The come down

For a long moment, neither of us moved. His forehead rested between my shoulder blades, his breath hot and ragged against my spine. His fingers loosened their ****-grip on my hips, smoothing over the bruises he’d left in slow, almost apologetic circles. The air smelled of sex and salt, the only sound our labored breathing and the distant creak of the house settling.

"You have no idea," James murmured against my damp skin, his voice rough like gravel. His lips brushed the knob of my spine, feather-light compared to the possessive bite of his hands minutes ago. "How much I needed that." The confession slithered under my skin, warming me in ways his come couldn’t. His hand splayed across my stomach, pulling me flush against him—his softening cock still buried inside me, his heartbeat thudding against my back. "Never letting you go now."

A shiver raced down my arms. The window’s reflection showed his fingers dipping lower, tracing the sticky mess between my thighs with something like reverence. His exhale hitched when my muscles fluttered weakly around him. "Christ," he muttered, dragging his teeth along my shoulder. "Still greedy." His chuckle vibrated through me, but his touch gentled—thumb swiping through the slickness smeared down my inner thigh. "Look at you. Your underwear will be ruined now."

The words curled smoke-hot in my belly. I rolled my hips back just to feel him twitch inside me—spent but still half-hard. "Then perhaps," I breathed, watching our reflection as his hands tightened on me again, "I’ll just have to go commando around you in future."

James groaned, low and filthy, his fingers digging into my thighs where they spread obscenely against the desk. His thumb circled my oversensitive clit once—too much, not enough—and I jerked against him with a bitten-off whimper. "Naughty girls don’t get knickers," he murmured against the shell of my ear, his voice ruined. One hand slid up to cup my breast, possessive even in exhaustion. "And you, Felicity, are very fucking naughty."

I turned my head just enough to catch his eye in the window's reflection—his pupils still blown wide, lips parted around ragged breaths. "Naughty enough to need help washing up?" The question curled between us like smoke. His fingers spasmed against my ribs, his cock giving a feeble twitch inside me that made me bite my lip. The shower was barely wide enough for two—especially when one of us was built like James—but the fantasy painted itself in vivid strokes: his soap-slick hands sliding between my legs, his teeth on my shoulder as he made me beg for cleanliness I'd never achieve.