Chapter 2: A Study in Frustration
The musty air in the guest bedroom clung to Gavin’s skin, a mix of damp wallpaper and sex. His world had narrowed to the taste of her, sharp and clean, and the tense vibration of her thighs under his palms. He worked his tongue in a slow, flat press against her clit, the rhythm agonizingly deliberate, just as she’d insinuated outside.
He felt her hips give a minute, involuntary twitch.
“Fuck,” she breathed above him, the word a ragged exhale that wasn’t quite boredom anymore. Her hand left her eyes and fisted in his hair, not guiding, just anchoring. She sighed then, a long, husky sound of bored pleasure that vibrated through her pelvis and into his skull.
Gavin’s groan hitched, his neglected cock throbbing painfully against the rough weave of the bedsheet as he drove his face deeper into her, fucking her with his tongue.
He finally pulled back, his mouth glistening, his own need a sharp, white-hot wire pulled taut from balls to brain. His voice was a ragged scrape against the quiet, muffled by the wet heat of her skin. “You like that?”
Issy winced, her body going rigid beneath him as if he’d insulted her. The flinch was all the answer he needed, a raw crack in her armor that sent a jolt of dark satisfaction straight to his groin.
He moved over her, his hips slotting roughly between her thighs, and didn’t ask again.
The worn mattress groaned in protest as he braced his weight above her, the heat of her cunt a palpable force against the head of his cock. “You on the pill?” he grunted, the question torn from him by a need that felt like violence.
He didn’t wait.
In one blunt, burning slide, he sheathed himself fully inside her, cutting off any possible reply. Issy’s breath punched out in a sharp, surprised gasp, her body clenching tight around the sudden, unforgiving intrusion. A low, ragged groan was torn from Gavin’s chest, the sheer, slick heat of her an agony of relief that short-circuited every thought.
“Yeah, I’m on it,” she finally muttered, the words strained as he remained buried to the hilt inside her.
He groaned again, a sound of pure concession, and began to move with an almost unbearable slowness. Each deliberate withdrawal was a long, slick drag of flesh on soaked flesh, and each return a deep, sinking claim that drew a shaky breath from her lips.
He fucked her with a patient, grinding rhythm that made every nerve ending scream for more, the wet sound of their joining obscenely loud in the stale room. Her ankles locked against the small of his back, not pulling him faster, but holding him deep within the agonizing pace.
The grip of her legs was a vise, holding him inside a tight, wet heat that threatened to unravel his deliberate control. His hips pistoned faster now, the slow grind forgotten, each drive a blunt demand for her surrender. “Is that it?” he grunted against her throat, the words raw and guttural. He burrows into her neck, voice straining in a brief desperation. “Come on, fuck, let me feel it.”
A sharp, theatrical gasp burst from her lips, a moan pitched just a bit too loud and a fraction too long. He froze inside her, the rhythm broken, his whole body tensing at the hollow, practiced sound. It was a performance, the same one he imagined she used to hurry drunk, clingy patrons at the widow’s son. A cold clarity cut through the sweat and heat, his arousal suddenly feeling cheap and transactional. He didn't know why that turned him on.
The raw, feigned sound of her pleasure ignited something feral in him, breaking his stillness with a brutal, driving rhythm. His hips slammed into hers now, the wet slap of skin and the groan of the bedframe drowning out the distant party.
He felt the tight, coiling heat in his guts surge dangerously, a tidal wave threatening to break far too early. He buried his face in the damp junction of her neck and shoulder, the words escaping in a pained, frantic rasp. "No, no, fuck," he gritted out, his entire body tensing as he actively clenched against the impending release, holding himself motionless and deep inside her while he fought for control.
The pause stretched, a hollow silence filled only by their ragged breathing and the distant thump of bass through the floor. Issy shifted beneath him, a calculated roll of her hips that ground against his still-hard length, and let out another one of those practiced, breathy moans. "Don't stop, Gavin," she whispered, her voice a hollow parody of desire, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that she was faking it.
That knowledge, the sheer fucking insult of it, severed the last fraying thread of his control.
He fucked her with a raw, punishing cadence that made the headboard crack against the wall in a relentless, splintering rhythm. "That all you got?" he growled, his breath hot and ragged against her ear.
A sharp, truncated cry escaped her lips—this one raw, unfiltered—as her hips jerked up to meet his next brutal thrust. For a heartbeat, her cool grey-green eyes glassed over with real, unguarded feeling, before she bit her lip and turned her head away into the pillow. The air thickened with the scent of sex and sweat, a desperate, honest punctuation to the lie of her earlier moans.
The ragged, honest sound of her cry was the trigger. His rhythm dissolved into frantic, shallow thrusts, his balls tightening against the base of his cock as a white-hot current surged up his spine. “Fuck, Issy, I’m—” he choked out, a warning and a plea lost in the wet slap of skin, and then he was coming, a raw, groaning release as he emptied himself deep inside her in pulsing, helpless stripes.
He collapsed, his weight pinning her to the damp sheets, his face buried in the black dye of her hair. The room shrank to the hammering of two hearts and the slow, warm trickle between her thighs.