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The party had been fucking insane.
Five bands. One house. No permits. No rules. Just sweat, spit, screaming. The garage became a crucible. Walls vibrating, amps stacked like offerings, bodies slamming into each other until it all blurred into heat and noise and holy violence. Thrash, punk, metal. It didn't matter what you called it. We played like we were trying to break the house down from the inside.
At one point, I threw the mic on the floor and dove into the pit. Just fucking launched myself. Shirt sticking to my skin, voice shredded from howling, body bruised. It wasn't music anymore. It was war. Communion. Everyone bleeding the same rhythm.
Eventually, it cracked. The night. The people. Even the house.
The mob thinned, leaving behind the stragglers. The ones too drunk to move, too stoned to care, or just too wired to let go. Someone puked in the hallway. Someone else was passed out in the tub with a Sharpie dick drawn on their face. I didn't have the energy to laugh.
My bassist Sean wandered by, grinning like a lunatic, with a split lip and a wild look in his eye.
"That was fucking crazy," he said, voice hoarse. "Dax, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
I didn't answer. Just took a long pull from the half-pint I'd forgotten was in my back pocket, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and grinned.
It was crazy. It was perfect.
The others scattered. Sean went off to assess the wreckage of his house, technically his dad's, but tonight it had been a church of chaos and we were all goddamn saints of destruction.
I just wanted to lie down.
Didn't care where. Didn't care if I woke up with Sharpie on my face or puke on my shoes.
The den off the kitchen was empty. That surprised me. The couch was untouched, lights dim, the air thick with the ghost of smoke and sweat. A miracle.
I stumbled in, dropped onto the cushions with a groan that came from somewhere deep in my spine, and let my body go heavy. Boneless. My heartbeat was still too loud, like it hadn't gotten the memo the show was over.
I don't remember closing my eyes.
And I didn't hear her come in.
But I remember the couch dipping.
Just the couch dipping. The air shifting. The warmth of another body seeping in like smoke through a crack in the wall.
She didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
I knew who it was.
Sam.
The cushions shifted, and suddenly there was heat the heat of her body folding in against mine like we were puzzle pieces snapping.
I was somewhere between sleep and aftershock. Still half-drunk, still riding the phantom rhythm of the show. But when she settled against me with her back pressing into my chest, her thighs tucked into the bend of mine, my body knew her before my mind caught up.
And then she pushed back.
Just a little. Just enough to stir something in me.
Enough to feel the shape of her ass pressed against the front of my jeans.
Enough to feel me start to swell.
My arm slid around her waist automatically. Not possessive. Not performative. Just instinct, muscle memory. The way a body reaches for something it trusts.
"Hey..." I murmured, voice rough, half-buried in her hair.
She didn't answer. Just made a soft sound in her throat, somewhere between a sigh and a purr, and then she pushed back harder.
I cracked my eyes open wider and looked at her. She was wearing something ridiculous.
Black fishnets. A skirt that didn't even pretend to cover her. A tight top clinging to sweat and skin. Her hair was a mess, wild and tangled, and she smelled like smoke and whiskey.
I breathed her in.
My cock stirred again. This time harder, more awake. And she felt it.
Her hips shifted, just a little. Just enough to drag that tight little ass right across the front my jeans.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Her body said everything.
The way her hips moved, slow and certain. Not shy. Not asking.
It wasn't the first time we'd hooked up. She knew me, knew me damn well.
She knew I'd be hard already. That I wouldn't stop her. That we'd done this before and we'd do it again.
And god, she was warm.
The heat of her soaked through me, through denim and sweat.
I pressed in, just a little harder, and she pushed back like she was daring me to get bolder.
So I did.
My hand slid around her waist, fingers splayed across her belly. Holding. Anchoring.
The other drifted down slow and unhurried until it found the hem of her skirt.
She was all skin and fishnet, soft and coarse textures begging to be touched.
My fingers slipped between her thighs, tracing the inside, just enough pressure to make her hips twitch.
She sighed low, deep in her throat, and let her legs fall open just a little more.
That was her answer.
And it was perfect.
