Marcus
I sat on the edge of her bed, suddenly still—unsure, not of her, but of how the hell I’d gotten this lucky. How we went from everything falling apart to this moment that felt like it might just hold everything together.
“You okay?” she asked, voice soft but sure.
I turned to her. “Yeah. I just… don’t want to screw this up.”
Betty crawled toward me, slow and confident, her fingers hooking the hem of my shirt. “Then don’t.”
She kissed me—harder than I expected. No hesitation, no games. Just her mouth claiming mine like she already knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it. I groaned, one hand gripping her hip, the other sliding into her hair.
Heat surged between us. All that tension we’d buried came tearing loose.
She climbed into my lap, straddling me, her sleep dress riding up as her bare thighs gripped mine. My hands moved over her—up her spine, across her ribs, fingers trembling slightly as I slid beneath the fabric. Her skin was hot, smooth, begging to be touched.
“You’ve been killing me for months,” I murmured against her throat.
She arched against me, her breath catching as I sucked at her pulse. “Then do something about it.”
I did.
I laid her back slowly, dragging her dress up and over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. No bra. No panties. Just flushed skin and wicked eyes, her legs parting for me like she knew how bad I wanted her.
“Fuck, Betty,” I whispered, kneeling between her thighs.
I kissed down her body—her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, her stomach—until she was squirming beneath me, her fingers tangled in my hair, her breath coming in gasps.
And when I slid my tongue between her legs, she broke.
Her hips lifted. Her moan punched through the room. I licked her slow, deep, savoring every sound, every twitch, every sweet, soaked reaction. She came with a cry, thighs shaking, her hand slamming against the headboard as she whispered my name like a secret.
I didn’t stop.
I fucked her with my mouth until she was begging, breathless, clawing at me. Then I crawled up her body, kissed her deep, and felt her fingers undo my jeans with frantic purpose.
“Need you inside me,” she gasped, eyes glazed. “Now.”
I grabbed a condom from my wallet, rolled it on, and slid into her in one slow, brutal thrust.
We both moaned—raw, guttural.
She was so tight, so wet. She wrapped around me like she never wanted me to leave.
“Look at me,” I panted, driving into her deeper.
She did.
Her eyes locked on mine and held. That was the moment. Not the thrusts, not the sweat, not the sex—but that look. Like it had always been us.
Our rhythm built fast—desperate, hungry, loud. The sound of skin slapping, her whimpers, my grunts—it filled the room. I slammed into her harder, one hand on her throat, the other gripping her hip as she writhed beneath me, crying out, begging for more.
“I’m close,” she gasped.
“Let go, baby. Come for me.”
She shattered—again—clenching around me, pulling me over the edge with her. I came hard, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged.
We collapsed into each other, limbs tangled, hearts still racing.
For a while, the room was quiet. Just breath. Skin. Afterglow.
And just like that, it was.
No lies. No fear. Just us.
And yeah—maybe forever.