He pulled back until she felt the blunt pressure of him waiting, then drove forward with one long, deliberate stroke that made her gasp into his mouth. The stretch was different here—fuller, sharper, a possession that radiated through her lower back and down into her thighs. She felt her body resist and then yield, muscle giving way to the insistence of him, and the sound she made wasn't a moan so much as a breaking open.

Flynn stilled, buried to the hilt, his forehead grinding against hers. His breath came in short, ragged pulls. "Tell me if—"

"Don't stop." Her voice was a stranger's, thin and raw. "Don't you dare stop."

He began to move. Slow. Grinding. Each retreat dragged against nerves she hadn't known could fire, and each return filled her past the point of thought. Her legs locked tighter around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, and she could feel the sweat-slick slide of his skin against the insides of her thighs. The mattress gave beneath them with every thrust, a soft percussive rhythm that matched the blood pounding in her ears.

Her hips bucked up to meet him, involuntary and desperate. She wanted more. Faster. Harder. The slow grind was exquisite torture but it wasn't enough—her body was already climbing, already starving, and the measured pace made her want to scream.

"Flynn," she gasped. "More."

He didn't speed up. His green eyes—dark now, pupils blown—held hers. "Beg."

"I'm not—" A thrust cut her off, deep and grinding, and her head fell back against the pillow. "I'm not begging."

But she was. Her whole body was begging—hips rolling, nails digging into his shoulders, the whimper caught in her throat that escaped every time he bottomed out. She could feel her own wetness slicking his cock, making each stroke glide even as her ass clenched around him, and the double sensation of surrender and demand had her teetering on some edge she couldn't name.

"Harder," she said, and this time it wasn't a request. "Faster. Now, Flynn, I swear to god—"

He gave it to her. His hips snapped forward with a force that drove her up the mattress, and the sound that came out of her was guttural and broken. He fucked into her with hard, punishing strokes, one hand braced beside her head and the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, and Ivy's world narrowed to the slap of skin and the burn of him filling her and the animal sounds she couldn't stop making.

Her nails raked down his back, carving furrows from his shoulders to the base of his spine. She felt him shudder and thrust harder, so she did it again—dug in and dragged, leaving raised red lines she could feel with her fingertips on the next pass. His ass tensed under her scratching, muscles bunching with every drive, and she scored him there too, claiming every inch of him she could reach. The bite came without thought—her mouth found the curve of his shoulder, tasted salt and skin and Flynn, and she bit down until she felt his rhythm stutter and his groan vibrate against her teeth.

"Fuck. Yes." The words were torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hand left her hip and found her clit, thumb pressing in tight circles that matched the brutal pace of his thrusts. "Come for me, Ivy. Come on my cock while I'm in your ass."

She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her like a spinal lightning strike, clamping down around him so hard he gasped, and she let go of his shoulder to cry out—a raw, wrecked sound that was his name and a curse and a prayer all at once. Her thighs shook. Her nails dug fresh crescents into his back. She felt him keep thrusting through it, drawing out every pulse, until she was limp and trembling beneath him and still he didn't stop.

He was still buried inside her when the words found her mouth, thick and slurred. "Again. I want—" She swallowed, throat raw from screaming. "From behind. Doggy. Face down, ass up." Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn't care. She'd stopped being embarrassed somewhere around the first bite mark.

Flynn's green eyes met hers, still dark, still hungry. He didn't ask if she was sure. He just nodded once, and the sight of his jaw clenching sent a fresh pulse through her cunt. He pulled out slow, and Ivy felt every inch of the withdrawal—the drag of him against the walls of her ass, the sudden emptiness when he slipped free, the slick trail of lube and her own wetness smearing between her thighs.

"Turn over, wife." His hands found her hips, steadying her as she untangled her legs from his waist. Her muscles protested—thighs trembling, lower back singing with a deep, satisfied ache—but she rolled onto her stomach anyway. The sheets were damp beneath her, twisted and wrecked, and the hotel pillow smelled like his sweat.

"Ass up," she mumbled into the mattress. "You heard me."

