Chapter 8: Mouth and Fists
His fingers felt thick and stupid on the belt buckle. The metal clinked, too loud in the quiet room. Eva was already on her knees before him, her eyes level with his waist, watching his struggle with a predatory patience. Her breathing was still uneven from the weight that had just been pressed from her.
"Here," she said, her voice sandpaper-rough. She brushed his hands aside. Her fingers were swift, efficient. The buckle gave way. The button of his jeans popped open. The zipper descended with a slow, teeth-gritting rasp that seemed to echo.
She didn't pull them down. Not yet. She just looked up at him, her gaze holding his, and then she leaned forward and pressed her mouth against the denim, right over the aching bulge. The heat of her breath, the slight dampness, seared through the fabric. He jerked, a full-body spasm.
"Okay?" she asked, the word muffled.
He could only nod, a choked sound in his throat.
Then she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and briefs and yanked them down in one rough, decisive motion. The cool air of the apartment hit his skin, followed immediately by the overwhelming, velvet heat of her mouth.
There was no tentative testing, no slow introduction. She took him in, deep, her lips stretching around him, her tongue a flat, firm pressure underneath. His head slammed back, a gasp tearing from his lungs. He had to throw a hand out, bracing himself against the wall behind him to keep from buckling. The sensations were a riot—the wet suction, the tightness, the sheer unbelievable fact of it—Eva, on her knees, for him.
Her eyes were open, looking up, watching his face disintegrate. She pulled back slowly, then sank down again, taking him to the hilt. A groan vibrated through her and into him.
His free hand, the one not glued to the wall, moved almost on its own. It floated down, hovering over the landscape of her stomach. The skin was a mess of violent reds and deep purples where his feet had stamped their ownership, interspersed with the older, yellowing blooms from their punching session. It was the most beautiful, terrible thing he’d ever seen.
His knuckles touched her just below the sternum. She flinched, a minute contraction of her entire torso, and the sensation around his cock intensified wildly. He pressed in, not a punch yet, just steady, insistent pressure into the abused muscle.
She moaned around him, the sound desperate and encouraging. She began to move, establishing a rhythm—a deep, taking stroke followed by a shallow, urgent one. His hand followed suit. The pressure of his knuckles became a push. Then a sharp, inward dig.
Thud.
Her head bobbed faster.
He did it again, a little harder, a little lower, where a perfect imprint of his heel was visible.
Thump.
She gagged slightly, her eyes watering, but she didn’t pull away. She drove herself down onto him, taking him deeper, challenging him. It was a feedback loop of force and sensation. Each impact of his fist into her tender flesh made her throat constrict around him in a shocking, rhythmic milking. Each hungry pull of her mouth made his next punch land harder, seeking that choked-off grunt of pleasure-pain that she released against his skin.
"Again," she breathed when she came up for air, a string of saliva connecting her lip to him. "Right there. Harder."
He was losing his mind. The vulgar, slick sounds of her mouth, the muffled, meaty thuds of his fists meeting her resistance, his own ragged curses mixing with her strained gasps. This wasn't a fantasy anymore. It was messy, and loud, and real. Her nose was running. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the top of her head.
He found a spot just to the left of her navel, a particularly dark bruise. He curled his hand into a proper fist, not just knuckles. He drew it back.
"Wait," she panted, pulling off him completely. She was shuddering, her whole body humming with tension. "Tell me what you're going to do."
"I'm… I'm gonna punch you. There." His voice was broken glass.
"While I do this?" She leaned in and licked a stripe up his length, her eyes never leaving his.
"Yeah."
"Then do it. Don't make me wait."
She took him back in, her mouth an enveloping, demanding heat. He pulled his fist back further. The moment stretched—her moving on him, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, the weight of his own arm. Then he drove it forward.
The impact was solid, deep. A grunt was punched out of her, vibrating through his core. Her body seized, but her mouth stayed locked, working him through the shockwave of her own pain. He watched, mesmerized, as the shock traveled through her, as she absorbed it and converted it into motion, into a hunger that matched his own.
He hit her again. And again. Not wild, not uncontrolled, but deliberate, measured strikes placed across the canvas of her belly, each one eliciting a strangled sound that was pure music. She was crying, tears cutting clean lines through the sweat on her cheeks, but she was relentless, her hands coming up to grip his thighs, nails biting in, anchoring herself to the storm she was creating.
He could feel the tension coiling at the base of his spine, a wire pulled taut. The room, the world, narrowed to two points: the devastating pressure of her mouth and the resilient, devastating give of her abdomen under his fist.
"Eva, I'm—" he warned, the words stripped down to raw need.
She just hummed in response, a go-ahead that traveled straight up his spine, and increased her pace. Her throat opened, taking him deeper than he thought possible.
He came with a shout that was mostly her name, his free hand tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding on as the waves tore through him. His other fist, almost of its own volition, landed one last, final blow against her side as he shuddered.
Thud.
She took it all, swallowing around him, her own body trembling violently with the aftershocks of the blows and the force of his release. She stayed there, on her knees, until he was spent and sensitive, until his grip on her hair loosened.
Slowly, carefully, she pulled back. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked down at her stomach. It was a vibrant, painful masterpiece. She prodded a particularly dark mark with her fingers, hissing through her teeth.
Then she looked up at him, her face wrecked, tear-streaked, and brilliant. A slow, wobbly smile spread across her features.
"See?" she said, her voice hoarse but light, almost playful. "Told you you'd like the weight more."