Chapter 4: The Second Round
The water shut off.T-Lex hadn’t moved from the desk. Her body hummed, a live wire grounded by the solid weight of what had just happened. The imprint of his hands felt branded onto her hips.
Josh emerged from the steam, a towel slung low around his waist, beads of water tracing the paths of his tattoos. He looked at her, still naked, still leaning against the furniture for support.A flicker of something—satisfaction, curiosity—passed behind his eyes.
“You’re gonna prune up,” he said, his voice neutral.
He walked to his bag, dropped the towel, and began to dress with an easy indifference. Boxer-briefs, another plain black t-shirt, jeans. The casual domesticity of it was more jarring than the sex.She watched the muscles of his back shift, the tribal ink seeming to move with them.
“You should shower,” he said, not looking at her as he pulled on socks. “We’ve got the sunset slot.Main stage.”
The festival.The real world. It felt like a rumor from another lifetime.She found her voice, though it was thin. “My stuff’s in my room.”
“So go get it.” He finally turned, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.“Come back after.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, edged with expectation.The air between them tightened. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant, gathering thump of a bassline from the main arena.
She didn’t want to go back to her empty, sterile room. The thought of it—the lonely bed, the silent, waiting gear—made her chest ache. Here, in this messy, sun-bleached box that smelled of him and sex and salt, there was a dangerous, magnetic truth.He saw her hesitation. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips.He pushed off the wall and crossed the room in three strides. Before she could react, his hands were on her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her arms instinctively went around his neck, her body pressing against the fresh cotton of his shirt.
He carried her the short distance to the bed and laid her down in the center of the tangled sheets. They were still warm from their sleep. He stood at the edge, looking down at her, his gaze a dark, appraising sweep.
“Or,” he said, his voice dropping to that intimate, rough register that bypassed her thoughts and went straight to her core, “you could stay.”
His fingers went to the button of his jeans.He popped it open, dragged the zipper down slowly. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His cock, already half-hard, sprang free, thick and flushed.He watched her watch him, her breath quickening.
He knelt on the bed, knees framing her hips. He leaned down, bracing himself on one arm beside her head, his body a canopy over hers.With his other hand, he reached between her legs. He groaned, low in his throat.“Still soaked,” he murmured, his fingers sliding through her without hesitation. “From before.For me.”
She arched into his touch, a shameless, wanting movement. “Yes.”
He settled his weight between her thighs, the head of his cock nudging at her entrance. He rubbed it there, back and forth through her slickness, a slow, maddening torture. He watched her face, eyes locked on hers as he pushed in, just the tip, a fractional, teasing invasion.“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice gravel.
“Tell you what?”
“What you want.Say it.”
She swallowed. The words felt foreign in her mouth, thrilling and terrifying. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Not good enough.” He withdrew completely, leaving her clenching around nothing.“Try again.Filthy.Say it filthy.”
Her face burned. She dug her fingers into the sheets.“I want… I want your cock. All of it.I want you to fuck me deep.”
A sharp, approving grin cut across his face. “That’s my girl.”
He drove into her, not with the brutal force of before, but with a deep, relentless pressure that filled her completely. She cried out, her legs locking around his back. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, letting her feel every inch of him, the stretch, the heat.“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead touching hers. “You feel like heaven. Tight, wet fucking heaven.”
He began to move, a languid, rolling rhythm of his hips that dragged his length against her most sensitive spots with each stroke. It was possessive, thorough.He kept his eyes open, watching every flicker of pleasure on her face.
“This cunt is mine today,” he said, the crudeness sharp against the tender slowness of his thrusts.“You’re not leaving this room. You’re just gonna take this cock, over and over, until you can’t remember your own name.”
His words unraveled her.She felt her control slipping, a coil tightening low in her belly. Her sounds became unabashed, pleading.
“I can feel you getting tighter,” he grunted, his pace incrementally increasing.“You gonna come already?Just from this?”
She couldn’t answer. She was hurtling toward it, helpless.
He shifted then, pulling out suddenly, flipping her onto her stomach with a swift, practiced motion. He dragged her hips up, so she was on her knees, her face pressed into his pillow.It smelled of his shampoo, his sweat.
His hand came down, not a slap, but a firm, stinging possession on her ass cheek. Then he guided himself back into her, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangling in her hair to keep her still.
This was different.Deeper, more animal. He fucked her now with a focused, driving intensity, pulling her back onto him with every thrust, the slap of skin filling the room, louder than the distant festival.The bed rocked against the wall with a steady, rhythmic thud.
“Take it,” he growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.“Take all of me. Gonna fill this perfect little pussy up. Mark it.”
His words, his possession, the sheer physical dominance of him, shoved her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a convulsive, silent scream into the pillow, her body clamping around him in pulsating waves.
The sensation tore his control from him. With a raw, guttural shout, his thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming frantic, shallow jerks as he emptied himself inside her, his hips grinding against her ass as he spent himself in long, hot pulses.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath heaving against her back. They stayed like that, joined, dripping, utterly spent. The neon from the energy drink blinked on the nightstand, a stupid, mundane counterpoint to the devastation in the bed.Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He rolled onto his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes. The only sound was their breathing, slowly returning to normal.After a minute, he spoke, his voice hoarse but calm. “That edit.The one you did. We’re using it tonight.”
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him.His profile was sharp against the white wall. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.It’s better. You made it better.” He turned his head, his arm still over his eyes.“You’ll be on stage with me.Not in the booth. Front and center when I drop it. They should see who fixed it.”
The offer, the recognition, landed with more weight than any dirty word he’d whispered.It was a claim of a different kind. Her throat tightened.She just nodded.He sat up, swung his legs off the bed. “Now shower.You smell like me.” He stood, fastening his jeans. “And then we go to work.”
He walked to the window, his back to her, looking out at the beach where the crowd was beginning to swell, a mosaic of color and movement under the climbing sun. He was already somewhere else, mentally tracing the rhythms of the night to come.
T-Lex pushed herself up, her body aching in profound new ways. She gathered the crumpled t-shirt from the sheets—her shirt, from yesterday—and held it to her chest. She padded to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her.
Under the spray, she let the water run over her skin, washing away the physical evidence but not the imprint.He had marked her in more ways than one. The unfinished track was now theirs.The sunset slot awaited. And she would be on stage, front and center, her secret talent laid bare not just for him, but for everyone. The shy girl behind the decks was being pulled into the light, by his hand, and the terrifying, exhilarating truth was: she wanted to go.