Her fingers were shaking too badly. The key skidded across the lock, scratching metal against metal, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. His palms were still cupping her tits through the thin cotton of her shirt, thumbs working slow, deliberate circles over her nipples until they ached, until they were hard peaks pressing against the fabric, desperate for more pressure.
"Fuck," she whispered, and tried again.
The key slid home.
She twisted it, shoved the door open—and his hands were already moving, one fisting in her hair, the other flat against her stomach, spinning her so hard her shoulder blades slammed into the door frame. The breath left her in a ragged gasp. The key dropped. It hit the linoleum with a tiny metallic ping that was already irrelevant.
His invisible cock ground against her ass, and she felt it—still slick from the parking lot, still impossibly huge, still cold enough to make her whole body shiver. He was hard against her, pressing into the cleft of her ass through her jeans, and she arched back into it without thinking, her palms flat against the door frame on either side of her head.
His hand slid down her stomach. Lower. Fingers dipping past the waistband of her jeans, past the soaked fabric of her panties, into the wetness that had been gathering on her thigh since she'd pulled her pants up in that parking lot. She was still slick. Still open. Still aching from the way he'd filled her.
His fingers found her pussy and she moaned—loud, shameless, her head falling back against the frame.
"Yes," she breathed. "God, yes."
He pushed one finger inside her. Then two. She was so wet they slid in without resistance, the cold shock of them making her clench, making her gasp, making her grind down against his hand. His thumb pressed against her clit, and she saw stars.
"Please," she heard herself say. "Please, please, I need—"
She didn't know what she needed. More. Him. All of him. The way he'd fucked her in the parking lot, hard and silent and relentless, his palm over her mouth while strangers walked past—she wanted that again. She wanted it harder. She wanted it until she couldn't walk.
He pulled his fingers out. She whimpered at the loss.
Then his hands were on her hips, spinning her again, pushing her forward into the dark apartment. She stumbled, caught herself on the kitchen counter, and felt him press against her from behind. His cold chest against her back. His mouth—she'd never felt his mouth before—pressed to the curve of her neck, and she shivered so hard her knees almost buckled.
His hands found her tits again. Cupping. Squeezing. His thumbs found her nipples and rolled them, pinched them, pulled until she was gasping, until she was pushing her chest into his palms like she could melt into them.
"Marcus," she moaned. "Marcus, please."
He didn't answer. He never answered. But his hands answered—one sliding down her stomach, popping the button on her jeans, yanking the zipper down with a roughness that made her breath catch. He tugged her jeans down her hips, her thighs, and she stepped out of them without being asked.
His hand found her cunt again. Bare this time. No panties in the way—she'd soaked through them in the car, and he'd pulled them aside in the parking lot, and she hadn't bothered to put them back on properly. They were still bunched around one thigh, useless and forgotten.
He touched her and she moaned again, her forehead dropping to the cool granite of the countertop. His fingers spread her open, explored her, dipped into her wetness and spread it over her clit until she was trembling, until she was whimpering, until her hips were rocking back against nothing because she wanted him inside her so badly it was a physical ache.
She felt him shift behind her. Felt the cold press of his cock against her thigh, slick with her own arousal, and she spread her legs wider without a second thought.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, please, yes—"
He pushed inside her in one slow, relentless thrust.
She cried out. Her fingers scrabbled at the counter edge, searching for purchase, as he filled her—deeper than anything had a right to, cold and huge and perfect. The stretch burned. The cold made her clench around him, and she felt him throb inside her in response, felt him pulse, felt him want her.
He didn't move. Just stood there, buried inside her to the hilt, his cold hands finding her tits again, cupping them, squeezing them, his thumbs finding her nipples and rolling them between his fingers as she gasped and trembled on his cock.
"Move," she begged. "Please, Marcus, move."
He didn't.
He held her there, impaled on him, his hands working her tits with slow, deliberate attention, his thumbs circling her nipples until she was arching her back, pushing her chest into his palms, whimpering with every breath. She could feel every inch of him inside her. The cold. The fullness. The way her body was clenching around him, trying to pull him deeper, trying to keep him there forever.
"Please," she said again, and her voice broke on the word.
He pulled out. Slowly. So slowly she felt every ridge, every inch, every impossible millimeter of him sliding out of her. She moaned at the loss. And then he thrust back in—hard, fast, deep—and she screamed.
Her knees buckled. He caught her, his arm banding across her stomach, holding her up as he fucked her against the counter. His hips slammed into her ass with every thrust, the sound of skin on skin filling the dark kitchen, wet and obscene and perfect. His hand slid up from her stomach to her tits again, cupping one, squeezing, his fingers finding her nipple and pinching until she sobbed.
"Harder," she gasped. "Please, harder, I can take it—"
He gave her harder.
