Road Queen #32

She straddled him hard, knees sinking into the sheets like she meant to mark them. He'd never written anything like this. His first wife never looked at him this way, half hate, half hunger, and the other women who followed barely glanced up from the pillow. Her hips rolled once, deliberate, and he felt himself twitch against her. Heat gathered between them, thick as the air after rain. She leaned in until her lips brushed his ear, whispered, 'Is this your kink, or are you already regretting publishing?' The cheap hotel light caught sweat on her collarbone. He wanted to answer but every syllable dried on his tongue. Instead his hands seized her waist and hauled her down, grinding her slow against the length of him until she hissed between her teeth. She reached back, took him in her fist, guided him exactly where she wanted, then dropped her full weight and took every inch. Pain flickered bright behind her lashes and vanished just as quick. She rode him like she had something to prove. He met her stroke for stroke, teeth bared, each thrust sharp enough to leave bruises. The headboard tapped the wall in steady rhythm. Downstairs someone turned the television up. She clenched around him, muscles fluttering, hot and slick. He came first, ragged sound torn from his chest, spilling deep. She stayed seated, rocked once more through it, then let her own pleasure crest, biting down on the edge of her own wrist to stay quiet. Afterward the sheet clung to them, damp and twisted. Neither moved. The clock on the nightstand ticked like it had all the time in the world.