The lock clicked and she was off the bed.
The cash scattered. Bills slid off the mattress and hit the floor and she didn't look at them. She crossed the room in three steps, the catsuit half-zipped and hanging open, and she put her hands on his chest and pushed him backward into the chair by the table.
The chair was wooden, straight-backed, hard. It groaned under his weight. She stood over him. Her hands on the armrests, her face close, and she kissed him.
Deliberate. Slow. Her mouth on his, her tongue finding his, and she tasted like metal and cold air and the sweat that had dried on her upper lip during the run. She bit his lower lip and pulled and he felt it in his cock and his hips pushed up off the chair.
She pulled back. Looked at him.
"You kept up tonight."
"I did."
"You've never done that before."
"No."
She reached behind her neck. Found the zipper. Pulled it down. The catsuit parted, the fabric peeling away from her skin, and she shrugged it off her shoulders, worked it down past her breasts, her ribs, her waist. She had to bend to push it past her hips and the motion put her breasts in his face and he could smell her skin, salt and sweat and perfume buried under exertion. She stepped out of the suit, one leg, then the other, and kicked it toward the bed.
Black underwear. Nothing else. The same narrow strip of fabric from their first night. Her body was flushed from the run, her skin warm and sheened, and the lamplight caught every contour. The flat plane of her stomach. The bruise on her hip from the fire escape. The thin line of muscle running from her ribs to her hip bone.
She watched him look. Let him. Then she straddled his lap.
Her thighs gripped the outside of his. Her ass settled onto his legs and her weight was warm and real and she was close enough that he could feel the heat between her legs through his suit pants. She rolled her hips forward and his cock, trapped in his pants, pressed up against the thin fabric of her underwear and she felt every inch of him and her breath caught.
"You're already hard."
"You're sitting on me in your underwear."
"I've been sitting on you for ten seconds."
"Doesn't take long."
She reached between them. Unbuckled his belt with one hand, fast, practiced. Unzipped him. Her hand went inside his boxers and wrapped around his cock and he was fully hard, straining, and the grip of her callused fingers after an hour of adrenaline and wanting made him groan louder than he planned.
She stroked him. Base to tip, slow, her thumb circling the head where he was already slick. Her mouth found his ear. Her teeth closed on his earlobe, gentle, then harder, and she bit while she stroked and the teeth on his ear and her hand on his cock at the same time made his hips buck up into her fist.
"Nn-"
"Mm." She squeezed the base. Stroked up. Her lips against his ear, breathing hot. "You were fast tonight. On the rooftop. I've never had to look back and see someone still there."
Her hand kept moving. Slow. Deliberate. She pulled his cock free from his pants, the cool air hitting him, and she positioned herself over him. Her underwear still on. She pressed down, grinding the wet fabric against his shaft, the head catching against her through the cotton, and the friction was rough and hot and she was soaked through the underwear.
"Ah-" Her hips rolled. She ground harder, the wet cotton dragging along his cock, her clit pressed against the ridge of him, and each roll drew a sound from her throat. Small. Bitten-back. She was holding onto the back of the chair with both hands and her breasts were eye level and her nipples were hard and her face was flushed and she was using him to get herself off through her underwear and the wet spot spreading on the fabric was visible, dark, getting darker.
She reached between them. Pulled the underwear to the side. He could feel her now, bare, slick, swollen, the lips parting against the shaft of his cock without him inside her. She slid along him, base to tip, her wetness coating his cock, her clit catching the head on each forward roll.
"Fuck," she whispered.
She positioned him. The head at her entrance. She looked at his face. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown, and her jaw was set and she sank down onto him and the stretch of her around his cock, tight and wet, made his hands grip the armrests hard enough to creak the wood.
She took him slow. Inch by inch. Her thighs shaking where they gripped his legs. Her mouth open, breathing fast through her nose. She was wetter than she'd been on their first night, swollen from grinding, and each inch slid in easier than the last and the sound when she bottomed out, his cock fully buried, her ass against his thighs, was wet and thick and loud in the small room. You are reading on novelping dot com, the official source.
She sat there. Full. Her forehead dropped to his, breathing his air. Her fingers were white on the chair back.
She started moving. Shallow grinding at first. Not lifting, just rolling her hips with him deep, her clit pressed against his pelvis on the forward grind. Face to face. Legs wrapped around the chair back, ankles hooked, locking herself in. The chair creaked on each roll. Her breasts brushed his chest through his shirt, her nipples catching on the fabric.
"Ah- nn-"
She picked up speed. Her hips rolling harder, faster, each grind taking him deep and dragging her clit across his body. The wet sounds between them were getting louder. She could hear them. He could see the flush crawling up her neck, spreading to her cheeks, and her jaw tightened and she ground harder anyway.
Her hands went from the chair back to his shoulders. Nails digging in through his jacket. She leaned back slightly, changing the angle, and the shift put pressure on a spot inside her that made her jaw go slack and she choked on a moan.
