Soap kept thrusting.
The brutal rhythm he’d set was a machine now, pistoning his hips into hers, the cot slamming a steady, metallic protest against the concrete wall. His world narrowed to the heat of her, the tight, wet clutch of her body around his cock, the ragged sound of his own breath in his ears. Minutes bled together, measured only in the deep, driving strokes that split her open again and again.
Sam was a mess of sensation beneath him. The initial, shattering climax had left her pliant and trembling, but the relentless friction was building something new—a raw, desperate ache that coiled tighter with every impact. Her quiet ‘yesyesyes’ had faded into choked gasps, her head turning side to side on the thin mattress. The pleasure was a live wire, frayed and sparking, threatening to short-circuit her completely.
“Soap.” His name was a broken syllable, torn from her throat.
He didn’t slow. “Tell me.”
“Harder.” It wasn’t a whisper. It was a plea, raw and stripped of every defense. “Please. Harder.”
The words detonated in his gut. A low, guttural groan ripped from his chest, the sound of his control finally, completely incinerated. He withdrew until just the head of his cock remained, teasing her soaked entrance, and then he drove back into her with a force that stole the air from her lungs.
Sam cried out—a loud, desperate moan that echoed off the bunker walls. It was a sound of pure surrender, of boundaries annihilated.
“Fuck,” Soap gritted out, the sensation of her clenching around that deep, punishing thrust making his vision blur. Her moan vibrated through him, a feedback loop of pleasure. He did it again. And again.
Her body answered. Her thighs, which had been trembling around his hips, fell open wider. A conscious, deliberate surrender. She hooked her heels behind his knees, pulling him deeper, giving him every inch.
The wet, slick noise of their joining filled the space. A lewd, rhythmic squelch with every deep, full withdrawal and subsequent plunge. The sound of her arousal, of him moving through it, relentless.
Each desperate moan he wrung from her throat fed the fire in his blood. He watched her face—the flutter of her eyelids, the parted lips, the tears tracking new paths through the sweat on her temples. She was utterly gone, lost in the sensation of being taken apart.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice rough with strain. “Let me hear you. All of it.”
He angled his hips, seeking a deeper spot, and found it. Sam’s back arched off the cot, a sharp, broken cry tearing from her. Her nails scored his shoulders, anchoring herself to the only solid thing in a dissolving world.
The wet sounds grew louder, more obscene. His balls slapped against her with each thrust, the heat between them feverish. He could feel her inner muscles fluttering, trying to grip him, a frantic, rhythmic pulse that promised another climax was building at the base of her spine.
“You feel that?” he rasped, driving into her, his own breath coming in harsh pants. “You’re close. I can feel it.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only moan, a continuous, needy sound that broke on each deep penetration. Her hips rose to meet his, a clumsy, instinctive rhythm, chasing the friction, begging for the fall.
Soap’s rhythm became savage, focused solely on that spot inside her that made her see stars. The cot protested violently. The world was the smell of sex and sweat, the sound of skin slapping and her choked pleas, the sight of her coming completely undone beneath him.
He was hanging on by a thread, the pressure in his own groin a white-hot coil. Every desperate moan from her lips, every wet, squeezing pull of her cunt, dragged him closer to the edge. He was fucking her now with a single, focused purpose: to shatter her again, to feel her break around him before he lost himself completely.