Soap holds still.
It’s a brutal kind of stillness. Every muscle in his back and shoulders is corded tight, trembling with the effort. He’s buried to the hilt inside her, and the feeling is catastrophic. Wet, tight, fluttering heat. Her body is a perfect, searing fist around his cock, and the urge to move—to thrust, to grind, to lose himself in that heat—is a physical scream in his blood. He breathes through his nose, a ragged, controlled sound. His forehead is still pressed to hers, their sweat mingling.
He can feel her pain. It’s in the desperate, involuntary clench of her inner muscles, a spasming grip that’s more panic than pleasure. It’s in the sharp, shallow hitches of her breath against his cheek. She’s holding onto his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hard muscle, but it’s the grip of someone bracing against a storm, not pulling him closer.
“Just breathe, Sam,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough scrape in the quiet bunker. “Breathe with me. In… and out.”
He demonstrates, taking a slow, deliberate inhale, willing his own racing heart to follow. He feels her try to match it. Her chest rises under his, stutters, then finds a slower rhythm. The punishing tightness around him eases, just a fraction. The clench becomes a pulse. Still impossibly tight, but the frantic edge is gone.
“Good lass,” he whispers. “That’s it. Let it happen. Don’t fight it.”
He waits. Counts her breaths. Ten. Twenty. The concrete walls seem to absorb the sound, leaving only the wet, intimate sound of their joined bodies and the soft rustle of the thin cot beneath them. The dim emergency light casts their tangled shadows against the wall, a single, fused shape.
When her hands relax their death-grip on his shoulders, sliding down to splay against his heaving chest, he dares to move.
It’s barely anything. A slow, careful withdrawal, just an inch. The drag is exquisite, a slick, hot friction that makes his eyes roll back for a second. He pushes back in, just as slowly.
A sharp whimper escapes her lips.
Soap freezes instantly, buried deep again. “Shh,” he soothes, dropping his head to nuzzle at the junction of her neck and shoulder. His lips brush her damp skin. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
Her breathing is pained again, quick and shallow. He doesn’t move. Just presses soft, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, over the bruise blooming there. His tongue traces the salt of her skin. A silent apology. A distraction.
“Talk to me, Sam,” he murmurs against her skin. “Tell me what you feel.”
She shakes her head, a tiny movement. Words are beyond her.
“Aye, okay,” he says. “Just feel it, then.”
He waits again. Lets the stillness settle. This time, the tension leaves her body more quickly. Her legs, locked around his hips, loosen their vise-like hold. A long, shuddering sigh leaves her lungs, warm against his ear.
Encouraged, he tries again. Another slow, grinding retreat. Another even slower slide home.
This time, the sound she makes isn’t pain. It’s a small, choked gasp. A surprised little “oh” that gets caught in her throat.
Soap’s control splinters.
That sound. The way her body finally, truly yields, accepting him with a slick, welcoming heat. The wet, rhythmic *schlick-schlick* of his cock moving in her, a filthy, perfect music. It obliterates every good intention.
He forgets about slow. Forgets about gentle.
On the fourth measured thrust, he loses it.
His hips snap forward, driving into her hard and deep. Once. The cot frame rattles against the concrete wall. Again. A brutal, punishing stroke that seats him so deep he feels her cervix yield against him.
A raw, pained cry tears from Sam’s throat.
Soap stops dead. The reality of what he just did crashes into him like ice water. He’s panting, his whole body trembling with arrested momentum. “Christ. Sam.”
Her eyes are screwed shut. Her breath comes in ragged, shattered gasps. She can’t speak.
“Sam, look at me. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” His voice is stripped raw, frantic. He cups her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Talk to me. Please.”
Her eyelids flutter open. Her forest-green eyes are glassy with unshed tears, wide with shock. She swallows, trying to find her voice. Her body is rigid beneath him again, clenched tight in aftershock.
“That,” she whispers, the word a broken thing. “That hurt.”