Chapter 279: A World for Two.
"Wait." Her hand flattened against my chest. The palm was warm, damp, the pressure light but absolute. "Wait, stop. Stop."
I stopped. Completely. The heat of her still around me—tight, slick, stretched full around the thick length of my cock—but no movement at all.
"No, not—" She was laughing and breathing at the same time and not doing either well. The sound came out broken, half-swallowed. "Not stop stop. Just move. Let me. Move."
"Move where?"
"Bram."
"I genuinely don’t know what you’re asking me to—"
"Lie down." She pushed at my chest with the flat of her hand, no strength in it at all, and I went anyway. The mattress dipped under the shift of weight. "There. Yes. Like that."
The bed complained under both of us—soft, private, a single long creak that felt louder than it should have. Somewhere in the middle of it her hair came down across my face, blue and soft and smelling faintly of the dark room, and neither of us fixed it.
Then she was above me and everything went quiet for a second.
The quiet was different from the one outside. This one lived between us.
"Okay," she said, to herself again. "Okay."
I looked up at her.
The grey light was behind her now and it caught the edges of her—her shoulder, the line of her jaw, one side of her mouth—turning the rest of her face into soft shadow. Her eyes were shut again. Her hands had found my chest and stayed there like she needed the contact to keep her balance, fingers spread, the heels of her palms pressing lightly against muscle and bone.
She shifted her weight. Slow. Careful. Her thighs tightened around my hips as she rose a fraction of an inch, the wet drag of her pussy sliding up the shaft of my cock until only the swollen head remained inside her.
Then she sank back down, taking me deeper, the tight heat of her stretching open around me again. The pressure was exquisite—hot, slick, clenching in small involuntary pulses that I felt all the way to the base.
"Venna."
"Don’t." Her voice had gone somewhere lower, almost rough. "Don’t talk yet. Give me—"
She stopped.
I watched her face change in the grey light. Watched her lips part and press together and part again. Watched something cross her expression that was almost pain and wasn’t—something deeper, concentrated, as if she was listening to a sound only she could hear.
A fine tremor moved through her thighs where they framed my hips. Her inner muscles fluttered hard around my cock, squeezing, releasing, squeezing again.
"Oh."
She started to move.
Not far. Not fast. Just a slow, deliberate rock of her hips—up, down, the thick length of me disappearing into her and then reappearing slick and shining in the low light.
Each downward slide buried me to the hilt. Each upward pull dragged the head of my cock along her inner walls, the pressure tight and wet and relentless. I could feel every ridge of her, every soft contraction, the way her body clung and then yielded.
"You alright?"
"Mm." Her head went back. The line of her throat opened to the dim light. "Mm-hm."
Her breasts swayed with the motion. Nipples tight, dark, catching the grey light each time she rose. I watched the way her stomach tightened, the soft muscles working as she found a rhythm. Watched the place where we joined—her swollen lips stretched wide around the base of my cock, glistening, a thin shine of her wetness coating my shaft every time she lifted.
"That wasn’t a word."
"I KNOW." It came out too loud and she caught it and laughed at herself, breathless, one hand coming up to cover her own mouth. The laugh shook her shoulders and sent another ripple of tight heat down the length of me. "Sorry. Sorry."
She kept moving. A little deeper now. A little harder. The wet sound of her body taking me filled the small space between us—soft, filthy, unmistakable. Her thighs trembled harder against my hips. I could feel the pressure building inside her, the way she clenched down on every stroke, the way her breath kept catching and breaking.
"Don’t be sorry."
"There are people—" She swallowed. The movement was visible in her throat. "There are people in this building."
"There are no... people." My voice was broken, feeling the heat of the moment, "Dead zombies."
"That’s worse. That’s so much—" Her breath caught as she sank down fully, grinding the base of my cock against her, the head buried deep. The hand still covering her mouth pressed harder for a second. "That’s worse, Bram."
"Then be quiet."
"I’m trying."
"Try harder."
"You’re not—" Something got away from her—low, involuntary, the kind of sound that lives in the chest before it ever reaches the mouth—and she pressed her own hand over her mouth again and finished the sentence through it. "You’re not helping."
She moved faster.
Not rough. Not frantic. Just deeper, more certain, her hips rolling in a steady, wet rhythm that forced every inch of me inside her again and again.
I watched her face the whole time—eyes squeezed shut, lips parted under her own fingers, the soft flush climbing her throat and cheeks.
Every time she took me to the root her brows drew together and a small, broken sound escaped against her palm. Every time she rose I felt the tight, slick drag of her walls along my cock, the heat of her, the way she was already starting to shake.
The pressure was constant. Hot. Relentless. Her body worked me with every motion, clenching and releasing, slick and open and greedy. I could feel how close she was getting in the way her thighs locked tighter around my hips, in the way her free hand dug into my chest, nails biting just enough to leave marks.
Outside, the capital continued ending.
In here, the only things that moved were her hips, the wet slide of her body on mine, and the soft, muffled sounds she couldn’t quite keep quiet.