My other hand moved up.
Not groping. Not grabbing. Just... sliding.
From her stomach, over the rise of her ribs, across the swell of her breasts, until my fingertips brushed her throat.
I didn't squeeze. Just let my hand rest there.
She let out the softest fucking moan. Surrender in a single exhale.
Then her hand moved.
Back. Between us.
She reached down, hand threading between our tangled limbs, and slid her palm over the front of my jeans.
She felt me. Rock hard now.
She cupped it like it was hers to handle whenever she damn well pleased.
And fuck...
It was.
I groaned into her shoulder. Couldn't help it.
The tension between us was thick, sticky, inevitable.
We weren't undressing.
We weren't speaking.
We were just breathing each other in, grinding slow, letting the friction light us like a fuse.
My fingers slipped under her skirt, brushing past the fishnets, seeking...
And finding.
Nothing in the way. No panties. No hesitation. Just her, already soaked.
Hot and slick and waiting.
I exhaled a rough, hungry laugh and pressed my lips to the back of her neck, teeth brushing skin.
"You're such a slut," I murmured into her, low, fondly.
She melted. Let out the smallest whimper and pressed back harder, ass grinding against my cock with a kind of greedy, slow rhythm that made my spine shiver.
My fingers slid between her folds, slow and gentle.
Slick heat coating my fingertips instantly. She was so fucking wet, like she'd been waiting all night for it.
She moaned under her breath, soft and breathy, grinding herself down against my hand even as her fingers reached back, scrambling.
Zipper. Button. Denim. She wrestled with them like a woman possessed, laughing softly when she finally got the fly open.
Then she found me.
Her hand pushed into the mess of jeans and boxers, warm fingers wrapping around my cock.
She squeezed, slow and sure, and I groaned against her neck.
"Fuck, Sam..."
She stroked me once, slow, deliberate, and I curled tighter around her, hand still buried between her thighs, fingers slipping deeper now, working slow circles into that soaked, pulsing center.
I cast a glance over her shoulder, past the couch, into the half-lit den, the hall beyond.
Nothing. No one.
The house was silent now, like it had spent itself screaming and could only pant in the aftermath.
A bottle rolled somewhere in the dark. The fridge hummed. Someone coughed in another room.
But here, on this couch, with her?
We were in our own world.
Her hand stroked me with slow insistence, each squeeze just a little more greedy than the last.
My fingers slid deeper into her, slick and pulsing, her hips rolling with every motion.
We moved like animals half-asleep and half-possessed, rhythm building, pressure climbing, breathless.
She moaned, low, barely bitten back.
"God, Dax... fuck, that feels so good..."
My mouth found her neck again.
I kissed her slow, soft. Then bit, teeth sinking into that space between shoulder and throat until she gasped.
"You like that?" I whispered, voice ragged.
She nodded.
Pressed back.
Whimpered.
"You gonna be quiet?" I asked, sliding a second finger inside her.
"Or you gonna make me cover your mouth?"
Her breath hitched and then she whispered:
"Make me."
Fucking hell.
We kept working each other, the pace shifting from slow to relentless.
Her hand pumping me, messy now, precum smeared on her fingers.
My fingers curling inside her, thumb working her slick, swollen clit until her thighs trembled.
The couch creaked beneath us.
I could feel her clenching, dripping, begging in gasps without even using words.
I wanted to fuck her right there.
Right then.
She was soaked now, hips grinding back into my hand with wild, gasping rhythm.
Every time my fingers curled, she twitched, breath catching, legs tightening around my wrist.
"Shit, Dax... oh my god..."
Her voice kept climbing, slipping past breath into soft cries that had no business being so loud.
I leaned in, lips brushing her ear.
"You've gotta stay quiet, Sam..."
She didn't.
She moaned again, louder this time. High and helpless.
My hand moved without thinking. Up across her cheek, fingers pressing gently over her mouth.
"Shhh... fuck, you want the whole house to hear?"
She nodded.
Not sorry. Not even close.
She moaned again like the act of being silenced turned her on more than anything.
And god, it did something to me.
