Page 7 of Boulder's Weight

Each thrust draws a gasp from her lips, her fingers digging deeper into my shoulders.

The bathroom's fluorescent lights flicker above us, casting harsh shadows that somehow make this feel even more raw, more real.

"Harder," she breathes against my ear, her voice ragged.

I comply, shifting my grip on her thighs, angling her body to take me deeper.

The new position makes her cry out, her head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.

I press my lips to her exposed throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my tongue.

The small space fills with the sounds of our breathing, our bodies moving together, creating an erotic soundtrack that only heightens the intensity.

My muscles burn from holding her up, but there’s no way in fucking hell I’m stopping now.

Not even if the building was coming down around us.

"Look at me," I command.

Her eyes flutter open, that whiskey brown darkened to almost black with desire.

The connection between us in that moment transcends the physical—it's like something electric arcing between us, dangerous and addictive.

I can feel her body beginning to tense, her movements becoming more erratic.

My own release builds at the base of my spine, a white-hot pressure threatening to consume me.

Still, I hold back, determined to watch her come undone first.

"Let go," I urge, sliding one hand between us to where we're joined, finding that spot that makes her arch against me. "Let go for me, Kelsey."

Her response is immediate—a broken cry, her inner muscles clenching around me in waves, her entire body trembling in my arms.

The sight of her coming apart is what finally pushes me over the edge.

When she comes, her body tightening around mine, I follow her over the edge, my release hitting me with an intensity that leaves me gasping, my forehead pressed against the cool tile wall beside her head.

For a moment, we stay just the way we are, breathing hard, bodies still joined.

Then reality starts to seep back in.

The uncomfortable position.

The fact we’re in a public bathroom.

The fact that I barely know this woman who's somehow managed to get under my skin in the space of an evening.

I ease her down, both of us adjusting our clothing in the small space.

There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, a shift in the energy.

"That was..." I start, not sure how to finish the sentence.

"Yeah," she says, running a hand through her now completely disheveled hair. "It was."

She turns to the sink, splashing water on her face, careful around her bruised eye.

I watch her in the mirror, noting the way she's rebuilding her walls right in front of me, piece by piece.

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