Chapter 11: Muscle Ride
The shower had gone cold, but neither of them felt it. They stumbled out, dripping, giggling like kids, grabbing at towels and each other in a clumsy, water-slicked tangle. Eva pressed him against the bathroom doorframe, her mouth hot and urgent on his, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her stomach, still flushed and patterned from their time in the tub, pressed against his. The contact made him shudder.
“Bed,” she said, her voice low and rough. “Now.”
He followed, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the worn hall carpet. His room looked different to him now, the messy desk and the dusty poster just background noise to the urgent, humming energy she brought into the space. She didn’t lead him to the bed so much as tackle him onto it. The springs groaned in protest as they fell in a heap on the rumpled sheets.
She was on him instantly, straddling his hips, her knees pinning his thighs. But instead of leaning down to kiss him, she shifted backwards, moving up his body with a fluid, predatory grace. She settled her weight over his face, the soft, warm apex of her thighs hovering just above his mouth. She leaned back, bracing her hands on his knees, arching her torso so that the landscape of her stomach—taut, bruised, beautiful—was suspended directly over his erection, which twitched against the cool air of the room.
“Look at you,” she said, grinning down the length of her own body at him. Her hair was a damp, dark cascade over her shoulders. “All ready for me.”
He could only gasp, his world reduced to the scent of her, the shadowed curve of her belly, the incredible sight of her in complete control.
“You know what to do,” she said, and her voice was a challenge, a promise. “Punch me. While I ride you. Don’t hold back.”
She didn’t wait for confirmation. Reaching behind herself, she guided him into her with one smooth, practiced motion, sinking down until he was fully sheathed inside her warmth. A low groan tore from his throat. The sensation was overwhelming—tight, wet heat swallowing him whole, and above it, the living canvas of her abdomen, clenching and releasing as she began to move.
She set a slow, deep rhythm, rolling her hips in a way that made his vision blur. “Now, Peter,” she urged, her breath already catching. “Your fist. Give it to me.”
He brought his right hand up, fingers curling into a loose fist. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, staring at the pale skin, the subtle definition of her muscles working beneath it.
“Do it,” she hissed, and bucked her hips harder, taking him deeper.
He drove his fist into her side, just below the ribs. It wasn’t a full-force blow, but it was solid. The impact jolted through her, and she cried out—a sharp, bright sound that wasn’t pain, but something else entirely. Her internal muscles clenched around him, a vice-like pulse of pleasure that stole his breath.
“Yeah,” she moaned, her rhythm never faltering. “Like that. Again.”
He hit her again, a little higher, watching the flesh compress and rebound. Each strike made her gasp, made her hips stutter for a half-second before she redoubled her pace, grinding down onto him with renewed fervor. He found a rhythm of his own, his punches syncing with the rocking of her body. A jab to the soft hollow of her navel. A harder hook to the lower abdominals. The sounds were visceral: the wet slap of skin on skin, her ragged pants, the creak of the bedsprings, his own stifled groans.
He reached up with his other hand, kneading her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. She arched into his touch, her head falling back. “Harder,” she demanded, her voice strained. “On my belly. Right in the middle.”
He focused his next punch dead center, a direct, deep dig into her solar plexus. The air left her lungs in a forceful oof, and for a second, her entire body went rigid, her back bowing. Then she collapsed forward slightly, only to push back up, riding him faster, more desperately. Her eyes were glazed, her lips parted.
He was losing himself, the dual sensations too much to process. The crushing tightness of her around his cock, and the shocking, giving resistance of her stomach against his knuckles. It was a feedback loop of intense, forbidden pleasure. He could feel his orgasm building, a coiled spring in the base of his spine.
“I’m… I’m close,” he managed to warn, his punches becoming less precise, more frantic.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she commanded, slamming herself down onto him. “Come for me. Punch me and come for me.”
It broke him. With a final, desperate drive of his fist into the well-used center of her belly, he erupted inside her, his whole body seizing. Stars burst behind his eyelids. He cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound he didn’t recognize as his own.
Through the haze, he felt her climax follow. It wasn’t the quiet, trembling release he might have imagined. It was a series of violent, internal convulsions that gripped him, milking him dry, coupled with her own shouted curses into the tangled sheets. She rode it out, her movements becoming jagged, until finally, spent, she collapsed forward, her sweaty forehead coming to rest on his chest, her battered stomach pressing against his.
For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breathing syncopating in the dark room. The smell of sex and sweat and wet towels filled the air. He could feel her heart hammering against his ribcage, a frantic echo of his own.
Slowly, carefully, she pushed herself up. In the dim light from the hallway, her face was a study in sated exhaustion. A slow, wobbly smile spread across her lips. She looked down at her stomach, at the fresh, red marks overlaying the older, bluish ones from the shower.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He couldn’t speak. He could only stare up at her, a profound, disbelieving gratitude flooding through him. He reached out, his trembling fingers tracing the outline of a new bruise forming just below her ribcage. She flinched, then sighed, leaning into his touch.
“Was that…” he started, but couldn’t finish.
“Yeah,” she said, answering the unspoken question. She shifted off of him, wincing slightly as she lay down on her back beside him. “That was everything.” She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “You’re a natural, you know that?”
He gave a weak, disbelieving laugh. “I just… did what you told me to.”
“That’s the trick,” she said, closing her eyes. A comfortable silence settled between them, filled only by the slowing of their hearts. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice soft. "that was just the beginning. Wait hat will come tomorrow"
Peter: "I can't wait"
She hummed in approval, already drifting. “Good.” Her hand found his under the sheets, their fingers intertwining. Her stomach, a map of their night, rose and fell with her deepening breath. Outside, the city murmured on, unaware of the small, perfect universe contained within these four cluttered walls.