Page 14 of My Family

"Then we'll stop." He nips my jaw, then my ear, and I feel his breath. "But until then, you're mine."

The mattress is worse than a trampoline, which is to say it's exactly as loud and offers less support. He pushes me down on it anyway, hands on my shoulders, his body pinning me in place. I'm not even pretending to resist. I want him to fuck me so hard I forget where I am.

He straddles my hips, knees bracketing my thighs, and peels off his shirt. Suddenly it's just him, bare-chested, muscles tight under that ridiculous golden skin, reddish hair tousled, lips parted and wet. I bite my own to keep from making a noise.

"Fuck," I whisper.

He grins, wicked, and reaches for my shorts. My t-shirt comes next, dragged up and off so fast I hear stitches tear. My arms are above my head, and he pins them there, one huge hand holding both wrists. It's not even a contest; I'm a string bean, he's a fucking MMA cyborg. I struggle just for show, then settle, pulse pounding everywhere, skin already burning.

His free hand trails down my chest, slow enough that it's torture. He thumbs over my nipple, and I jerk in his grip, the other hand still locked over my wrists like iron.

He lets go, only to grip the waistband of my briefs and yank them down in one go. I'm exposed, naked and shivering in the cold air, cock already leaking. He glances at the door and keeps going.

We don't have lube. But that's fine. I like it rough. He knows I like it rough.

He spits into his hand, slicks himself, then presses my knees up and apart with a force that's just shy of bruising. He's leaking so much pre-cum that I tell myself lube isn't even necessary. The mattress creaks loud enough that I swear the whole wing can hear, but I don't care. I'm beyond caring. I want him inside me so bad it's an ache, a hunger, a black hole in my gut.

He lines up, pushes in slow, watching my face the whole time. It burns like hell, and I can't help but hiss, my eyes closed, my heart in my throat, but I love it, love the feeling of being taken apart and put back together. He's careful, but not gentle. He doesn't stop until he's all the way in, and I'm gasping, legs trembling, nails digging into the foam of the mattress, and it feels so fucking good.

"Color?" he asks, voice barely a whisper.

"Green," I say. "Fuck, green, go…"

He starts moving, and it's not slow. The thrusts are hard, deep, each one driving me up the mattress and making the frame squeal in protest. It feels ridiculously raw without lube, brutally painful; the pain melts into pleasure, burning, burning both in sensation like fire and in my stomach like whiskey, in my veins, fast, my heart thundering, FUCK. I bite my wrist to keep from yelling. He buries his face in my neck, teeth scraping along my pulse point, breath hot and ragged.

Outside, a door slams. Footsteps echo down the hallway. We freeze, both of us holding perfectly still, his cock buried inside me, my heart racing so fast it might explode. The steps fade, and he starts again, this time one hand clamped over my mouth, the other bracing my hip. I can't breathe, can barely think, can only feel. I try not to moan; I try so hard, but it's impossible, I'm more vocal than is sane, and I always have been.

He picks up speed, hips slamming into mine, every movement designed to break me. I want to scream. I want to die. I want to live in this exact second forever.

"God, you're perfect," he mutters, and the words vibrate through my whole body. All I see is him, his face inches above, lips curled in concentration, sweat beading at his hairline. He's so beautiful it's violent. His hand is gripping my thigh so tight I know I'll have bruises tomorrow, the other pressed over my mouth, smothering every gasp and cry. I grind back against him, desperate for more, for deeper. He fucks harder. I can hear him gritting his teeth. The bedframe bangs against the cinderblock. He pulls me up, so that I'm sitting in his lap, his cock still buried inside, and his mouth crashes into mine. Every kiss is a bite, every breath a dare. We're devouring each other.

The door clatters somewhere down the hall again. He pulls back, just enough to look at me, eyes hungry.

"I love you," he growls, almost angry. He says it like he's mad at himself for needing me this much, which I don't doubt, and it's the best thing; it almost makes me fucking CRY. I want to say it back, but his hand is over my mouth again, my jaw slack against his palm, drooling a little, my eyes barely open, so I just nod, fast, over and over, until he smashes our mouths together and fucks me so hard I nearly black out.

The edge comes fast. I don't want it to end, but I can't stop it. I'm so close, so fucking close, and he knows it because he jerks my head back by the hair and whispers, "Come for me, baby. Now."

And I do. I come hard, untouched, white-hot and blinding, my whole body seizing up under him. He doesn't stop, doesn't let up, and a few seconds later I feel him go rigid, his hands gripping my hips so tight it hurts, cock pulsing inside me as he buries himself as deep as possible.

We collapse. He lands half on top of me, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. My legs are jelly. My arms are shaking. I can barely see straight.

We breathe in silence.

He kisses my forehead. Then my nose. Then my mouth, soft and slow, and this kiss is nothing like the ones before. This one is gentle, apologetic, so full of love I could drown in it.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Fuck yeah, I can't even… fuck, yes."

I'm sore as fuck. It hurts, and I love that I'll be feeling him every second of the day for days.

We lie there for a second, our bodies tangled. I'm distantly aware that we need to move. That someone could walk in at any second and catch us, and that would be the end of everything. But for now, I don't care. I close my eyes. I'll remember this forever.

Then we scramble to pull on clothes, laughing, breathless, still a little high on adrenaline and terror. I tug my shorts up with shaking hands, wincing at the rawness but grinning anyway. Our hair is a mess. There's a wet spot on the mattress, and a hickey starting to bloom on my collarbone.

I look at him, and he's glowing. There's no other word for it. His eyes are alive, his mouth soft, his posture relaxed.

We hear footsteps in the hall again, this time closer, and we freeze. I'm sitting on my bunk, shirtless, pretending to read a textbook. He drops onto his bed, pretending to write something.