onlythebranch | (no subject)

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tris

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"We could get away with it," he says with a rumbling laugh, but he has no real intention of pulling out his dick right here on the street. There are some things worth going to jail for and sex is one of them, but he's learned a long time ago he'd much rather enjoy sex than get arrested in the pursuit of it.

"But, no, love," he tells her, speaking against the curve of her throat. "Not here. We both have places to go, don't we?"

And now that he's thinking about it, it's the only thing he wants to do. Her skin is warm even though her clothes and he wants to pull away that layer.

If it's a mistake, he doesn't see the point in dwelling on it. As far as he's concerned, it's something she needs at the moment and he may be a shitty man with shitty ways of dealing with things, but he does care in his own way. Not that he'd admit it. What he can do instead is offer her something, some kind of distraction if that's what it takes.

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She's in complete control. He likes that she's in control, he wants her to shove him, push him around, mark him if she wants. His feet dig into the mattress and as she takes him in further, he uses the leverage to thrust up, but only a little. Enough that she'll feel it. Feel how hard he is, how badly he wants this.

"Fuck," he grits out again, his head back against the pillows, throat exposed.

I can't help but laugh, amused that he's the one beneath me, the one who's baring his throat. Often enough, that would be me. The thought stirs inside me and the next time he moves, I move in counterpoint, pushing myself down on him. It's a little too fast, too much, but it doesn't hurt. If he's going to make a comment on that, I lean forward and bite at his exposed neck to stave off any questions.

He groans when she bites his throat, heat spiking through him, straight through to his dick. There aren't many situations where he wants to relinquish control, but in bed like this, when he's fucking someone, he doesn't really give a shit so long as it feels good for the both of them.

Sometimes feeling good means pain. And when she bites him, she gives him a good dose of that.

He uses his feet against the bed to roll his hips up again, setting a rhythm, though he's not adverse to change. He's willing to let her do whatever the hell she wants.

He shifts the pace again and I go with it for few strokes, enough to settle myself to how he moves and feels. I arch my back, hands braced on his shoulders and shift my hips just a little, changing the angle until he hits deep inside of me. My skin feels hot and a shudder passes through me and I keep myself there, chasing the feeling. I'm biting my lip so hard that it hurts and I let my mouth fall open, letting out a groan in a voice that almost doesn't sound like me.

She's so bloody beautiful, like all women are in these moments, when the light hits the planes and curves of their body, when there's a sense of freedom. It's not the same with men. He doesn't give a fuck if that's a stereotype, if someone would call it bullshit were to say it aloud. He's had years and years of watching people while he fucks them and he knows beyond a doubt women are simply more beautiful in the midst of fucking than men can ever have a hope of being.

"Fuck, lass," he breathes when she groans. He drops his hand from her hip, his thumb brushing over her clit. It's light at first, barely a touch at all, a sharp contras to the rest of the way he's touching her, to the thrust of his hips.

"Fuck." My voice is high and breathy and any other time I'd be embarrassed about that but I need more.

His touch is feather light, more of a promise than anything else, but it still riots through me. I can't help the way I press forward, the way I lose a little control of my own pace. I grab his wrist and press his hand closer.

"Christ, ain't that lovely," he mutters without even realizing he's doing it. He lets Tris do whatever the hell she wants, presses his thumb harder against her clit, looking for that perfect place he knows is going to make her feel good. It's different on every woman, he's not such a fucking fool to think they're all the same, and he shifts and moves and explores.

Waiting to see what does it for her. Knowing whenever it happens, it's going to do it for him, too. He won't have much control anymore at that point.

It takes a second for the words to actually make sense to me and I laugh. I don't think I'll ever get used to being called anything like that. Tough, strong, any of those are familiar. Beautiful, lovely? Not so much. I'm embarrassed at the way it makes my heart flutter, like I can be undone by flattery. As if I'm not undone already for very different reasons.

He moves his thumb just a little more and I can't hide a whine, squeezing his wrist tighter.

When she squeezes his wrist he laughs, a low rumble, and says, "That's it, love, show me what you want." He'll be happy to give it to her, happy to do it for her, whatever the hell she wants.

He's not a very generous man. He's fucked up, he's an asshole, he takes whatever the hell he wants, but when it comes to fucking, he wants to give, too. Maybe it's part of what he is, how he's made. Maybe it's just being a fucking leprechaun that's done it. He gives and takes, it's in his nature.

Later, I'll have to apologize for digging my nails so hard into his skin but in this moment it's perfect. The pressure that's been building and focusing inside of me tips over and thuds through me like a second pulse. I'm sure he can feel the way it changes, the way I'm clenching around him, my breathing high and fast. My legs shift and I push back against him, trying to prolong the sensation as my eyes close.

He'd meant what he'd said before, that it's one of the lovelier things he's seen, and Sweeney holds off on his own orgasm as best he can, watching Tris as she comes. Her muscles tighten around him and he groans, feeling the bite of her nails into his skin, and he knows he's only going to last so much longer, but he tries. Makes it last. Drives his heels into the mattress and lifts his hips and presses up inside of her once more before he's coming.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Jesus fuckin-"

The words are cut off as his head drops back, panting heavily, his eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling.

I'd forgotten the difference, how it feels without a condom. There's nothing between us and he's all the way inside me, my hips pushing down as if I can take in more. Or maybe I'm just greedy, trying to find ways to prolong the feeling. There's no grace to how I move now and it's audible, the slap of skin on skin, the way we rush.

"Shit," I say, let slip out really, trying to catch my breath between aftershocks.

Mad Sweeney laughs, a low sound that's still barely more than a moan, and the grip he has on her hips loosens bit by bit. Tipping his head to the side, he can see the red marks he's left behind, but he figures if she gave a shit about it, she'd have told him not to.

He's still inside her, still half hard, and he's not sure which part of fucking he likes best, but this is pretty goddamn high on the list. It feels good. Better than a hell of a lot of other things in his very long life have felt.

"Yeah," he agrees, hands gliding over her thighs.

"How's it look?" I ask, turning my neck and side for him to see better. There are very few contexts that I like being looked at but this is one of them. Something about the glint in his eye and the way I'm still on top of him makes it feel powerful. He hasn't pulled out of me and it's just on the right side of too much, overwhelming, and I feel no real desire to move.

“Got some marks left behind there, darling,” he answers, brushing the rough pads of his fingers over her hips. It’s not all he’s looking at, though, not with the way she twists, the pull of her muscular frame, the tattoos and the scars. She’d laughed when he’d called her lovely, but he’d meant it. Would mean it still if he were to say it again, which isn’t likely. No need to delve too far into what that might’ve meant and he might still be inside of her, but he’s coherent enough now to keep his mouth shut.

“Better question is how’d it all feel, I think,” he points out with a lazy smirk.

"Whose fault is that?" I can't help but grin, enjoying this part too, the flirting that comes after. Leaning down, I steal another kiss from him, lazy this time in counterpoint to the hungry rush from before. It's tempting to stay like this, to have him stay inside me until he goes soft but it's equally tempting to shift a little and move off him so that I can lay down on top of him. Sweeney is broad and warm and makes a very satisfying pillow.

"Mm," is my response to his question. "I think you know how I felt."

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