Chapter 369: Crossing the Line.

She tried to lift onto me again.

My hands held her hips flat to the wet tile. The head of my cock rested against her pussy and went no further.

Heat bled off her into me. She was slick enough that the smallest shift dragged the swollen tip through her folds and made her breath hitch hard. Her eyes stayed locked on mine from below, flat on her back, while the drip from the shower head counted the seconds between us—one slow drop, then another.

I pushed in.

Slow. Not a thrust yet — a continuous forward press that opened her around me inch by inch.

Her pussy stretched to take the head, the soft outer lips parting and then sealing tight around the thicker stretch of the shaft. Hot. Tight. So wet the slide was almost easy until I sank deep enough that the easy ended. Resistance. Then give. The last inch cost her a sound she couldn’t swallow.

I buried myself to the base and stopped there, fully inside her, and felt her pulse around me in small involuntary pulls, as if her body was still deciding what it had just taken. The heat of her closed around every inch.

I looked down.

Her stomach had hollowed under a held breath and hadn’t filled again yet. The dark line of the tattoo ran straight toward the place where my cock disappeared into her. Bare skin. Nothing between my stomach and hers except the wet join of us.

The outer lips of her pussy were flushed and stretched tight around the base of me, glossy, a thin continuous shine of her coating the shaft where it vanished inside. A tremor ran through her inner thighs under my hands — not a flinch away, a shake that kept trying to close and couldn’t with my hips locked hard against hers.

I looked up.

Her mouth was open. Eyes wide, then nearly shut, then open again as if she couldn’t decide which was worse — seeing it or not seeing it.

Colour flooded from her cheeks down her throat and across her chest in a visible wave. The mole under her left breast sat still for half a second, then moved when her breathing finally broke into short hard pulls that lifted her breasts.

Full—

He’s all the way—

Fuck—

I held still until her eyes focused again. Until the next breath she took actually finished and her chest rose fully.

Then I pulled back. The drag of her pussy along my cock was slow and tight in the quiet room — wet enough to hear, a soft slick sound, tight enough that leaving her cost almost as much as entering. The shaft came out gleaming.

I left only the head inside her, felt the cooler air on the wet length of me, and thrust in again — harder this time, to the base in one continuous stroke. Her breasts lifted with the force of it and dropped when my hips met hers. Her mouth fell open on a moan she didn’t shape into a word.

Hands on her hips. I dragged her onto the next stroke so the tile took the slide of her back and shoulders and she didn’t have to do anything but take it. Again.

The wet sound of it filled the gaps between the shower head’s drips. Again. Her breasts moved with every drive — full, heavy, nipples tight and dark, the soft flesh rising and falling in time with my hips. She moaned on each one now, open, the sound knocked out of her by depth rather than chosen.

"Yeah—"

"Don’t—"

Bram—

"Bram—" Out loud. Broken. The same as the thought.

I didn’t stop.

My hands left her hips and took her breasts. The weight of them filled my palms — soft, hot, still damp from the shower — and I held them while I fucked her, using the hold as balance as the rhythm climbed.

Thumbs dragged across her nipples and felt them tighten further under the pass, the peaks hard against the pads of my fingers. Fingers sank into the soft flesh hard enough that the pale skin kept the white shape of them for a second after each squeeze.

Under me her pussy clenched in irregular pulses, wetter with every stroke; each time I bottomed out, the sound of it landed low and filthy in the quiet. Slick. Deep.

Her hands found my forearms. Held on. Her thoughts lost their edges and became the same word over and over, timed to the thrust.

Yes—

Yes—

Yes—

Her back arched clean off the tile.

Both hands locked on my arms hard enough to hurt. Her pussy clamped down on my cock in deep rhythmic pulls that ran the full length of me and dragged a sound out of my throat I didn’t authorise.

A broken cry left her mouth. Her thighs shook hard against my sides. Her eyes went wet and unfocused. Her thoughts went white — no words, only the spike of it, sensation with nothing left to organise it — and her pussy kept pulling at me through the whole of it, pulse after pulse, as if it wouldn’t let me go even if I’d tried to leave.

I didn’t slow down.

I drove into her through it. Through the clench. Through the oversensitive flinch that made her try to twist her hips away — a short helpless movement that died against my hands when they went back to her hips and held her still, pinned flat to the tile.

Through the wetter heat of her as she kept spasming around my cock, too sensitive, still taking every stroke because she had no leverage and I wasn’t giving her any.

"Wait—"

Don’t stop—

Her breasts moved free now, shaking with each thrust, the mole under the left one jumping. A thin run of her own wetness streaked down toward the tile under her ass, brighter than the water still left on the floor.

The surge rose in me sharp and close. Heat gathering low and hard, building behind every drive, the edge of it right there in the next few strokes.

[ Melissa about to be marked. ]

I felt the cum start to run in me: the deep, involuntary tightening at the base, the first thick surge already climbing the shaft, unstoppable, about to empty into her while she was still shaking under me.