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Slow, he says, so they're kissing each other like they'll never do anything else. The drag of lips over skin, mouth over stubble, tongue over tongue. His hands roam over her back, fingertips following her spine, thumbs brushing along her ribs. He strokes his fingers along the edge of the harness before palming her ass and groaning into her mouth.
Slow, so she drags her lips along his jaw, her fingers over his chest. She bends to taste his neck, the salt and musk heavy on her tongue. She scrapes her teeth on the soft soft skin and wants to bite and mark and claim. She rocks her hips into him, shuddering at the pressure, the rub of the hard base against where she's slick and swollen and needy.
Slow, so she holds back from the way she wants to push her hips into his in rough, relentless thrusts, making him moan and gasp and beg for more. He will, he will, but she forces herself to hold back, to wait, to lick her way back into his mouth, and he scratches his blunt nails up her back and tangles his fingers into her hair. When they break for air he whispers her name, so soft and broken that pleasure shudders and sparks along her nerves and she cries out in surprise.
She curves over him, dipping her head back to his neck, to the hollow of his throat where sweat pools and she presses her thumbs just so to hear that low groan that makes her burn. His hair is damp when she slides her fingers around and in and clenches them in his curls, and she pulls his head back and licks under his jaw. His pulse throbs beneath his skin where she presses her lips.
His hands flex on her hips, rocking her forward, and the drag of it grinds the base of her cock into her and she gasps and ruts into him, control breaking as he moans and grips her harder, bruising, perfect. She wants to slow, to still her movements but it's so good, having him under her gasping and writhing and she lets her movements carry her along another wave of pleasure.
He catches her face between his hands and kisses her, deep and wet, and they're panting when they break apart, gasping. He pushes her back, looking between them.
It glitters there, slick with sweat and the sweet minty oil they have, clear glass and blue swirls, delicate and ethereal. It's one of the things they find and keep and hoard because there's more to surviving than ration cards and bullets.
He curls his fingers around it, gives it a lazy stroke like it was his, and she goans at the sight of it. She mimics him, her fingers around his thick cock where it lays next to her slim one, and their breathing comes in time with the movements of their hands. She rocks forward with each tug and gasps at each push and his eyes are so dark and hungry that they make her dizzy with wanting him. She catches his wrist in her hand and holds him tight to her on a downward stroke. Her fingers drift down to where he's slick with oil and sweat and she presses against him without pushing in.
"Tess." His voice is ragged, wrecked, like she's never heard it before and she'll do anything to keep hearing it.
She dips her head and licks his quivering stomach, let's her breath warm his twitching cock.
"You have to tell me," she rasps, her own voice wrecked and ragged too.
He groans, head flung back, his body long and exposed and so so vulnerable under her. She'd keep him here forever if she could, hers and hers alone.
"Tell me, kitten."
He whimpers, then his eyes are open again, locked on hers and there's nothing that exists beside them in that moment where he whispers, "Please, Tess, god, fuck me."
The sound that spills from her mouth is primal, raw, and she pushes herself back from him, rearing above him. His hands are hot on her thighs, stroking her skin. It would be easier to roll him to his stomach, drape herself over his back, but she wants to see him come apart under her, needs to see his eyes when he starts to beg for more.
She tucks her knees under his legs and presses his thighs back, spreading him open for her and he's cursing softly at the exposure. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide and beautiful and she drops her hand to the heavy glass cock and presses the glittering head to him.
He goes still, so still, not even breathing and she holds herself there with one hand and strokes his chest with the other.
"Relax." She reaches farther and pets the side of his neck, his cheek, runs her thumb over his full lower lip. "Breathe, Joel."
The inhale is shaky, and the next is more steady, and then he's breathing slowly in time to the brush of her thumb, the rise and fall of her chest. She presses forward, presses into the resistance of him, rocks her hips in time with her breath. His mouth opens wide on a gasp, and she slips in with a jolt of her hips and a breathy moan.
She holds herself there, fighting the urge, the need to push forward until she's sunk into him completely. Slow, she thinks, and she keeps her movements small, inching forward as he whines and gasps. She presses a hand under his knee, splays the other low on his stomach, fingertips just brushing his cock. He curls forward to catch his own hands at the back of her thighs and pulls and they both cry out as she slides deeper into him and she's had enough of slow.
She adjusts her grip on him, draws her hips back, drives herself forward. He cries out, keens, arches under her. Each thrust lights her nerves, sparks along her skin until she's shuddering with each movement, feeling as wrecked as he looks.
His eyes are wide and dark, and he whispers, "please" and "more" and "more" and "Tess" and she whimpers in reply to each. She shifts lower, deepening the angle, curving over him, and he goes taut and trembling under her.
Her name's a strangled shout torn from his throat as his cock pulses hard against his stomach, pretty ropes of come painted across his skin, her hand. It's so much, too much, and she grinds herself into the base of the cock mindlessly, and she comes with a force that stiffens her body and arches her back and blinds her with the intensity. She pitches forward, lost in the haze of her pleasure, resting her forehead on his heaving chest. HIs hands are in her hair, on her cheeks. He babbles her name softly.
She lifts her head, wipes her hand through the come and saliva, and sweat that coat his skin. He whimpers when she slips from him, his fingers fumbling with hers at the straps, and he shoves it away when she's free. He gathers her up, and she's still dazed, still humming with pleasure and aching so perfectly. His mouth is hot and slick on hers, and when she tangles her fingers into his hair he sighs so contently her heart feels like it will burst.