"There- right there- don't move- just-"
She rode the angle. Hips grinding in tight circles, chasing it, her breathing going fast and shallow. Her breasts bounced with each movement, her hair swinging, sweat on her stomach. The chair was rocking under them, the legs scraping on the floor, and the squelch of every grind was loud enough that she'd be thinking about it later.
She bit her lip. Teeth sinking in. Her eyes screwed shut.
She came with her teeth in his shoulder.
Hard. Her mouth found the muscle between his neck and shoulder and she bit down and the pain was sharp, bright, and he felt skin break and her jaw clenched and the sound she made was muffled against his body. Her walls gripped his cock in hard rhythmic pulses and her hips jerked against him in short desperate grinds and her thighs squeezed his legs and the chair rocked forward and almost tipped.
She held on. Face against his shoulder, breathing ragged against the bite mark, her body still clenching around him, looser each time. He could feel the warmth of blood where her teeth had broken skin. His shirt was going to be ruined.
He was still hard inside her. Still close to the edge but not over.
He put his hands under her ass. Stood up.
She gasped. Her legs locked around his waist and her arms went around his neck and he was holding her, standing, her entire weight in his hands, and the new Strength made it easy. She weighed nothing. He held her the way you'd hold a bag of groceries and she felt it, the effortless grip, and her eyes went wide.
"You- how are you-"
He carried her to the bed. Three steps. His cock still inside her, shifting with each step, and each shift made her cling tighter and whimper against his neck. He laid her on the mattress, on top of the scattered cash, bills crinkling under her back.
He grabbed her legs. Pushed them up. Her knees toward her chest, her ankles past his shoulders, and the angle changed and he pushed in and the depth was different, deeper, and she choked. Her hand shot up and grabbed the headboard.
"Fuck- that's- oh god-"
Deep. He was deeper than he'd ever been in this position, her legs folded, her body compressed, and each thrust drove him into her at an angle that hit bottom. She was making sounds on every stroke, high and involuntary, and her hand on the headboard was white-knuckled and her other hand was fisting the sheets and she was looking up at him and her mouth was wrecked but her eyes were furious.
"Harder- ah- don't you dare stop-"
He gave her harder. His hips driving down, the mattress absorbing the impact, and the slap of his body against hers was loud and wet and rhythmic. Her ankles bounced on his shoulders. Her breasts shook with each thrust. Bills were sticking to her sweaty back and she didn't notice.
He pulled out.
She whimpered at the loss of him. Before she could speak he grabbed her hip and flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips up until her knees were on the edge of the bed and her feet were off the floor and he was standing behind her.
Tighter. Deeper. She groaned into the mattress, face in the bills, and her back arched and her ass pressed back against his hips. He could see her, stretched around his cock, glistening, flushed pink, and watching his cock slide in and out of her made his rhythm go rough.
His hand found her hair. Gathered the platinum mess into his fist and pulled, gentle, testing. Her head came up off the mattress. Her back arched deeper. She pushed back harder.
"Harder," she said. And she wasn't talking about the hair.
He pulled her hair tighter and drove into her and she made a sound, raw, guttural, dragged out of her throat, and she pushed back to meet every thrust. The slap of his hips against her ass filled the room. She was soaking him, dripping, and it was running down her thighs and his.
"Ah- ah- fuck- I'm- nn- please-"
Every word landing on a thrust. He could feel her walls tightening, clenching in short pulses, and she was close and he was close and his hand in her hair was keeping her arched and his other hand gripped her hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
She came.
Violent. Her body clamped down on his cock and her scream went into the mattress and her hands fisted cash that tore in her grip. Her walls gripped him in contractions so hard he couldn't move, couldn't pull back, and the squeeze from base to tip pulled him over the edge.
He buried himself deep and came inside her with his fist still in her hair and his hips pressed flush against her ass and the pulsing warmth of it made her body clench again, milking, pulling, her legs shaking so hard her knees slid on the sheets.
He let go of her hair. Her head dropped to the mattress. His hand found the small of her back, resting there, feeling her breathe.
She was face down in a pile of stolen money, destroyed, breathing like she'd run another eight blocks.
He pulled out. Sat on the edge of the bed. His legs were rubber. His shoulder was bleeding where she'd bitten him, a crescent of red seeping through his ruined shirt.
She turned her head on the mattress. One eye visible, green, glazed. A hundred-dollar bill was stuck to her cheek.
"You're stronger."
"I've been working out."
"In a week."
"Good week."
She peeled the bill off her cheek. Looked at it. Looked at the bite mark on his shoulder. The blood.
"Sorry about that."
She didn't sound sorry.
He leaned back on his hands. The cash was everywhere, crumpled, torn, stuck to both of them with sweat. The lamplight was warm. Outside, a siren passed, distant, headed uptown.
Her hand found his thigh. Rested there. Her fingers drew a slow line up the inseam of his ruined suit pants.
"Stay," she said.
He stayed.