He Calls Her His Only Safe Thing
The wet scrape of his teeth against my bottom lip is the only thing that exists. Sharp enough to draw a bead of coppery heat, soft enough that I taste the salt of his tongue flooding in right behind it, claiming every inch of my mouth like he’s been starved for it, like the last twenty minutes of running and gunfire were just foreplay for this. I taste blood—mine, maybe his, it doesn’t matter whose—and it tastes like staying alive. That single point of contact is the whole world for one suspended second before the door gives out behind us.
We hit it wrong, shoulder-first, and the wood shrieks against the frame as it swings wide, and then there’s no floor under my feet at all, just the lurch of falling with his mouth still fused to mine, his hands fisted in my jacket like he’s the only thing keeping either of us upright. We go down together, hard, the impact jarring up through my spine as my back slams into cold hardwood and his body crashes down on top of mine, knocking every ounce of air out of my lungs in one violent punch. For a second I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t do anything but feel the dead weight of him pressing me into the floor like he’s trying to fuse our bones together.
Then his hips grind down and the air rushes back into me on a gasp that turns into a moan before it even clears my throat. My skirt is already hiked to my hips, his cock a thick, insistent line dragging along the soaked seam of my panties, and I can feel exactly how hard he is through two layers of ruined fabric, leaking enough that the friction turns slick. Survival adrenaline and months of forbidden, starved-out heat detonate at once, no restraint left to hold either of us back. I moan loud—unapologetically, filthily loud—the sound tearing out of my throat as his teeth drag down over my pulse point, and I curse into the shell of his ear like I want the whole block to hear it. “Fuck, Elias, yes—right fucking there, don’t stop—”
He doesn’t stop. He grinds harder, a slow brutal roll of his hips that has nothing gentle in it, and the friction against my clit through soaked cotton is so good my thighs start shaking. We don’t move to the mattress. We don’t move anywhere. We stay right there on the floor, grinding and biting and clawing at clothes like the door behind us might not hold, like there’s a clock running down somewhere neither of us can see, and honestly there probably is. His hands shove up under my shirt, blunt nails scraping my ribs, and I arch into it, offering myself up like tribute.
He drags my shirt up to my collarbone and latches onto my breast, tongue swirling filthy, wet circles around my nipple before he bites down just hard enough that my back bows off the floor and a sob-sharp moan rips out of me. I can feel how soaked I am—not damp, not just wet, soaked through, the kind of wet that drips—and when his hand finally shoves between my thighs and shoves the ruined fabric of my panties aside, hooking the soaked crotch of them against my hip, the cool air hits my bare cunt for half a heartbeat before two thick fingers punch deep inside me without warning.
The stretch is sudden and perfect, his knuckles dragging against that swollen spot high on my front wall while his thumb finds my clit and circles it in rough, merciless strokes. I cry out—loud, shameless, an animal sound with no apology in it—and buck my hips up to fuck myself onto his hand, chasing the drag of his fingers, the wet obscene noise of it echoing off the bare walls right alongside my own ragged cursing. He watches my face the entire time, jaw tight, eyes black with something that isn’t just want, it’s closer to hunger, closer to a man counting bullets he doesn’t have enough of.
“God, look at you,” he rasps against my throat, voice wrecked. “Dripping for me already. Soaked through, and I’ve barely touched you.” I answer by yanking his belt open with shaking hands, shoving his pants and boxers down just far enough to free the thick, veined heat of him into my palm, and he hisses through his teeth like I’ve cut him. I stroke him root to slick tip, again, harder, and his forehead drops to mine, breath stuttering out in short, broken pulls.
We stay tangled like that on the floor for long, frantic minutes—me pumping him in a slow, punishing rhythm while he works two fingers into me at an angle that makes my whole body shudder, neither of us willing to be the one who finishes this on the ground when there’s a bed six feet away, both of us too far gone to actually stop and get there. Sweat slicks between us. A seam gives way somewhere near my hip—I don’t know whose fabric it is, I don’t care—and his mouth keeps colliding with mine in kisses that have stopped being kisses and become something closer to a fight neither of us wants to win, teeth scraping, lips swollen, air shared and stolen and shared again.
“I need to be inside you,” he growls against my mouth, voice barely holding together. “Now. Not later. Now.”
He rears back onto his knees just long enough to shove his pants and boxers the rest of the way down and kick them clear of his legs, and the sight of him doing it—impatient, graceless, nothing like the controlled man who walks into rooms like he owns the exits—undoes something else in me entirely.
Then the floor disappears.
He hauls me up by the hips with a strength that makes my stomach drop, my legs still weak, my body weightless for the half-second between the floor and his arms. He drags my ruined panties down my thighs as he lifts me, the fabric catching, tearing loose somewhere past my knees, and cool air rushes across my bare skin where his body isn’t touching me anymore, a jarring absence after so much heat. Before I can even process the loss he’s already turning, already moving, and then my back hits the mattress hard enough to bounce, the frame groaning under the impact, my panties finally slipping free of one ankle and vanishing into the sheets.
