Arguing Pair Won’t Let Go in the Blackout

The lights died all at once and her hand closed on a wrist that was not hers. Jill’s fingers locked before her brain caught up, nails biting skin in the sudden black, the hallway gone to nothing but the thud of her own pulse and the wet heat of somebody else’s arm under her palm. The cold edge of a watch under her thumb. The starch of a cuff scraping the inside of her fingers. Barrett.

Barrett went still when the grip hit. No light. No faces. Just a hand, small and vicious, digging in like it meant to leave marks, and the smell of her—club smoke, cheap citrus, the hoarse salt of a woman who had been yelling at him for an hour. His free hand shot out on instinct and found her shoulder, then her throat, not squeezing, just locating. Collarbone. Jaw. The wild jump of her pulse under his thumb. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he. Their other hands were already tangled, her nails in his wrist, his fingers crushing hers back, and the dark made the contact louder than the shouting had been.

She shoved. He shoved back. They hit a wall she couldn’t see, her shoulders taking the impact, his chest slamming into hers hard enough to knock the air out of her. His mouth found her cheek, missed, dragged wet across her lips instead. She bit him. He groaned into it, low and ugly, and kissed her like he was trying to shut her up the only way left. Tongues. Teeth. No grace. Her free hand clawed down the thin top clinging to her ribs, found his shirt, found the belt, yanked. His hand left her throat and went under her skirt in one blind grab, and the second his fingers hit her he made a noise like somebody had hit him.

Soaked. She was soaked through the thin cotton, hot and slick and already open, the fabric clinging so wet it might as well not have been there. Barrett’s brain, the brain that never slipped in a room full of lawyers, went blank at the edges. Her teeth were still in his lower lip. That mouth. The same mouth that had stood on a sidewalk and talked to a reporter was sucking on his split lip right now, and she was dripping on his fingers in a dead building because neither of them would let go of the other’s hand.

Jill felt him push the panties aside and two fingers sink in without asking, thick and sure, and her knees buckled so hard she had to bite down harder to stay upright. God, she was wet. Embarrassingly, angrily wet, the kind that made a sound when he curled his fingers, a slick little squelch in the dark that she would have killed to unhear. She ground down on his hand anyway. She got his belt open by feel, shoved his trousers and shorts down his thighs, and wrapped her fist around him. Hot. Heavy. Already leaking at the tip, smearing her knuckles. He jerked in her grip like the touch had voltage in it.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like surrender, and neither of them had the air for it. He spun her, or she climbed him—she couldn’t tell in the black—and then her back was on the floor, cold tile under her shoulder blades, his weight coming down between her thighs with a graceless thud that drove a gasp out of both of them. Her skirt was around her waist. His cock dragged through the mess of her, the head catching on her clit, sliding, missing, catching again. She hooked a leg over his hip and hauled. He found the angle on the second try and drove in to the root.

The stretch tore a sound out of her throat she didn’t recognize. Thick. Too much, too fast, exactly what her body had been clenching for since his fingers. He buried his face in her neck and held still for one shuddering second and she felt herself flutter and grip and flood around him, so wet he slid deeper without either of them moving. Then she rolled her hips, demanding, and felt the exact moment he stopped being careful about anything.

Barrett fucked her like the fight wasn’t over. Short, brutal strokes, hips snapping, the wet slap of it loud in the stairwell quiet. Every thrust shoved a grunt out of him and something sharper out of her. Her right hand was still locked on his left, pinned beside her head, their fingers crushed together so hard the bones ached. She wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t either. Her other hand raked his back through the shirt, nails catching skin, and he answered by driving deeper, grinding his pelvis into her clit on every downstroke until her thighs started to shake against his ribs.

Fast. It was going to be fast and he knew it and he didn’t slow down to stop it. He could feel it already, humiliating, low in his gut and tight behind his balls, the whole careful structure of him folding in under a minute because she was so hot and so slick and so furious under him. His rhythm broke. His cock swelled and twitched inside her and his hips lost the beat and just hammered.

Jill felt his control go and chased it. She locked her ankles behind him, tilted up, took him deeper, and came with a choked, angry cry into his shoulder, cunt clamping down in hard rhythmic pulses that squeezed him without mercy. The sound in her ears went muffled, like she’d gone underwater. The floor seemed to tip under her shoulder blades.

