"Wait." Her hand flattened against my chest. The palm was warm, damp, the pressure light but absolute. "Wait, stop. Stop."
I stopped. Completely. The heat of her still around me—tight, slick, stretched full around the thick length of my cock—but no movement at all.
"No, not—" She was laughing and breathing at the same time and not doing either well. The sound came out broken, half-swallowed. "Not stop stop. Just move. Let me. Move."
"Move where?"
"Bram."
"I genuinely don't know what you're asking me to—"
"Lie down." She pushed at my chest with the flat of her hand, no strength in it at all, and I went anyway. The mattress dipped under the shift of weight. "There. Yes. Like that."
The bed complained under both of us—soft, private, a single long creak that felt louder than it should have. Somewhere in the middle of it her hair came down across my face, blue and soft and smelling faintly of the dark room, and neither of us fixed it.
