wet. Her lips trail slowly off of his, stay against his when she whispers:

"Not so hard,"

which is not the same as slow, not really. Avery kisses him again.

Calden White

That slow squeeze of her body drops his brow to her shoulder again. He moans against the upper slope of her breast, low, nearly agonized, like he can't help himself. He doesn't move, though. He shudders -- they both do -- but he doesn't push into her again.

She runs her hands up his back. There's a faint sting as her palms course over those faint weals she left when he took her too hard and she dug in, but it's more the salt of his sweat than anything she does. He raises his head as she draws him to her mouth, and that kiss is a melting, aching thing.

Her lips move against his. Not so hard. He nods, and his hand cups beneath her neck as she kisses him again. It stays there, holding them together, his brow to hers, even as his other hand finds hers and presses it to the center of his chest. Where she can feel his heart beating. Where she can feel the tension and traction of his body, moving into hers.

And also: where can push him back, push him away, if she needs to.

That hand of his curves over her breast, cups the side of her chest. He starts moving in her again, and she didn't say slow, but he goes slowly anyway -- slowly at first, anyway -- deepseated tidal rolls of his hips against hers, a slow firm slide of his cock into her, and withdrawing, and in again. He waits for her this time. He waits for her to tell him, or show him, or urge him: faster, or harder, or slower, or gentler.

Avery Chase

It won't be long. She could have just laid back and bore it, taken him, thought of England, what-have-you.

She also could have called on utterly inhuman strength and thrown him across the room. Or through a wall. But that never occurred to her. He can see in her eyes how vulnerable she is, or thinks she is, right then. Even when anyone who knows the truth of the matter would say that she has the upper hand, she has the greater strength, she is not the one who could be hurt. But looking at her right then, hearing the cry she gives out that isn't all pleasure, Miss Avery Chase seems as wary of his brute physical strength as if she were as mortal, and as fragile, as any human.

But they kiss, and into that kiss she murmurs what she wants, which is an answer and a plea and an encouragement all at once. Valden moves her hand between them, and Avery wraps her free arm around him. They are very close indeed then, his hand on her breast and his body returning to hers like a wave. She gasps at the first one, and clutches at him, but this time not strictly in pain. She is just tender, just raw, and even so she feels incandescent when he does it again.

A little while later, fresh wetness is starting to make his cock slip when he pushes into her. Avery's spine is relaxed again, and then slowly arching again, and she's not pushing him away at the chest but drawing his mouth to her breast, panting as he moves

"A little faster."

Calden White

She hardly has to draw him anywhere. Her hand slides up the back of his head, her thumb behind his ear, and he bows to her -- his lips drag over her neck, his bristle leaves a faint scintillating sting across her collarbone. Then his mouth fastens to her breast again. So many times now, over and over, he's taken her nipple against his tongue, and sometimes it's slow, sometimes it's teasing, sometimes it's playful.

This time it's molten. His mouth surrounds that sensitive peak in warmth, the same way his body envelopes hers when he moves atop her and into her like this. His arms are sliding under her back again, lifting her a little from those sheets -- nice smooth cotton, but not fancy, never quite so opulent as satin or silk -- lifting her as she arches to receive him.

She tells him how to take her. He makes an answering sound, muffled and indistinct. His shoulders round, and his weight shifts; the angle changes a little. The mattress beneath her bears the brunt of his momentum. He goes

a little faster, his mouth losing her breast for a moment to breathe, to pant, to groan. Then he catches her nipple again, the other one, leaving the first to cool as he lavishes attention on its twin. He's still groaning, the sound muffled and intense, wanting, tattooed against her skin. One hand has slid to the small of her back, presses her upright, holds her there as though somehow in this way he could better gauge his own strength, her reaction, their impact.

Avery Chase

Avery laughs at him again. Breathily, indistinct, without that gleaming edge that curves as wickedly as the blade of a knife. She holds him with her legs and her arms and when he is willing to take breaks from her breasts -- soft, happy handfuls that they are -- she kisses him. Sometimes she moves back against him, riding herself up on his cock or gently, slowly working herself in a circle on him, under him. It isn't nearly as energetic or fervent as she was on the touch, but

he wore her out. And then came back for more.

She murmurs, whispers in his ear: "Do you want me to come again, Mr. White?"

Calden White

Somehow it feels like a long time since he's heard her laugh. It hasn't been long at all; a handful of minutes, perhaps. It feels longer, and it washes through him, brings his head up from her breasts.

Long enough for her to kiss him. Long enough for her to wrap him in her arms and her legs, and long enough for him to crush her close as their mouths meet and kiss and part again. His mouth is to her neck, her lips by his ear. He's moving into her, and though she's nearly languid beneath him, there's still a coiled eroticism in him, an energy that he, in truth, has to restrain.

Strange, that. Anyone voyeur who knows the truth of what they are would think she's the one who has to hold back. He's the one who should be careful.

And he is careful -- but not because he's afraid of her. He's careful because there was that moment, that hitch where it nearly slid into something soulless and a little shameful; it nearly became something they would have risen from and wanted, ultimately, to forget. This: this is not something he wants to forget.

