Nothing

He says nothing.

He adjusts his hips, finds the angle, and pushes inside her.

Slow. One long slide. Her cunt takes him, wet and open from the night and from the rubbing, and the stretch pulls a moan out of her that she does not try to hide. He sinks until he is buried, chest to her back, cock all the way home, and stays there so she can feel the fullness of it.

“Oh baby,” moans Lana.

He kisses the side of her neck. Starts to move. Short thrusts. Deep. The position keeps him snug, every stroke grinding, his hand still on her clit, rubbing in time. Lana turns her head back as far as she can. He meets her. They kiss, awkward and perfect, mouths open, while he fucks her from behind in the dark.

It is not a performance. It is half-asleep and fully wanted. She reaches back and holds his hip. He thrusts a little harder. The wet sound is small and filthy under the blanket. She whimpers into his mouth. He groans into hers.

“You feel so good,” he says against her lips. “Like this.”

“Don’t pull out. Fuck me. Just like this.”

He does. Long enough that the sleep burns off and the pleasure builds clean. His fingers circle her clit. His cock strokes deep. She kisses him whenever she can turn enough, messy, breathing him in. When she cums it is quiet and full, a shudder, her cunt pulsing around him, a soft cry into the pillow and into his mouth. He fucks her through it, then follows, buried, groaning, pulsing inside her, filling her again while she is still fluttering.

He does not pull out.

He stays. Cock softening slowly inside her, arm locked around her waist, her hand over his. Cum already leaking around him and neither of them moving to stop it. Her breathing evens. His does too.

They drift off like that. Joined. Spooned. The rest of the night holding them exactly where they are.