He laughed—that boyish, surprised sound she'd loved since the first time she made him break composure in class. But his hands weren't laughing. They were hot and rough, gripping the soft swell of her hips and pulling her onto her knees. Ivy braced her forearms against the mattress, let her spine curve into the arch he'd asked for, and pressed her forehead to the tangled sheets. The position felt exposed in a way that made her stomach tighten—her ass tilted up toward him, her cunt dripping and visible between her spread thighs, everything offered.

"Look at you." His voice was gravel and awe, and she felt his knuckle trace the crease where her ass met her thigh. "Goddamn, Ivy."

"Don't 'goddamn' me. Fuck me." She pushed back against him, found his cock hard and slick and waiting, and heard his breath catch. "Give it to me as hard as you can."

He pushed into her in one long stroke—no teasing, no slow grind, just the full, blunt stretch of him filling her ass until her spine went liquid and her mouth dropped open against the sheets. The sound she made wasn't a word. It was a surrender.

Flynn's hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging into the generous curve of her, and he started to move. Fast. Hard. The slap of his thighs against her ass filled the room, wet and obscene, and Ivy's arms gave out—she dropped to her shoulders, cheek pressed to the mattress, her ass still high and presented to every brutal thrust. Each drive pushed a gasp out of her, a raw "yes" that got lost in the rhythm of him fucking into her.

"Like this?" He was breathing hard now, voice straining. "This what you needed?"

"Yes. God, yes." Her fingers found the headboard and held on. "Don't stop. Come with your cock in my ass, Flynn. Give me everything."

His response came not in words but in his body—a shift in angle, a deeper drive, a sudden, feral tension in the hands clamped on her hips. Ivy felt it in the way his rhythm changed, losing its punishing precision for something rawer, less controlled. He was close. She could feel him thickening inside her, the pulse of his cock against the tight clench of her ass, and the knowledge that she'd pushed him there—that her begging had broken the last of his restraint—sent a fresh surge of wetness down her thighs.

"Ivy—" Her name was a warning and a plea, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Inside me." She didn't recognize her own voice, hoarse and wrecked and absolutely certain. "Now. Right now. Come in my ass, Flynn. I want to feel it."

He broke. His hips slammed against her ass one last time, buried to the hilt, and then he was groaning—a long, low, guttural sound that vibrated through her spine and pooled hot in her belly. She felt the first pulse of him deep inside her, the wet heat of his cum flooding her ass, and her own cunt clenched in sympathetic response, empty and aching and impossibly aroused. He kept thrusting through it, shallow, desperate strokes that milked every last shudder from his body, and Ivy pressed her forehead to the mattress and let him take what he needed.

His weight settled over her slowly, his chest blanketing her back, his breath hot and ragged against her shoulder blade. She could feel his heart hammering through her ribs—or maybe that was hers. The sheets beneath them were soaked through, twisted and damp and smelling of sex, and somewhere in the hotel room, a distant siren wailed and faded. Flynn didn't move. His cock was still inside her, softening but not yet withdrawn, and Ivy realized she didn't want him to pull out. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Jesus," he breathed. The word was muffled against her skin. "Ivy. Jesus Christ."

She managed a laugh—that snort she'd never learned to suppress, though it came out thinner than usual, more gasp than humor. "That's not my name."

He laughed too, a broken, breathless sound against her spine, and his arms came around her, one hand splaying across her belly and the other finding her breast beneath the tangle of sheets. His thumb brushed her nipple, still hard, still sensitive, and Ivy shuddered. "Give me a minute," he murmured. "Just—give me a minute to catch my breath, and I'll—"

"You'll stay right there." She reached back, found the sweat-damp hair at his temple, and carded her fingers through it. "Inside me. Until I say otherwise."

He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. "Yes, ma'am."

They lay like that for a long moment—her ass still tilted up, his body draped over hers, the hotel's ancient air conditioner rattling in the window. Ivy's thighs were trembling with exhaustion, but the ache was satisfying, a deep, earned soreness that made her smile against the pillow. She could feel his cum leaking from her, a slow, warm trickle down the inside of her thigh, and the sensation was obscene and intimate and perfect.

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you so much it's ridiculous."