Page 81 of Tipping Point

“Where do I finish?”

“I’m on birth control.”

Doesn’t mean shit. Some women don’t appreciate the mess.

“No, I-”

“Come inside me.” Offhandedly. As if it were obvious.

She pulls herself against me, kisses me again. Her hand around my cock guides me to her, wet and slippery and tight as she slides down the length of me achingly slowly, until she’s there. It’s as deep as I can go, and it touches the pain inside me, sets me off.

I wrench our lips apart and set her down on the table. With one hand on her throat, I’m pressing her down, body flush against the table and the other hand I splay, dark and big against the white softness of her belly. Her breasts part as she lies back, lifting and rising rapidly with her heavy breathing and the storm of her gaze travels over me, down to where we meet, where she can see me buried inside her and with a whimper she rocks against me, hard and fast. I grab a knee and pull her closer, still deeper. She cries out, the pain inside her grazed, agonising in its pleasure.

I’m going to come. The way she rails against me is pure fucking rapture. I grab her by the thighs, look down to where I’m sliding out of her wet and glistening and in against, tight against the walls of her, clenching down on me, the slapping sound when we meet at capacity.

She slows down, her eyes on me, and I feel a tremor run through her—the pleasure she gets from watching me, how much it turns me on to see her glide over me.

I bring my thumb to where she’s gliding out again, dragging the slippery wetness over her clit, swirling it. She gasps. I angle my thumb to rub her out, to make her climax, trying to avoid the pain that hypersensitivity causes, getting as close to it as possible to make the orgasm as hard as it can be.

She reaches for my hand to guide me, but her hand falls away when I start rubbing in earnest, and she buries both of hers in the golden halo of curls spilling around her head, writhing against me.

I’m going to come, fuck.

I press down on her stomach, slowing her down, and when the tremors in her thighs starts to tremble across the thick flesh, I wait for her to start rhythmically clenching around me in her orgasm, and when she cries out I grab her around each knee and jerk her to me, burying myself as deep in her as I can, and I fucking rail into her with furious desperation.

She cries out again and I can feel her drawing me in deeper, deeper, harder and I come inside her with primal abandon.

* * *

FINN

The intensity of the orgasm leaves me lightheaded, and I collapse over her. She soothes me with a low hum in her throat, running her fingertips over my back as I catch my breath, tremors still running through me, my cheek against her breast.

The night air cools the sweat on our bodies, and we break out in goosebumps. I lift my head to look at her face. Her eyes are light and grey and satisfied.

But not sated.

She smiles and touches a fingertip to my temple. This close I can see every freckle. A small white ghost of a scar on her chin. The burnt sugar smell of her envelops me.

My dick twitches.

She laughs out loud, and it runs through my body like a song.

I lift myself up onto my elbows.

She makes no move to shove me off. I could lie here forever. Thoughts begin to filter through the veil of desire.

This hadn’t been what I had in mind at all. I had hoped to fix things between us, make it easier to walk away. But when she got up to do just that, I couldn’t physically bear it.

I stand up, pull her up after me. My cum glistens in the light as it trickles down her thighs. She makes to wipe it away, but I snatch her hand away, shake my head when she looks up at me curiously. And then I grab her behind the knees and behind the shoulders and I lift her up. She flings her arms around my neck. The softness of her belly has a fold in the flesh where it rolls up at the bend of her waist.

I carry her to my room, setting her down in the shower. She steps off to one side as I open the taps to avoid the cold spray of water. She’s broken out in gooseflesh and when steam starts pooling at our feet, she steps under the warm spray with a satisfied sigh, hands clenched under her chin. She reaches up to bunch her curls on her head and I unsnap the elastic from my wrist, handing it over.

She smiles when she takes it.

“Isn’t this mine?”

I shake my head slowly. “I believe it’s mine. I traded it for a dress.”