Just as my thighs start to clench, one of Rush’s hands goes to my hip, and I feel his other graze my ass, just as the telling, blunt tip of his cock teases me with a minimal warning.
He doesn’t shove himself inside me with the desperate abandon I wish he would.
My legs tremble when he takes his time, as his freed hand comes up to my shoulder, his fingers digging in with conscious awareness of their firm grip.
As this man, he could break me if he wasn’t conscious. He’s lethally lean, because no one can account for just how strong he is, given the lack of visible bulk.
His hand smooths up my back, and I miss the mirror image, because I’d love to know what he looks like while making that guttural noise that matches the trembling anticipation that comes out in my shaky breath.
He glides easily inside me, ensuring I feel each inch of him with that torturous pace.
When his hand reaches the top of my spine, his fingers spread, touching the dip of my neck on either side as he gently grips. He shoves himself in the rest of the way so abruptly that it feels like a chilled shock of electricity by this drawn-out point.
A ridiculous, degrading sound escapes me before I can swallow it back, and I feel, rather than see, him smile, just based on the way his grip changes.
I forgot just how well I remembered him until he began plucking every single weakness on my body like he was reacquainting himself with his favorite instrument.
In the next thrust, I’m reminded of his strength once again, but he anchors me in place to keep me from stumbling. I also make another embarrassing noise.
“Soft girls date soft guys. You’ve gotten too soft,” he tells me, squeezing my ass like he’s making a rude pun.
Doing all I can not to react like a desperate fool, I clear my throat. “You still talk too much, I see,” I deadpan.
The box we’re in rocks, and the screen in front of me turns into a window once more, this time more discernable as the two change directly before my eyes.
The box begins rotating so slowly that it barely rattles the chains with the abrupt start. A gradual panoramic view of the very debauched sex club steadily grows, expanding as each panel becomes a window to the club around us.
I finally realize we’re on a track that has just started moving, and there are a lot more boxes, like ours, moving along with us. The people out there are looking in on us, and the people in the boxes are looking out on them.
Who the hell thinks of this shit?
Rush thrusts in again, and I moan, my mind so stimulated by all the working parts around me that it almost creates a heady fog I’m willing to surrender to.
The chains start moving, dragging me forward, as he grows more aggressive behind me. He somehow moves us closer and closer to the glass, until my hands are anchored above our heads, and I’m fully pressed against the glass.
My head lulls to the side, and his arm slides up my chest until he’s cupped my chin. When our lips collide this time, every pent-up emotion flows from my lips to his, and from his to mine.
It’s retribution and redemption.
It’s beautifully tainted memories mixed with a naïve sense of false hope.
It’s unpredictable danger and limited safety woven in one net.
It’s past and present colliding in a way that could only bring about a more damaging future.
It’s drugging.
It’s intoxicating.
It’s pretty freaking explosive, too, because he loses himself.
My body slams forward on the glass, and his rhythm grows more insistent, as he continues to drink me in like he’s missed me as much as I worked so hard to not to miss him.
This is why we won’t work.
We both get too lost in each other, and then we act like two reckless kids. The more things change…
“We’ll be dead in a year,” I say between breaths, even as I kiss him harder before he can respond.
He bites down on my bottom lip, as his thrusts grow more punishing. Between his pull on my heart and devastating intimate knowledge on all the right buttons to push—and how to push them—I shatter like a cheap glass table in the middle of a bar brawl.
It’s probably the most painful pleasure I’ve experienced in too long, because delayed gratification is a mercilessly wondrous bitch when in the hands of Rush.
My nails bite into my own palms, and a garbled cry escapes me that I work desperately hard to smother, as my legs give out.
My body doesn’t even move, in spite of the gelatin status of my legs, because he has me thoroughly pinned to the glass. I’m not even sure if my feet are touching the floor, to be honest.