I'm spiraling end over end, the tension building and rising to a damn near agonizing degree, every single sense but sight assaulted with my eyes still closed. There's the scent of sweat, sex, dust, probably from however long the blanket on this bed has been here, and beer as he pants against my lips, my neck, my breasts, breathing hot over my skin until I arch up again, towards him, into him, around him and almost through him as we collide into one another, over and again, sped up to the point of sloppy, staccato movement that doesn't look elegant but does the job perfectly.

I used to try to picture being with David again, tried to recall the way it had felt when his lips were seeking out the constellation of freckles on my left shoulder, the soft hitch of breath when he'd finally come, the heat of his body that never seemed to dissipate as we lay there together afterwards, and the way I'd try to preserve the scent of him on my skin for as long as possible after that. But when I open my eyes, finally, the face swimming in my vision isn't David's, and I cup Harley's jaw in my hand, draw him down to press my forehead against his as he thrusts for those last precious seconds.

It's a slow building, and maybe I've even come already, I wouldn't be able to tell by this point, feeling stretched and pulled taut underneath him, and the release is good, so good, each thrust of hips now and thereafter only perpetuating the sensation until I'm rendered hoarse from crying out, my head slowly lolling to one side, too limbless to even reach up and brush hair out of my face as full-body shudders continue to course through, and I rest fingertips against his ribcage and laugh breathlessly, punctuating the sound with a sated moan.