God, that feels good.
Another finger in.
Shit…feels really, really good.
I slip my own hand in between us, pushing and grappling for space until I find his cock. So thick, satiny. I always loved the feel of it in my mouth…in my hand, inside of me. I squeeze it, give it a few rough pumps while he fingers me.
Our kissing becomes more desperate. For every moan that gurgles out of me, he lets out a grunt or a growl of his own, more particularly pronounced when I pull my hand up his cock and graze the underside of the tip that’s silky, wet.
His fingers move against me faster, causing me to suck in air desperately. My hips pump against him. My hand works him roughly.
“Fuck,” Hawke groans as he rears up, kicking his legs out to spread mine further. Tiny ripples of anticipation race up my spine as I watch him take his cock in hand, give it a rough stroke, which is sexy as hell, and then place the tip right at my entrance. It’s a beautiful moment, only to be ruined slightly when his gaze flicks to the left to look at the rose tattoo. He doesn’t give more than the briefest of looks before he’s grabbing that leg and hooking it around his waist, moving the offensive tattoo out of his line of sight.
Hawke’s hands then go to the mattress, and with a sharp punch of his hips, he drives into me.
“Oh, God…Hawke,” I moan as he fills me up in one powerful move. A long gust of air whispers out of his lips and he drops his forehead to mine. He holds still for a moment—maybe to get his bearings, who knows—then he starts moving.
It’s just like old times, and yet…it’s different. We’re frenzied in our need as we continue to touch each other. His hand to my breast, mine to his ass to help keep his strokes steady and deep. Yet, there’s also a reservation on his part…maybe a lack of fully committing and losing himself in the moment.
My sad and sore heart knows this is because he’s afraid of giving me anything other than his body and an orgasm. This is purely physical for Hawke, him needing the release apparently as badly as I do.
“Kiss me,” I say softly as I bring my hands to his cheeks. He raises his forehead from mine, looks at me with troubled eyes, but ultimately he gives me his mouth.
I roll my hips against his, my tongue against his, and he responds in kind. Steady, deep thrusts of tongue and cock, almost like a choreographed symphony. His breathing becomes labored so I know he’s getting close. I know this so well about him. He slips a hand in between our bodies, presses and then rubs against my clit, and an unforeseen and previously dormant orgasm springs to life within me. I cry into his mouth as it explodes and consumes. My hips buck up, causing him to ram deeper. He tears his lips from mine, buries his face in my throat, and lets out a long groan as he grinds his pelvis against me, trapping his hand against my pulsing clit.
I feel him unload, remembering the first time we disposed of condoms and made the move to just relying on my birth control. The unbelievable closeness I felt to him in that moment, actually replicated here, and I can’t find it within me to even question the haste by which we just had sex with no protection.
With a long huff of breath against my neck, Hawke pushes up and rolls off me. For a brief moment, I feel utterly alone, then his arm is circling my waist and dragging me into the side of his body. He lifts my torso with little effort, pulling me half onto his chest. His other hand comes up, and he silently brings it to my head where he pushes it down.
I lay there with my ear against his sternum, listening to his heartbeat start to slow while warm fluid leaks out of me. I’m completely spent, entirely boneless. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.
We don’t speak, but then again, we didn’t say much while we were just fucking. While there were so many things that were as familiar as my mom’s old quilt that still graces the back of our couch in the living room, there was one thing that was glaringly different about the way in which we just had sex.
And it was the silence in which we did it. All those years ago, Hawke and I were so consumed by each other in our passion that we held nothing back in the way of touches or words. Just as he wanted the bright light of a room to bathe us in transparency, he was vocally passionate to me as well. He used words, filthy and sweet, to drive me higher and higher. His words and the way in which he always spoke them to me were as much an aphrodisiac as his skilled fingers and lips.
But not tonight.
Tonight Hawke never said a word, further proof to me that he held a great part of himself back. And God, does that hurt. It hurts because that’s on me and what I did to him. It makes me feel empty instead of fulfilled as I should be.
But not even the hollowness in my chest can eradicate my exhaustion, so I close my eyes with my cheek to his chest and I fall asleep.
I’m not prepared to see Vale in the team workout room.
I’m not prepared to see her at all because I’m not sure I can behave myself around her. I want her and yet I don’t want to want her.
And I mean I want her viciously.
After last night, how could I not? Every single emotion and feeling I ever had for her that was positive flooded me as I moved inside her sweet body. My words were jammed tight in my throat, which was good. I certainly didn’t want to blurt out an endearment mid-fucking and confuse things even further.
I woke early in her bed, our naked bodies spooning, just like we used to. Twin torrents of pleasure and anger coursed through me as I realized that even in sleep, I wanted her. I let anger win out, for once, or otherwise I’d be rolling her over and fucking her again. I stealthily slid from the bed and quietly put on my clothes. I did it while watching her sleep, chastising that part of me that was grateful she’d get a few extra hours today.