Twisted Passions #17: Lamoyne Hotel 9

She pinned him to the mattress, knees digging into his ribs. He tasted like smoke and old whiskey. Her nails traced slow lines down his stomach while she rode him hard enough the bedframe knocked the wall. Flesh slapped against flesh in the half-light, the room smelling like sweat and sex and cheap cologne. She leaned close, breath hot on his ear, voice rough when she told him what came next. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises, thrust up to meet her, chasing that mean little edge she kept pulling away. The clock said April 1st 2016. Neither one of them noticed. They chased the same greedy rhythm, teeth and hips and tongue, every move sharper than the last. When she finally broke, she bit his shoulder hard enough to draw blood and he came with her name caught between his teeth.