He pants, harshly, when her lips brush his ear. Those words have him turning one hand palm-down to the mattress, grasping a fistful of sheets. His knuckles press against her back for a moment. Then his hand comes back to her, pulls at her back. That arm wraps tightly all the way around her -- fingers curving around her ribs. He kisses her fiercely, fervently -- not her mouth but the side of her neck, the hollow above her collarbone.

"Yes." He's honest; there's no room in his imploding mind for witty repartee; coy dissemblance. "Yes, I want to see you come again."

Avery Chase

It's truthfully the way his hand has to leave her and grab the sheet in his fist, and the furrow in his brow, and the sweat slicking his back and shoulders and sides and thighs from all their heat, and the way he's still thrusting into her, moving into her, that makes Avery shiver. She arches her back, tips her head away form him, lets him kiss her throat and her chest and her ear.

Her tongue flicks over his ear. It's like she can't stop herself. "Not fair," she whispers, and runs her hands down his sides. He shuddered earlier when she raked her fingernails lightly, softly up his ass; she liked that. She does it again.

"Come inside me, Calden," she whispers, her breath touching his skin where she licked him. "Fuck your cum into me."

Calden White

"How is that -- "

he can barely put words together, can barely keep a sentence on track. That one breaks in the middle. Breaks because he's groaning, breaks because he's panting, breaks because she rakes her fingernails over him again and it makes his hips buck against her as though he were electrified; makes a tingling ripple of shudders go up his spine. He tries again:

" -- how is that not f--"

Nope. She whispers what she does. Her breath lifts moisture from his skin. He can't tell anymore: what's his sweat, what's her saliva, what's his precum, what's her slick. They are. Both. Filthy, and he is trying, trying, trying so hard not to lose his mind again, but

those words just set him right off. Goes right through him, like a blade through paper. He never finishes his question. The word simply slips away from him; his voice shears sideways into a rough, guttural noise, a shout half-strangled in his throat -- and the next thrust is very nearly uncontrolled again. He slams his hips into hers, pounds her solidly down, but god, he doesn't want to hurt her again, doesn't want to go too hard so he just stays there, stays right there, grinding, groaning, turning his face against her neck as though to hide from the havoc going through him.

She can feel his hands grasping at her body. She can feel every muscle in him tense -- the broad dorsal sheets, the obliques, the lean columns flanking his spine; his ass, his thighs, his arms, right down to his fingers and toes curling against whatever purchase they can find. She can feel him deep inside her, trying his best to be motionless, to not thrust into her like a wild, mindless, careless, reckless thing -- coming inside her in pulsations that shred his mind to pieces, to ribbons and tatters,

gasping and panting,

catching his breath and releasing it in a grunt as it crests, rolls on, rolls out, starts to let him go. His brow drops to the sheets past her shoulder. He presses his mouth to her shoulder and buries those last, low moans there. Now, finally, he lets himself move again. He flexes against her, withdraws and flexes, these slow waves of motion, shuddering on every one.

Avery Chase

She tells him to come and he comes. She turns him on again, drives him out of his mind again with a few whispers, and he comes. It isn't about power. It isn't about obedience. It isn't about hurrying the fuck up and getting this over with. But still, Avery feels a thrill go up her spine when Calden reacts like that. She can almost see the words fly from his mind, the breath from his body, when he clutches her and clutches the bed and grinds into her, moaning, moaning loudly.

Not that either of them have much care for who hears, for what goes on outside this very room, for what trouble they might get in.

Calden can hear her voice through his orgasm: gasps, near-whimpers, as she takes him. As he does exactly what she wanted and fucks his cum into her. She smooths her palms over his ass this time, watching him, all but purring. She calls him a filthy bastard again. She mutters that he's a dirty fuck, which is very close to being the same damn thing. When she thinks he can stand it, she works her pussy on him again, slow circles as she finds renewed pleasure against that hard, quivering, otherwise motionless cock of his.

Slower now, as he comes down, flexing into her again and again because he seems to enjoy the shattering of his brain that comes with it, Avery smiles up at him. She looks blissful. She looks amused. She looks pleasured, sometimes, when he lifts his hips and strokes so that his cock rubs against her clit. She arches her back then and lifts her breasts and,

very slowly, lazily, and inevitably,

Avery. Fucking. Comes again.

It's such a slow thing this time. It doesn't crash through her. It doesn't electrify her. It comes in slow pulses, aftershocks and ripples of orgasms that came before. She purrs, and moans softly, and uses that heavy body on top of her own to draw out her pleasure, make it last.

Let's be honest. By the time both of them have gone still, the sheets are damp from sweat and cum . Her hair is darkened along the hairline, her skin glistens. She actually squeezes his ass firmly in both hands, chuckling low and dark and beautiful. Her legs unwrap from him and slide to either side of his body. Her hands roam over him, the only part of her she seems able or willing to move. When they don't move, they... hold him. Thoughtfully.

But it's a long time, actually, before she mutters, murmurs: "Off, you brute, you'll crack my ribs."