I think I can manage being collateral damage
Everest is already fighting to stay quiet when she gasps that kiss against his mouth, but nothing—nothing—prepares him for the sensation of her sinking down onto him without preamble, wet and ready and tight around him in a way that wrecks every coherent thought he might’ve had left.
His gasp is muffled against her shoulder, a fractured thing, half-moan, half-whimper, and his hands fly to her hips as though drawn there by instinct. Fingers dig into her through the dress, clinging and guiding, not out of dominance but necessity, as if anchoring himself to her might slow the way his mind is unravelling. He tries—gods, he tries—to match the roll of her hips, but it’s all happening too fast, the slick, unhurried grind of her body against his turning every synapse to static.
It's like hunger remembered too late. Like he’s been starving for her and only now understands just how bad it’s been. And she’s here, warm and flush and open around him, the most perfect pressure, the most precise pleasure, and he doesn’t know how he ever went without this. "Isla—" he manages, his breath stumbling out against the curve of her neck, but whatever he’d meant to say is immediately lost. His head drops forward, forehead resting between her collarbones, the rise and fall of her breasts brushing against his cheeks. One hand slips to her thigh, splaying wide, the other still locked around her waist.
He tries again, whispering hoarsely, "You feel—" but it’s no use. Her hips roll again and the words are gone. Just a strangled, choked-off sound left in their place as his lips part against her skin, utterly undone.
His gasp is muffled against her shoulder, a fractured thing, half-moan, half-whimper, and his hands fly to her hips as though drawn there by instinct. Fingers dig into her through the dress, clinging and guiding, not out of dominance but necessity, as if anchoring himself to her might slow the way his mind is unravelling. He tries—gods, he tries—to match the roll of her hips, but it’s all happening too fast, the slick, unhurried grind of her body against his turning every synapse to static.
It's like hunger remembered too late. Like he’s been starving for her and only now understands just how bad it’s been. And she’s here, warm and flush and open around him, the most perfect pressure, the most precise pleasure, and he doesn’t know how he ever went without this. "Isla—" he manages, his breath stumbling out against the curve of her neck, but whatever he’d meant to say is immediately lost. His head drops forward, forehead resting between her collarbones, the rise and fall of her breasts brushing against his cheeks. One hand slips to her thigh, splaying wide, the other still locked around her waist.
He tries again, whispering hoarsely, "You feel—" but it’s no use. Her hips roll again and the words are gone. Just a strangled, choked-off sound left in their place as his lips part against her skin, utterly undone.
.