He fucked her like he was trying to prove he was still real, still there, still capable of wanting. His thrusts were brutal, relentless, each one driving her forward until her palms slid across the counter, until she was braced on her forearms, her tits pressed flat against the cool granite, his cock buried so deep inside her she could feel him in her throat.
She came without warning.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a wave, like a fucking tsunami, and she screamed into the dark kitchen, her whole body convulsing around him, her cunt clenching and fluttering and milking him as he kept thrusting, kept fucking her through it, kept driving into her until she was sobbing, until she was begging him to stop and please don't stop all at once.
He didn't stop.
He slowed. Dragged his cock out of her until only the head was inside. Held there.
And then he pushed back in, slow and deliberate, and she felt every single inch of it. Her oversensitive body screamed at the intrusion, and she loved it, loved the ache, loved the burn, loved the way he was taking what he wanted because he knew she wanted to give it.
"More," she whispered. "I want more."
His hand slid between her thighs, finding her clit, and she gasped. His thumb pressed against it, circled it, matched the rhythm of his slow, deep thrusts, and she felt the second orgasm building before the first one had even finished fading.
"Oh god," she moaned. "Oh god, Marcus, I'm gonna—I'm gonna—"
He pressed harder. Thrust deeper. And she came again, harder this time, her whole body going rigid, a high keening sound escaping her throat as she convulsed around him. He didn't let up. His thumb kept circling, kept pressing, kept driving her higher until she thought she might pass out, until she was sure there was nothing left of her but this—this room, this darkness, this impossible cold thing fucking her into the counter.
She felt him pulse inside her. Felt his cock throb and twitch, and then the cold spread through her, deep and hot and wrong and perfect, as he came inside her. Her name on his lips—she could have sworn she heard it, whispered into the dark, a sound that might have been real or might have been her own desperate imagination. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the feeling of him filling her, of his release spilling into her, of his hands still cupping her tits like they belonged to him.
They did. They belonged to him. All of her belonged to him.
He pulled out slowly. She felt his cum leaking out of her, dripping down her thigh, warm and cold at the same time. She didn't move. Couldn't move. Her arms were shaking, her knees were shaking, her whole body was one long tremor of aftershock.
His hands found her hips. Turned her around. Lifted her onto the counter so she was sitting on the edge, her legs dangling, her tits bare because her shirt had ridden up at some point and she didn't remember when. His cold palms came up to cup her face, tilt her chin up, and she stared into the empty air where she knew he was standing.
"I can't see you," she whispered. "I wish I could see you."
His thumb traced her lower lip. Cold. Gentle. She parted her lips and sucked it into her mouth, tasting herself on his skin, tasting their combined release on his fingers. His other hand found her tits again, cupping, squeezing, his thumb finding her nipple and rolling it until she moaned around his finger.
He pulled his hand away. Both hands dropped to her thighs, spreading them, and she felt the cold pressure of his mouth against her inner thigh. She gasped. His mouth—she'd never felt his mouth before tonight, and now he was kissing her inner thigh, his tongue tracing a wet cold path up toward where his cum was still leaking out of her.
His tongue found her clit and she bucked.
"Marcus—"
His tongue was cold and perfect, tracing circles around her clit, dipping lower to taste what he'd left inside her, and the slick sound of it in the dark kitchen made her face burn. His hands held her thighs apart, his mouth worked her, and she felt herself climbing toward a third orgasm, impossible, too much, not enough.
His tongue pushed inside her. She screamed.
It was too much. It was perfect. His tongue fucked her, cold and insistent, lapping up his own release, tasting both of them, and she felt the orgasm cresting, felt it building, felt it about to break—
His thumb found her clit again. Pressed. Circled.
She came with a sob, her whole body arching off the counter, her hands fisting in his hair—the place where his hair should be—and she pulled him closer, held him there, rode his mouth through the most intense orgasm of her fucking life.
When it was over, she collapsed backward onto the counter, her chest heaving, her eyes closed, her body limp and useless and perfectly, beautifully wrecked.
She felt him stand. Felt his cold hands on her knees, pressing them together. Felt his fingers trace a line down her thigh, through the mess he'd made of her, and she shivered.
He lifted her off the counter. Carried her. She didn't open her eyes, didn't ask where they were going. She just let herself be held, let her head rest against his cold chest, let her arms loop around his neck.
He laid her down on her bed. The sheets were cool beneath her. She heard herself make a small sound of protest as his hands left her body, and then she felt him lie down beside her, felt his cold arm slide under her head, felt his cold chest press against her back as he pulled her close.
His hand found her tits again. Cupping them from behind, his palm flat over her heart, his fingers curving around the soft weight of her breast. His thumb found her nipple and held it, gentle, not demanding.
She covered his hand with hers.
"Stay," she whispered. "Please stay."
She felt his lips press against the back of her neck. Cold. Tender. A promise.
His hand stayed on her tits. She fell asleep in the arms of a ghost, and for the first time in weeks, she didn't dream about the cold.
She dreamed about coming home.