He followed like he’d been yanked. One, two, three savage thrusts and he was spilling inside her, thick and hot, hips stuttering, a raw sound dragged out of his chest against her skin. The orgasm hit hard and was over too soon, his whole body jerking with it, sweat already slicking the small of his back. He stayed buried. Didn’t pull out. Couldn’t. Her hand was still crushing his, and his cock was still hard enough, twitching in the mess he’d just made, her aftershocks squeezing more out of him in weak pulses.

Jill lay under him panting, thighs trembling, the tile cold against her ass and his weight hot everywhere else. Come and her own wetness leaked around him, a slow trickle down toward the floor. She should have shoved him off. She rolled her hips instead, feeling him still inside, still thick, still not done, and the friction pulled a whimper out of her she immediately hated.

Barrett felt that whimper in his teeth. He pulled back an inch—just an inch—and the drag of her around him, soaked and swollen and gripping, made the dark tilt sideways and his ears ring. He pushed back in. She met him. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them had to.

Getting her turned over was a fight. He tried to roll her and she clung, legs locked, so he had to work an arm under her waist and haul, and his cock slipped halfway out in the scramble and they both hissed at the cold. Her knee caught his ribs. His elbow cracked on the tile. She ended up on her stomach for a second, face against the floor, and he lost her entirely—just a hand in his and the heat of her somewhere to his left—and then she was shoving up onto her knees and he was crawling after the sound of her breathing.

The hands were the problem. Her right in his left, locked since the lights went, and now she was on all fours with her back to him and their arms had to cross her body to stay joined. His arm ran under her ribs. Hers bent back and under her own chest at an angle wrists aren’t built for. He felt her swear into the dark, no words, just breath with an edge on it, and she shifted to brace their joined fists under her sternum instead. Better. Not good. Her wrist was still turned wrong. His knuckles scraped tile every time she rocked.

Jill felt him find her hip with his free hand, shove her skirt higher, and line up by feel alone. The heat of him. The slick smear of his own come coating her from the first round. She pushed back like she was daring him and he sank into her from behind in one long, heavy drive and they both made the same noise.

Deeper this way. Fuller. Her arms shook as she braced, their joined hands jammed under her chest, his knuckles grinding into the floor. He set a pace that had nothing elegant in it. Long strokes that pulled almost all the way out, the head catching at her entrance, then slamming home until his hips clapped against her ass and the wet sound bounced off walls she couldn’t see. She was making a mess of both of them. Every thrust forced more out of her, come and arousal running down the insides of her thighs, soaking his balls when he bottomed out.

Barrett felt it and fucked her harder for it, teeth bared in the dark, sweat running into his eyes though there was nothing to blink at. His cuff was wet. His watch was wet. He had no idea what with. He got three more strokes in and the tightness behind his balls spiked so fast he had to stop dead, buried to the hilt, thighs locked, jaw clamped so hard his back teeth hurt. Not yet. He held it. She bucked back against him and he had to grip her hip and physically hold her still, forehead dropping against the damp cotton between her shoulder blades, breathing through his nose like a man lifting something too heavy.

It passed. Barely. He started again, slower, hating how much it cost. His thighs were already burning from holding the crouch on hard tile. The arm under her ribs was going dead from the twist of it. Her fingers crushed his and didn’t ease up for a second.

Jill dropped onto her left elbow, the right arm still folded and trapped beneath her. The angle changed and he hit something that made her whole body jolt forward, and she shoved back to meet him, greedy, grinding her ass into his groin like she wanted to wreck him a second way. Her cunt fluttered, clutched, released, clutched again. The first orgasm was still ringing in her muscles and the second was building underneath it, slower, heavier. She reached for it. Pushed back onto him on every stroke, worked her hips, felt it climb—and then her left knee skated on the sweat-slick tile and shot out sideways and the whole thing fell apart.

She went down crooked. Their joined hands got pinned under her at the wrong angle and her wrist screamed and his knuckles dragged across the grout and he lost his balance behind her, half out of her, pitching forward. He caught them with his hip. Just braced it against the back of her thigh and held, the two of them frozen in a lopsided stack while she got her knee back under her. The orgasm she’d been chasing was gone. Just gone, dropped somewhere behind her in the dark, and the frustration of it came out of her as a sound that was almost a snarl.

Barrett felt her lose it and felt her fury about losing it, the way her fingers bit into the back of his hand. He pushed back in slow, all the way, and didn’t move. Let her feel the whole length of him sitting there. Then he leaned over her, chest to her back, sweat soaking through both their shirts where they met, and the new angle drove him deeper and made every thrust a full-body grind that forced the air out of her in ragged bursts.

