Page 82 of Red Zone
The way she says it, like a prayer and a curse in one, sends electricity straight down my spine.
“Fuck, Lyla,” I growl. “You keep doing that and I’m gonna come in my pants.”
“Good,” she pants. “Maybe then you’ll shut up.”
I grind against her again, rougher this time, and she bucks up to meet me—desperate, wild, perfect. We fall into a rhythm, messy and uncontrolled, breathing each other in like it’s the only oxygen left in the world.
Clothes stay on. Barely. My shirt twisted in her fists. It’s not about getting naked.
It’s about relief. About release. Finally letting ourselves want.
And shewants.
I can feel it in every gasp, every drag of her hips against mine, every breathless curse she whispers into my neck as I rut against her like a guy who’s been dreaming of this for months—which, let’s be real, I have.
My cock’s hard as hell and pressed tight against the soft heat between her legs. There’s nothing gentle about the way I move. Nothing held back.
And the best part?
She matches me, move for move, fire for fire.
When she moans again, louder this time, and bites down on my shoulder to muffle it, I know we’re close—both of us, teetering on the edge.
I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes. Her pupils are blown, lips swollen, breath ragged.
“You good?” I ask, voice barely steady.
She grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me back down.
“I’m better than good,” she whispers against my lips. “Don’t stop.”
So I don’t.
I fuck her through our clothes until her thighs tremble, and she gasps my name again, broken and sweet. And then I follow,hips stuttering, coming undone right there with her—hot, breathless, wrecked.
I roll off her slightly, and just lay there, the sounds of us breathing mixing with the sounds from the long-forgotten movie.
Minutes go by, and we’re still tangled together. Her leg is draped over mine, her fingers resting just beneath the hem of my shirt, like she forgot to move them—and I hope she forgets a little longer.
I’ve had sex before. Casual, fast, a necessary means to an end.
But this?
This was fully clothed and still managed to wreck me.
Her crop top is bunched up beneath her ribs, her neck flushed, and her lips…kiss-bitten and parted like she’s still catching her breath. She’s not saying anything. Neither am I.
But I can feel her.
All of her.
The rise and fall of her chest. The heat of her skin under my palm. The way her fingers twitch, just barely, when I shift.
And I know I should get up. Say something cocky, make a joke, hit the reset button before this gets too real.
But I don’t move.
Because I’m starting to think I could get used to this—her weight against me, her laugh still caught between us, that electricity under my skin that only seems to settle when she’s close.
