Chapter 12: Hot awakening
Gray morning light seeped through the gaps in the blinds, painting stripes across the tangled sheets and the landscape of Eva’s sleeping form. Peter woke slowly, consciousness returning in a warm, heavy wave. The scent of her skin, of sex and sweat, filled his nostrils. He turned his head on the pillow.
She was on her back, one arm flung above her head, her mouth slightly open. The sheet was pushed down to her hips, exposing her torso. In the flat, neutral light, the damage was stark. A constellation of bruises bloomed across her stomach and ribs—deep purples, angry reds, yellowish greens at the edges of older impacts. It was a brutal mosaic, a physical record of everything they’d done. He felt a jolt, not of guilt, but of awestruck possession.
He propped himself up on an elbow, just looking. The rise and fall of her breath was shallow, peaceful. Carefully, he reached out. His fingertips touched the skin just below her navel, feather-light. He traced the outline of a bruise on her hip, then let his whole hand settle over the curve of her waist. She was warm, solid. Real.
He shifted, moving to sit cross-legged beside her. He placed both hands on her stomach, palms flat, feeling the subtle tension even in sleep. He began to knead gently, working his thumbs into the firm muscle. A soft sigh escaped her lips, but her eyes remained closed. Emboldened, he leaned forward, placing a kiss on a particularly dark patch on her lower belly. His hands moved up, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they tightened into hard peaks.
He was hard, too, the morning ache intense. The sight of her, so utterly used and beautifully sleeping, was a potent trigger. He wanted to feel that yielding resistance again.
He formed a loose fist and brought it down, softly, onto the lower part of her abdomen. A testing tap. Her breath hitched. He did it again, a little harder. The flesh gave, then bounced back. He fell into a rhythm, soft, measured punches that rocked her body gently on the mattress. Each impact sent a sympathetic throb through his own cock.
Her eyes fluttered open. She didn’t startle. She just looked at him, her gaze cloudy with sleep, then cleared into sharp awareness. A slow smile touched her lips. She watched his fist rise and fall, saying nothing, her hands coming to rest by her sides, palms up in invitation.
“Morning,” he rasped, his voice thick.
“Mm,” she agreed. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. The punches grew firmer, gaining intention. The soft smacks of his knuckles against her skin were loud in the quiet room. He watched her face. Her eyes drifted shut again, but her expression was one of deep concentration, her brow slightly furrowed, her lips parted. A faint groan escaped her as he landed a solid one right on her solar plexus.
“You like that?” he asked, his own breath coming faster.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “More. Lower.”
He complied, aiming for the softness below her navel, punching deeper, putting the weight of his shoulders behind it. Her legs shifted, falling open slightly. He could see she was wet, glistening in the morning light. The combination was devastating.
Before he could think, he moved, swinging his leg over her body so he was straddling her hips, sitting on her lower belly. He looked down at her, her breasts flattened by his thighs, her battered stomach bearing his weight. She let out a long, strained exhale as he settled.
“Fuck, yeah,” she breathed, her hands coming up to grip his calves. “Just like that.”
He ground his ass down, feeling his full weight press her into the mattress. She grunted, her abs tensing hard, trying to push up against him. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the pillow on either side of her head, and began to rock, grinding his pelvis down against her. The friction against his cock was maddening. He could feel her body compressing under him, a firm yet giving platform.
“You’re so deep in,” he groaned, looking into her eyes.
“Feels… so full,” she managed, her face flushed. “Harder. Sink into me.”
He lifted his hips slightly and slammed his weight back down. The air left her lungs in a pained, pleasured gasp. He did it again. And again. He was using her, treating her belly like a fucking cushion, and she was arching beneath him, urging him on with choked curses.
“Want you to walk on me,” she panted suddenly, her eyes blazing. “Now. Before I come. Get off and stand on the bed.”
The command cut through his frenzy. He clambered off her, his body protesting the loss of contact. He stood on the mattress, the old springs complaining beneath his feet. Eva, moving with a wince, slid off the side of the bed until she was lying on her back on the floor, directly beside it. She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her stomach a roadmap of desire and damage.
“Come on,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Step onto me.”
He knelt on the edge of the mattress, looking down at the vulnerable expanse of her body. This was the image from a thousand fantasies, polished and replayed until it felt fictional. His heart hammered against his ribs. He placed one foot, then the other, on the soft ridge of her lower stomach, just above her hips. He was standing on her.
A guttural moan vibrated up through her body into his feet. Her face contorted, a mask of extreme strain and ecstasy. Her abs tightened violently, a rigid plank trying to hold him. He balanced, putting a little more weight down. He could feel her organs compressing beneath his soles, the incredible, intimate intrusion of it. He looked down at his feet, pale against her bruised skin.
“Walk,” she grunted. “Up. Towards my tits.”
Shifting his weight with agonizing care, he stepped forward, his right foot settling higher, on the softer part of her upper abdomen, just below her sternum. Her whole body bowed upwards, a strangled cry tearing from her throat. Her hands flew to his ankles, not to push him away, but to hold him there.
“Oh god… yes… that’s it…”
He brought his left foot up to join the right. Now he was standing fully on the center of her torso, his feet side-by-side, all of his 83 kilograms driving the breath from her lungs. Her face was turning red. She was trembling with the effort, her muscles quivering under his soles. The power was absolute, dizzying. He was towering over her, her world reduced to the weight of him.
“Fuck me,” she wheezed, her eyes desperate. “Like this. Now.”
He didn’t question it. He stepped off her, his knees weak. He dropped to the floor, grabbed her hips, and dragged her towards him. He flipped her onto her stomach, shoved a pillow under her hips, and was inside her in one frantic, deep thrust. The position was animalistic, primal. He fucked her with a raw, pounding rhythm, his hands gripping her bruised sides for leverage. Each drive forward slammed her injured belly into the pillow, into the hard floor beneath.
“Yes! Harder! Punish it!” she screamed, her voice muffled by the carpet.
He slapped the side of her stomach, then drove his fist into her kidney area. She shrieked, pushing back against him wildly. He was a creature of pure sensation, of pounding flesh and cracking impacts and the filthy, perfect sounds she made. His orgasm ripped through him like a lightning strike, blinding and violent. He collapsed over her back, his teeth sinking into her shoulder to stifle his roar.
They lay in a heap on the floor, gasping, the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams above them. After a long while, she twisted her head. Her smile was wobbly, triumphant.
“Breakfast,” she croaked. “I’m fucking starving.”