Twice more he nearly went. Once when she clenched on purpose and he felt his cock throb helplessly inside her and had to stop and count his own breaths with his face in her hair. Once when the wet sound of a long slow pull-out got so loud in the empty hallway that his hips jerked on their own and he shoved himself in to the root and held there, shaking, thighs cramping, jaw aching, sweat dripping off his chin onto the back of her neck. Both times she felt him stop. Both times she pushed back like she was trying to make him fail.

Jill’s arm gave out again and she let it. Face against her own left forearm. Ass up. His weight on her back and the trapped hand crushed between her chest and the floor, her wrist bent so far she’d feel it tomorrow. The second orgasm came back slower than the first time, from farther away, and she didn’t chase it this time. She just let him grind it out of her. Long. Heavy. Every stroke dragging over the same spot inside her until her thighs started to tremble and her knees started to slide again and she couldn’t do anything about either.

She came like that, face against her forearm, biting down to keep from saying his name. It rolled through her in hard waves, so deep her legs gave and she nearly folded flat under him. The hallway went muffled. She couldn’t tell which way was down. He rode it out, hips working, feeling her flood around him, the grip of her almost painful, and he didn’t come. He held it by force, teeth clenched, a sound like a growl stuck in his throat, because pulling out now would mean coming apart and coming apart was not on the table. When her spasms eased he was still buried, still throbbing, every muscle from his knees to his neck shaking with the effort of it.

The next move was worse than the last. She twisted, trying to turn and face him, and he slipped out of her with a wet, sucking sound that made them both flinch. For one black second they were only hands—still locked, still refusing—and the cold air on his soaked cock and her empty, clenching cunt felt like something had been taken.

Jill shoved at his chest. He went down on his back because she put him there, tile slamming his shoulders, their joined hands dragging him down with her. She swung a leg over, missed his hip in the dark, kneed him in the stomach, swore under her breath in a shapeless hiss, and found him again by the heat of him against her inner thigh. Her back was to him. She didn’t correct it. She reached back with her free hand, gripped his cock—slick, rigid, pulsing in her fist—and sank down in one vicious drop.

His thighs were under hers. His chest was somewhere behind her. The stretch went straight up into her and she felt it in her teeth. Barrett’s free hand clamped her hip. Their joined hands were the problem again—his left, her right, and the only place to put them now was behind her, planted flat on his stomach with her arm wrenched back at the shoulder. It pulled. It pulled every time she moved. She started to move anyway.

She bounced. Hard. Reckless. The wet slap of her ass against his groin filled the hallway, her cunt gripping on every rise and swallowing him on every drop. She was so wet the friction barely counted, a slick, sucking glide, and still she slammed down like she was trying to break something. Her shoulder screamed. She didn’t let go.

Barrett couldn’t see her. He felt everything. The weight of her coming down. The shake in her thighs against his. Her fingers crushing his against his own stomach, her nails in the back of his hand, his fingers going numb from the pressure and the angle. The flood of her, running down over his balls, pooling under him on the tile. His hips snapped up to meet her because lying still was impossible. Every bounce dragged a grunt out of him. They found a brutal rhythm and held it, her riding him like the fight was still on, him thrusting up like he could fuck the whole year out of both of them.

Then her bounce got shorter. He felt it before she did—the drops not coming as high, the rhythm losing half an inch, then an inch more. Her thighs were done. He could feel them jumping against his, little involuntary spasms in the muscle, and her breathing had gone from hard to ragged to a sound like sobbing without any tears in it.

Jill’s legs quit. Not all at once. The lift went first, her quads screaming on every rise until she couldn’t rise anymore and dropped to a grind instead, just rolling her hips on him, his cock jammed as deep as it would go, her clit dragging against the base of him. That was all she had. Her calves were cramping. Her shoulder was on fire from the wrench of the arm behind her. She ground down and tried to lift again and got maybe two inches before her thighs shook so hard she just sat on him, chest heaving, sweat running down between her breasts under the soaked top in the dark.

