Give her exactly what she's asking for—thrust harder and don't let up.

You obey her. No more hesitation, no more checking in. You plant your hands on either side of her head, fingers gripping the pillow, and you drive into her.

The first full-**** thrust punches the air from her lungs. Her pussy is slick now—blood and arousal mixing into something hot and frictionless—and your cock slides deep, the head pressing hard against her cervix with each stroke. The wet, rhythmic slap of your pelvis against hers fills the bedroom, drowning out the distant hiss of the forgotten pan in the kitchen.

"Yes—" she hisses, her hands flying to your back, nails raking down your shoulder blades hard enough to leave welts. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You fuck her with long, brutal strokes. Each one draws your cock almost entirely out—the swollen head catching against the tight ring of her entrance—before slamming back in to the hilt. Her body rocks beneath you with every impact, her breasts bouncing with the ****, her dark hair fanning across the pillow in tangled waves. The sounds she makes are no longer words. They're raw, animal noises—sharp cries punctuating each thrust, interspersed with ragged gasps and low, throaty moans that vibrate through her chest into yours.

Her legs wrap around your waist. The heels of her feet dig into the small of your back, pulling you deeper, and the angle change sends your cock grinding against the front wall of her pussy. She screams—actually screams—her back bowing off the mattress so violently that only her shoulders and heels touch the sheet.

"There—oh fuck, right there—"

You feel it building in her before you see it. Her cunt starts clenching in rapid, involuntary spasms around your shaft, the walls gripping and releasing in a staccato rhythm that makes your own orgasm coil tight at the base of your spine. Her skin flushes from her chest up through her neck, a mottled red bloom spreading beneath the surface. Her nipples are painfully hard against your chest, dragging across your skin with each thrust.

You don't slow down. You increase the pace, your hips pistoning, the bedframe knocking against the wall in a steady, percussive beat. Sweat drips from your forehead onto her collarbone. Her pussy makes obscene, squelching sounds with every stroke, the wetness overflowing, soaking the sheets beneath her.

Lina's eyes go wide. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Every muscle in her body locks rigid—her thighs clamping around you like a vise, her fingers frozen mid-claw on your back, her toes curling so hard the tendons in her feet stand out. Then the orgasm hits her like a seizure.

Her pussy clamps down on your cock with crushing, rhythmic ****. You can feel the contractions rippling from deep inside her, her cervix pulsing against the head of your shaft, her vaginal walls milking you in waves. A gush of hot fluid floods around your cock, spilling out where your bodies are joined, running down the crease of her ass onto the ruined sheets. Her clit throbs against your pubic bone—you can feel each individual pulse, engorged and twitching.

She makes a sound that starts as a scream and dissolves into something wrecked and breathless, her whole body shaking beneath you. Her eyes roll back. Her hands fall from your back and hit the mattress, fingers twitching.

The sensation—the pulsing grip of her orgasm, the heat, the wet—drags you over the edge. Your balls tighten and you bury yourself as deep as her body will allow, your cock pressed flush against her cervix as you cum. The first rope of semen erupts from you in a thick, shuddering pulse that you feel all the way from your toes. Then another. And another. Each ejaculation is a full-body convulsion, your cock pulsing inside her, filling her with warm, viscous cum that has nowhere to go in her tight, clenching pussy. It overflows around the base of your shaft, mixing with her fluids, dripping down between you.

You collapse onto her, barely catching yourself on your elbows. Your cock is still twitching inside her, the last weak spurts of semen leaking from the slit. Her heartbeat hammers against your chest—erratic, slowing.

Then you realize she's not moving.

"Lina?"

Her eyes are closed. Her lips are slightly parted, her face slack, her breathing shallow and even. She's ****. Not sleeping—out cold. Her body went from maximum sensory overload to total shutdown in the space of a breath. The orgasm, amplified by the compound's hypersensitivity, simply overwhelmed her nervous system.

You pull out carefully. Your softening cock slides free with a wet sound, and a thick stream of cum and pink-tinged fluid follows, pooling on the sheet beneath her. Her pussy is swollen, the labia flushed an angry red, her clit still visibly engorged. A fine tremor runs through her thighs, but otherwise she's completely limp.

You wipe the sweat from your face with the back of your hand. Your breathing is ragged, your legs unsteady. You look at her—small, naked, **** on your bed, her dark hair stuck to her damp forehead—and something protective and terrible moves in your chest.

You pull the duvet from where it's been kicked to the foot of the bed and draw it over her, tucking it around her shoulders. She doesn't stir. You press two fingers to her throat. Her pulse is steady. Strong.

The apartment smells like burnt garlic and sex.

You walk to the kitchen on unsteady legs. The pan on the stove is smoking, the garlic reduced to black carbon. You turn off the burner and stare at the two plates you'd set out on the counter, the half-chopped vegetables, the open bottle of olive oil. Nobody's eating dinner tonight.

You dump the burned pan in the sink and run cold water over it. The hiss of steam fills the kitchen. Through the bedroom doorway you can see Lina's shape under the covers, the slow rise and fall of her breathing.

You're exhausted. The adrenaline of the last twelve hours—the phone call from Viktor, Lina's departure and return, the news about Marco, the frantic drive to your apartment, and now this—all of it crashes over you at once. Your eyelids are lead. Your muscles ache.

You walk back to the bedroom, pull on your boxers out of habit, and lie down beside her on top of the duvet. The evening light has gone amber through the window. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:28 PM.

You're asleep before the minute changes.