Round three started in the hallway and ended in his bed and I couldn't tell you the exact moment we transitioned because his mouth never left my skin long enough for me to register the change in geography.
The picture frame crashed off the wall somewhere behind my head. His hands were under my thighs, pinning me to the plaster, his hips grinding against my core with a slow, devastating pressure that made my eyes roll back. I was oversensitive from the kitchen counter – swollen, slick, every nerve ending stripped raw – and every roll of his hips sent aftershocks through me that blurred the line between too much and not enough.
"I can't – Rhys, I can't take–"
"You can." Mouth against my throat.
He carried me to the bedroom with my legs wrapped around him and laid me on the mattress with
