All The Rave

Haley rode the high until her teeth buzzed. Lights flash, bass still ring in her ribs. Now the bed swallows her, sweat cooling on her back, and the door creaks. Brock fills it. Sweat curls on his stomach, shirt hanging off one shoulder like an afterthought. He shuts it behind him with his heel. Haley’s breath hooks on her lungs; she blinks and he’s at the footboard already, knuckles white, both of them breathing like they’ve sprinted uphill. He peels off what’s left of the shirt, eyes never leaving her wet lips. Brock drops to his knees, yanks her hips to the edge, cold metal from his belt shocking bare skin. Haley's slick—the rave’s throb turned to this—and he knows. Two fingers slide into her without mercy; his tongue drags over her clit, slow and mean, then faster, then slow again, the rhythm of the night brought home. She fists his hair, heels dig at his shoulder blades, hears herself whispering his name over and over like a choked curse. Sweat salt, leather smell, cheap candy from the goody bags melting between them. When he flips her onto her stomach and drives in deep, the moan that leaves her throat could crack the bass speaker still throbbing in her head. He fucks like there’s no afterparty. Every thrust jolts the night forward, threatening morning. She lets it.