I think I can manage being collateral damage
Everest doesn’t stand a chance. Not when Isla moves like that—each roll of her hips dragging another ragged sound from his throat, each shift of her weight causing his grip to tighten, to lock around her like if he lets go he’ll fall right through the world. It’s too much; she’s too much. Perfect friction, perfect pressure, and the low rasp of her voice in his ear promising screams he never would have thought he'd be desperate to covet.
Her command lands like flint in the hollow of his spine, a bright snap of heat and instinct that makes his hips buck up beneath her with sudden urgency, chasing every grind of hers with a thrust of his own. It’s messy and desperate, a quiet staccato of movement as his cock pulses inside her, and gods but he’s close—his entire body trembling under the weight of restraint and release knotted too tightly together.
But even now—especially now—he wants her to come with him.
One hand claws at the fabric bunched around her waist, gripping tight as she sinks down on him again. The other slips up, shaking with restraint, and curls against her spine, coaxing her forward with a whispered, "Turn around."
If she listens—if she pivots as he’s asking—she’ll find herself staring into a tarnished vanity mirror hung crookedly behind the curtain. Not a perfect reflection, but enough to see the flush on her cheeks, the way he's buried inside of her.
Ever’s breath stutters as he drinks in the sight, his eyes glassy with need. His hand doesn't hesitate. The moment she’s facing forward, he fists her dress higher and slips beneath it, fingers dragging past the top of her underwear to press his fingertip against her clit. He curses under his breath at the feel of her, his hand moving with careful, reverent pressure, trying—needing—to coax her over with him. And if he does—if she starts to come undone—he’s lost. The sight of her like that, the feel of her around his cock and beneath his fingers, will shatter what fragile control he has left.
Her command lands like flint in the hollow of his spine, a bright snap of heat and instinct that makes his hips buck up beneath her with sudden urgency, chasing every grind of hers with a thrust of his own. It’s messy and desperate, a quiet staccato of movement as his cock pulses inside her, and gods but he’s close—his entire body trembling under the weight of restraint and release knotted too tightly together.
But even now—especially now—he wants her to come with him.
One hand claws at the fabric bunched around her waist, gripping tight as she sinks down on him again. The other slips up, shaking with restraint, and curls against her spine, coaxing her forward with a whispered, "Turn around."
If she listens—if she pivots as he’s asking—she’ll find herself staring into a tarnished vanity mirror hung crookedly behind the curtain. Not a perfect reflection, but enough to see the flush on her cheeks, the way he's buried inside of her.
Ever’s breath stutters as he drinks in the sight, his eyes glassy with need. His hand doesn't hesitate. The moment she’s facing forward, he fists her dress higher and slips beneath it, fingers dragging past the top of her underwear to press his fingertip against her clit. He curses under his breath at the feel of her, his hand moving with careful, reverent pressure, trying—needing—to coax her over with him. And if he does—if she starts to come undone—he’s lost. The sight of her like that, the feel of her around his cock and beneath his fingers, will shatter what fragile control he has left.
.