He follows me down immediately, no gap, no pause, already spreading my thighs wide with one knee shoved between them. His hand finds both my wrists and drags them up over my head, pinning them there against the mattress, forearm braced flat against the bed beside my head so his weight has somewhere to go, fingers wrapped around both wrists at once, thumb pressing into the delicate skin where my pulse is hammering. The bite of it should hurt. It does hurt, a low ache blooming under his grip, and I arch up into it anyway, wanting the weight of it, wanting to be held down by a man who spent the last hour deciding whether either of us would live through the night.
“Elias—” His name breaks apart in my mouth as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock notching against my entrance.
“Say it again,” he demands, voice a low scrape of gravel.
“Elias, please, I need—”
He drives in on the last word, one brutal, unbroken thrust that buries him to the hilt, hips slapping flush against mine, and the stretch burns so good I scream. Raw. Uninhibited. The sound bounces off bare walls that have heard gunfire tonight and now hear this instead, and I don’t care, I don’t care who’s listening, I just need him to move.
“Fuck—Elias—harder, don’t you dare stop, don’t you fucking dare—”
He doesn’t. He fucks me like there’s a war ending outside and this is the only treaty either of us believes in, every snap of his hips punching a broken sound out of my lungs, the mattress frame knocking against the wall in a rhythm that matches his. My legs lock around his waist, heels digging into the muscle of his ass to drag him deeper, and every drag of that thick, blood-hot length inside me feels like being unloaded, like being emptied of every ounce of fear I’d been carrying since the dock lit up with gunfire.
“Say my name like that again,” he grits out, hips never slowing, “say it like you’re not scared anymore—”
“Elias—Elias, fuck, right there, right—oh god—”
“That’s it. That’s it, look at me—”
Sweat drips from his chest onto mine, his grip on my wrists tightening every time I try to twist away from the intensity of it, and I don’t want away, I want closer, I want the bruises he’s leaving to still be there tomorrow as proof we survived tonight. The wet slap of skin, the obscene drag of his cock parting me open again and again, the heavy rhythmic slap of him against my inner thighs—none of it is quiet, none of it is careful, it’s a loud, filthy symphony with no attempt at restraint from either of us.
“Yes—fuck me, fill me, oh god you feel so fucking good, don’t stop, don’t ever stop—”
“Christ, May—” His voice cracks on my name like it costs him something to say it. “You feel like—fuck—like the only safe thing left in this city—”
He shifts angle, nails that spot deep inside me on the next thrust, and the sound that tears out of me isn’t a word anymore, just noise, just need given voice. The pressure that’s been coiling low in my belly turns into something with teeth, something that claws its way up my spine like it’s trying to escape through my throat. He releases my wrists and shifts his weight onto his other forearm, caging me in tighter, and slides his freed hand under my ass to tilt me, driving impossibly deeper, and the new angle grinds his pelvis against my clit on every downstroke until the coil snaps all at once with no warning.
My orgasm rips through me first—a sudden, vicious clench that locks down around him in rhythmic, trembling squeezes, milking him like a fist closing on a trigger. I wail his name, body shaking violently, walls fluttering and pulsing in wave after wave that soaks us both and steals every ounce of air from my lungs.
The clench of me is what breaks him. He goes rigid above me, hips stuttering out of rhythm entirely, and the groan that tears out of his throat sounds less like pleasure and more like a man losing a fight he never stood a chance in—helpless, animal, all the iron control that’s kept him breathing through worse nights than this finally giving out at once. He slams deep one last time and comes apart completely, cock jerking hard inside me, flooding me with thick, hot spurts while his whole body locks over mine, shaking, spent, undone.
We collapse together in a filthy, tangled heap, still pulsing around each other, both of us gasping raw curses into skin that tastes like sweat and old blood and gunpowder that never quite washed off. My freed wrists finally settle against the sheets, and I feel the ache bloom where his fingers had been, a mark that will still be there tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow.
For a long moment the only sounds are our ragged breathing and, underneath it, the city outside the safehouse walls—a car alarm two streets over, a dog barking, the kind of ordinary noise that used to mean nothing and now means someone could be counting the minutes until they find this address. His weight pins me down, cock still buried inside the mess he’s made of me, and neither of us moves to disentangle, not yet, both of us listening past the pounding of our own hearts for the sound of footsteps that haven’t come. Not yet. His mouth finds my ear, breath still unsteady.
“We can’t stay here long,” he says, voice low, rough, already sharpening back into the man who counts exits before he counts anything else. “They’ll have people on this block by morning.”
I nod against his shoulder, blood and sweat drying tacky between us, already feeling the adrenaline curdle back into something colder, something watchful. Alive. Spent. And nowhere near done running.