Soap’s control didn’t just snap—it vaporized.
The sight of her, wrecked and transparent beneath him, was a detonation in his blood. He didn’t pull out. He moved. In one fluid, powerful motion, he wrapped his arms around her back and lifted her clean off the cot, her limp body coming with him as he sat back on his heels, still buried deep inside her.
Sam gasped, a raw, startled sound, her hands scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slick shoulders. The shift was dizzying, the angle abrupt and profound. She was upright now, straddling his lap, her full weight settling onto him.
“Hold on,” he growled, the words scraping from his throat.
His hands locked on her hips, fingers digging into the bruises there, and he began to move. Not the slow, grinding rhythm of before. He thrust up into her, hard and fast, using the leverage of the floor to piston up into her body.
The new angle was devastating. Each upward drive hit a place that made her see white. Sam cried out, a broken, continuous sound, her head falling back. Her breasts, freed from the press of his chest, bounced with the brutal tempo of his hips.
Her nipples, hard and sensitive, dragged across the damp, scarred plane of his pectorals with every jolt. The friction was electric, a secondary current of sensation that arced straight to her core, already stretched and throbbing around him.
Soap watched it happen. Watched her body respond, utterly beyond her command. The wet, obscene slap of skin filled the concrete room, a frantic counter-rhythm to their ragged breathing. He grunted with each upward drive, the effort cording the muscles in his neck, his focus absolute.
She clung to him, her arms looped around his neck, her fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape. Every desperate moan was breathed directly into the skin of his throat, hot and pleading.
“Soap—”
It was less a name and more a sob of overwhelmed sensation.
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with his body, driving up into her harder, faster, chasing the tight, clutching heat of her. His world narrowed to this: the feel of her cunt gripping him, the slick heat between them, the drag of her nipples against his chest, the sound of her coming apart.
Sam’s moans climbed, losing all shape, becoming a raw, open-mouthed stream of sound. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around his cock, a frantic, rhythmic clenching that pulled a ragged groan from his chest.
He could feel her climax building again, a terrifying wave rising from the ruins of the last one. Her body tightened, her thighs trembling where they gripped his sides. Her nails scored his back.
“Let go,” he commanded, his voice a harsh rasp against her ear. “I’ve got you. Let it fucking go.”
It was the permission, the growled assurance in the midst of the storm, that shattered her. Her second scream was different from the first—deeper, guttural, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. Her body convulsed around him, a series of violent, milking contractions that ripped the air from his lungs.
The sensation was too much. His own control, held by a thread, vaporized. With a final, brutal thrust that seated her fully on his lap, he came. A raw, guttural shout was torn from him as he emptied himself into her, his hips jerking erratically, his arms locking around her to hold her still through the pulsing waves of his release.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh, sobbing breaths, and the wet, intimate sound of their bodies still joined. Sam slumped against him, boneless, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her entire body trembling with aftershocks.
Soap held her there, his own breaths heaving, his hands slowly gentling on her hips, moving in slow circles on her skin. The concrete bunker held them in its silent, dim embrace, the only world that existed.