Soap moved.
The rhythm was slow. Deliberate. Each thrust a measured, careful withdrawal followed by a steady, deep return. The canvas of the cot sighed beneath them with every shift of weight, a soft counterpoint to the wet, slick sound of his cock sliding into her. He kept his eyes locked on hers, his blue gaze intense, reading every flicker in her forest-green eyes. Her breath hitched on each inward stroke, a sharp little intake that she tried to stifle.
He felt it. The way her body was learning him. The initial shock of penetration had melted into a clinging, heated acceptance. She was so tight. A wet, perfect fist around him, milking him with a slow, involuntary pulse on every retreat. The heat was staggering. It climbed up his spine, pooled low in his gut, threatened to unravel the careful control he held by a thread.
A small sound escaped her. Not a word. A moan, low and breathy, caught in the back of her throat as he sank deep. Her eyes widened slightly, as if surprised by the noise herself.
Soap grunted. The sound was rough, torn from him. Holding this pace was a physical strain, every muscle in his back and shoulders corded tight. His forearms trembled where he braced himself on either side of her head. “Don’t,” he breathed, his brogue thick. “Don’t hide it.”
She bit her split lip, a flash of white teeth on the swollen flesh. Her nails dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders, leaving half-moons of pressure.
He thrust again, a little deeper, a fraction harder. The angle shifted, and he watched her breath stutter. Another moan, this one fuller, slipped free. Her head tipped back, exposing the long line of her throat. The clinical precision was gone from her face, replaced by a dazed, open-mouthed wonder.
“That’s it,” he murmured, the words gravel. “Let me hear you.”
He established a cadence. Withdraw until just the head of his cock remained, nestled in her soaked heat. Then a slow, relentless push back in, filling her completely, stretching her until her inner muscles fluttered in protest-turned-pleasure. Over. And over. The air grew thicker, hotter, saturated with the scent of sex and sweat and her.
Sam’s world narrowed to the sensation. The heavy, delicious drag inside her. The ache that was softening, transforming into a deep, building thrum. Each time he seated himself fully, a jolt of something bright and electric sparked low in her belly. The sounds she made were small, helpless things—gasps, whimpers, sighs that shook her bruised ribs.
Soap watched her come apart. Her lean muscles, usually so taut with readiness, went pliant beneath him. Her hips began to meet his, a tentative, rocking lift that matched his rhythm. Her eyes lost focus, glazing over, fixed on the concrete ceiling but seeing nothing. Every moan was a victory. Every shudder a confession.
The strain of holding back became a sweet agony. His cock throbbed, desperate for harder, faster friction. Pre-cum leaked from him, mixing with her wetness, making every slide obscenely slick. The sound of it was filthy. Wonderful. He gritted his teeth, a low, continuous growl vibrating in his chest. His control was a fraying rope.
“Soap.” Her voice was a ragged whisper.
He stilled, buried deep. “Aye?”
Her eyes found his, hazy but intent. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair damp at her temples. She swallowed. “Please.”
He waited. Let her say it.
Her hips lifted, seeking more friction, finding only the solid, unmoving fullness of him. A frustrated sound escaped her. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his back, fingers splaying over the scars and sweat-slick skin. She pulled, a weak, insistent pressure. “Harder.”
The word was a quiet plea. A surrender of the last vestige of her control.
It snapped the last thread of his.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a prayer and a curse.
He withdrew almost completely, leaving her empty and clenching around nothing, a soft cry of loss falling from her lips. Then he drove back into her. Not slow. Not careful. A single, powerful thrust that slammed the cot into the concrete wall with a deafening crack.
Sam cried out. Not in pain. In shocked, overwhelming sensation. Her back arched off the canvas, her body bowing under the force of him.
Soap did it again. And again. Setting a new, punishing rhythm. Deep, hard strokes that stole the air from her lungs and replaced it with raw, gasping pleasure. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the bunker, echoing off the bare walls. He was everywhere. The heat of his body covering hers. The smell of him. The brutal, perfect friction.
“Is that what you needed?” he gritted out, his voice raw with the effort. His hands found hers, pinned them to the cot beside her head, his fingers lacing through hers. “Tell me.”
She couldn’t form words. She could only nod, her head thrashing side to side, a broken stream of yesyesyes falling from her lips with every devastating thrust.