collide
q-lennox:
Sheâs aggressive and wild, and sheâs fire and unrelenting passion. She pressed back with everything she has, mewling in pleasure, hands clenching the hotel bedsheets beneath them. Quentin gritted his teeth, hissing in sensation when she shifted her hips and everything was tighter. She was intoxicating and he couldnât get enough of the way her walls contracted around him.
He was vaguely aware of the knocking on the door somewhere in the back of his mind but he couldnât care less. The only thing he could pay attention to was Shraderâs pants and delicate moans resonating against the walls of the hotel room. Their ragged breathing joining together and their overheated bodies rocking with each and everything thrust.Â
Her little dulcet sounds were becoming more fervent and her muscles started to tense up beneath him and she quivered in his arms. His kept moving his fingers in circles in motion with his hips, and god, it was irresistible. Q could tell she was on the verge of losing it - her eyes shut tight in concentration. Her hair was cascading wildly around her face and she was so unbelievably beautiful.
And he was on the brink. Already doubled over, his lips smoothed up and down as his own body moved. One final moan from her and it drove him over the edge, pulling that knot from the pit of his stomach and sending stars dancing around his vision. He pulled his hips from inside her and released on the small of her back.
Just like that, she came crashing down.
The room was cold because her hair was still wet. She was exhausted because sheâd just worked up a sweat fucking her brains out after not eating all day and being traumatized by her father a second time. Her body was spent and her head was spinning. Her back was wet and she closed her eyes, breathing, thinking - she didnât feel as good as she hoped she would. Wasnât happier, wasnât fixed. She hadnât forgotten. Just covered it up for a moment. Everything was still there, raw and bleeding.
Shrader took a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and wiped off her back and threw them away. A strange offensive that he hadnât cum inside her made her even more confused, a gladness that he hadnât blanketed the slight. Her arms shook, weak with exhaustion, and she slowly lowered herself onto the bed, sinking deep into the mattress, no longer hungry.
Home. She had to get home. She just fucked her boyfriend and didnât feel like she usually did; didnât feel in love and didnât feel adored. Guilt swept over her. Why didnât she want to say âI love youâ over and over again, like always? Why did she pull up the covers and hide her body when the knock on the door came again, instead of lounging in the presence of their nakedness, basking in the afterglow? Why was she itching for a smoke and a drink? And why did closing her eyes seem like the best alternative?
She stayed hidden under the covers and longed for another shower. She wanted to be home, in a place where they were safe and ignorant of all that had gone on here. She wished they had never come to New York.
Where had all these thoughts been before? Ignored, maybe. Refused to acknowledge them, that they were real. Regret felt ugly and dark. The pain of rejection and failure and hearing her own father tell her he didnât love her anymore was grim, sickly, alive inside her. Shrader felt her nose clog and throat sting and knew she might cry again.
The food came but she wasnât hungry. All she wanted to do was turn out the light.
