[ Breath to breath, nose to nose, forehead to forehead. He swallows up every sound she makes, like nothing's ever getting out of this room. His to keep. To take care of. She flutters and clenches mercilessly and he sinks back into her every time, thick veins in his forearms tensing, the messy sound of skin against skin. Need and syrupy want. Slick and clean sweat. You and me, huh? Jake's head hangs as he exhales ragged against her lips, the plush, swollen bow, and glances southward from her words alone. The sway of her breasts, the shake in her thighs. The wet shine all over his cock as it bullies back inside. It's vulgar and brutal and biological and he groans when his hips snap sharp, stuttering in the rhythm just from the sight.
Every thread of his control loosens, after that. Jake's other hand unravels from her side and holds her entire jaw, thumb a near soft, gentle counterpoint where it fits against the hinge below her ear. He kisses against her inhales and breathes against her exhales, hisses against the lick of sensation as her nails press, where his mouth runs on greedy autopilot all over again. Hoarse, rambling whispers. Up close. Hers.
About how he missed this, how he thought of her, how she still feels the same; how he'll wake her up like this every morning, her cunt easy and open, fucking last night's mess back inside, then cleaning her out with his tongue right after. He'll take her anywhere she wants. He'll buy her new houses to fuck in and move with the seasons if she never wants to see rain again. He chases out that new, vulnerable angle like he does everything else — an unrelenting dare, if only she wants to take it. Bearing her spine roughly into the floor, the clench and release of his abs as he moves above her.
Not the chase or tease or high of the honeymoon period, before or after or during, but desperation instead. She kept the postcard and she kept the ring and Jake hears her whimper and stutter and nothing about is new. Everything feels like coming home. An old, unforgotten vow. ]
I love you.
[ A hot, gravelly rasp against her jaw, all the sun-glint ease spooled out of him. The slick, messy sounds of a rhythm getting shorter, harsher. ]
Shit, I'm— [ Something knocks loose inside of his chest. A breathless, dirty, disbelieving laugh. Because he should've said it sooner, because it's his fucking tell, because he's saying it while he's buried inside of her and fucking her in deep, raw thrusts. Like he can sink even further inside of her, needy and out of control, and make her believe every consonant: ] I am still so fucking in love with you.
[ The pad of his thumb works slippery circles at her clit. In time with how violently he's spiralling, how harshly his hip bones grind into the fold of her body. Jake's mouth finds her pulse, his teeth find her throat, and his fingers tighten into her hair when he comes with a long, stuttering groan, rough jerks of his hips as he pulses and pulses and grinds into her, hot and heavy inside. ]
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Every thread of his control loosens, after that. Jake's other hand unravels from her side and holds her entire jaw, thumb a near soft, gentle counterpoint where it fits against the hinge below her ear. He kisses against her inhales and breathes against her exhales, hisses against the lick of sensation as her nails press, where his mouth runs on greedy autopilot all over again. Hoarse, rambling whispers. Up close. Hers.
About how he missed this, how he thought of her, how she still feels the same; how he'll wake her up like this every morning, her cunt easy and open, fucking last night's mess back inside, then cleaning her out with his tongue right after. He'll take her anywhere she wants. He'll buy her new houses to fuck in and move with the seasons if she never wants to see rain again. He chases out that new, vulnerable angle like he does everything else — an unrelenting dare, if only she wants to take it. Bearing her spine roughly into the floor, the clench and release of his abs as he moves above her.
Not the chase or tease or high of the honeymoon period, before or after or during, but desperation instead. She kept the postcard and she kept the ring and Jake hears her whimper and stutter and nothing about is new. Everything feels like coming home. An old, unforgotten vow. ]
I love you.
[ A hot, gravelly rasp against her jaw, all the sun-glint ease spooled out of him. The slick, messy sounds of a rhythm getting shorter, harsher. ]
Shit, I'm— [ Something knocks loose inside of his chest. A breathless, dirty, disbelieving laugh. Because he should've said it sooner, because it's his fucking tell, because he's saying it while he's buried inside of her and fucking her in deep, raw thrusts. Like he can sink even further inside of her, needy and out of control, and make her believe every consonant: ] I am still so fucking in love with you.
[ The pad of his thumb works slippery circles at her clit. In time with how violently he's spiralling, how harshly his hip bones grind into the fold of her body. Jake's mouth finds her pulse, his teeth find her throat, and his fingers tighten into her hair when he comes with a long, stuttering groan, rough jerks of his hips as he pulses and pulses and grinds into her, hot and heavy inside. ]