Barrett took over from underneath. Planted his feet, dug his heels into the tile, knees jacked up behind her, and drove up into her while she sat there shaking. The angle was ugly. His hips had to lift her whole dead weight on every thrust. His hand on her hip hauled her down to meet him and he felt her try to help, felt her try to rise one more time, and felt her fail, her thighs going out from under her so that she dropped the whole way down onto him with a grunt that was half pain. He kept going. Up. Up. Short, hard shoves that bounced her on him because she couldn’t bounce herself anymore. The hand on his stomach had stopped feeling like a hand. Just a crushing pressure where her fingers were, pins and needles racing up to his elbow. He didn’t let go.

Her hair stuck to her neck. His shirt was glued to his chest. The smell was thick enough to taste—salt, sweat, the tang of her and the heavier note of what he’d already spilled inside her, churned into a froth by the pounding. She had stopped making words a long time ago. She had stopped making anything but breath.

Jill felt it coming from a long way off and couldn’t do anything to hurry it. Her legs didn’t work. Her shoulder was a bright hot wire. All she could do was clench down on him every time he drove up and let him drag it out of her inch by inch. It stalled. She felt it stall, felt herself right at the edge and not going over, and she screamed into her own clenched teeth and pitched forward over his bent knees, her left forearm slamming down across his shin to hold herself up, her trapped arm dragging their joined fists off his stomach and down onto his side, knuckles jammed into the tile against his ribs. The new tilt opened her up. She ground down harder and his free hand slid from her hip to her clit and that was it. That was what did it.

She seized. Her whole body cramped around him, cunt clamping down so hard he couldn’t thrust anymore, just grind, and the pulse of her dragged him over the edge in the same second. He came with a hoarse, wrecked sound, hips jerking under her, spilling so deep the floor seemed to drop away and his own breathing sounded like it was coming from the far end of the hall. With her bent forward over his knees there was room, finally, and he used it. He curled up off the tile as far as his gut would fold, got his free arm around her waist, and pressed his face into the soaked cotton between her shoulder blades, her top wrung through and plastered to her spine. And with her still locking down on him in waves and his cock still pumping, the words came out of him with no warning at all.

“I’m sorry—” Gasped. Cut off by a jerk of his hips. “Jill. I’m—fuck—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The words landed in the middle of her orgasm like a hand on a bruise. Her thighs were still spasming. His come was still pumping into her. She bit down on her own left forearm where it lay across his shin, hard, teeth sinking in to the point of pain, and shoved back at him with her elbow—a shove that started and never finished, just her arm jerking and stopping. Her right hand, crushed against his ribs, clenched so hard his knuckles ground together against the tile. Hard enough that he grunted into her back. She didn’t ease up. She didn’t say anything. She bit her arm and let him keep coming.

Barrett kept going. Helpless little spurts, forehead pressed to the wet fabric over her spine, mouth open against it, tasting salt and detergent and her through the cotton. Nothing elegant left in any of it. Sweat. Teeth. The involuntary twitch of muscles that had been pushed too far. Her cunt fluttered around him in aftershocks, squeezing the last of it out, both of them soaked, both of them done in the ordinary, physical way.

They went down together. Not a choice. Her strength quit and she folded sideways off his knees, and he went with her because their hands were still locked and his cock was still inside her and his arm was still around her waist. They hit the tile in a pile, her back half on his chest, his right arm trapped under her ribs, knees bent wrong. The floor was cold. They weren’t. Breath sawed in and out of both of them, the only sound left in the building.

Jill’s thighs cramped. Both of them, hard knots in the muscle that she couldn’t straighten out because she couldn’t move. Tile grit under her ass. Come going cold on the inside of her thigh, tacky, the slow leak of it still running out of her. His cock softened and slipped out of her with a wet sound that would have been funny any other night. She felt it hit her thigh and lie there. Her right arm was still wrenched behind her, her hand still in his, and her shoulder had gone past hurting into nothing.

Barrett’s left leg was asleep from the knee down. He could feel the cold of the tile on his bare ass and nothing at all below the shin. His right arm was under her and he couldn’t pull it out without rolling her off him and he didn’t have the strength to roll her. His lip was bleeding again where she’d bitten it. His phone was in his trouser pocket somewhere around his ankles and he didn’t reach for it. Neither did she.

She tried to get a knee under her once. Her thigh locked up and she dropped back onto him with a grunt and stayed there. He didn’t try to move at all. Her fingers were still threaded through his, numb and sweaty and crushed. His thumb moved once, a tired drag across her knuckle, and stopped. Somewhere in the building a generator coughed and failed. The dark held. Neither of them let go.