I felt her hips jerk as I fingered her harder, deeper, pace relentless now.
She was squirming, completely undone. Back arching, thighs trembling, making those desperate little noises like she was trying to say please but didn't know how.
"You're fucking soaked," I whispered, voice cracking from how hard I was.
"You're gonna cum like this, huh? With my fingers inside you and my hand over your mouth?"
She nodded again, frantic now.
Grinding down against my palm like she was riding her own orgasm, chasing it as it coiled tighter and tighter.
And I kept going.
Working her. Pressing deeper. Circling her clit with firm, fast strokes until her whole body shook.
She moaned into my hand. Loud. Muffled but desperate.
The kind of sound that meant she was right fucking there.
Then she came hard.
Her whole body locked up, tight and shaking, moaning into my hand like she was breaking open around my fingers. Heat flooded my palm. Her thighs clenched. Her breath turned jagged and fast and wild.
And still...
It wasn't enough.
Even as she was still shivering she reached back, her hand clumsy but desperate. She squeezed my cock tightly, not teasing now, not stroking. Pulling, guiding, lining me up with the soaked heat I'd just brought to the edge.
She arched her back, pushed her ass into me, and pressed.
And I slid in.
Hot. Wet. Tight.
Her body fucking welcomed me.
"Jesus fuck Sam..."
She didn't answer. Just let out a broken gasp, head falling forward as her hips started to move. Slow. Rolling. Grinding.
I wrapped my arm around her belly, pulling her tight to me. The other stayed over her mouth, still trying to keep her quiet even as her noises got louder.
But then... fuck... she grabbed my hand and pulled my fingers into her mouth.
Sucked them in with a moan that vibrated through her whole body.
She moaned around me, around my fingers, around my cock. It nearly broke me.
The couch creaked under us, rhythm messy and hot and desperate.
Her pussy clenching around me, soaking me.
Our breaths tangled. Her mouth full. Her body moving in perfect, filthy sync.
I couldn't stop.
Couldn't slow down.
Not when she felt that good.
Not when her moans were muffled by my fingers, her body trembling with every thrust, and she kept pressing back like she needed me deeper.
It got hotter.
Heavier.
Every thrust grinding in deep, my cock swelling, throbbing inside her.
Her panting got ragged.
Her moans became short little bursts around my fingers, her mouth still sucking as her hips pushed back with a hungry rhythm.
The couch was creaking beneath us. Her thighs were trembling.
She kept fucking taking it.
Meeting every thrust. Begging for it without saying a word.
I kissed the back of her neck again, tasting her skin, breath warm and shaking.
"I'm close, Sam..."
My voice was thick, ruined with want. She shuddered against me.
"You're so fucking good..."
I felt her gasp at that. Heard it. The way she tightened around me in response.
Her moans got deeper, needier in a way that almost made me cum right then.
I kept grinding into her, deep and slow, staying inside her as long as I could with every motion.
Her body milked me. Squeezed.
She pressed harder against me.
Panting. Pushing her ass into me, wanting more.
I couldn't take it.
Every thrust was a struggle. My whole body tightened, trembled, pleaded for release.
She kept grinding back, slow and insistent, pussy clenching around my cock. She knew I was close. She wanted it.
My arm tightened around her waist.
My other hand stayed in her mouth, her lips wrapped around my fingers as she moaned.
"Sam, fuck..."
The words caught in my throat and my whole body locked up.
I buried myself in her, bottoming out with a final, desperate push. My hips jerked as the orgasm tore through me.
It was huge.
Not just a spasm. Not just a burst.
Endless. Relentless.
I came so hard it almost hurt. My cock pulsing, twitching, shooting inside her over and over as I held my breath, held her, pressed so fucking tight I could feel her heartbeat through her spine.
She moaned around my fingers.
Her body squeezed, trembled.
We stayed like that, locked together, still grinding slow and deep as I rode out every wave, every aftershock.
I finally took a breath. Shaky. Gasping.
My forehead pressed to her neck, body still twitching, cock still throbbing inside her.
"Jesus fucking Christ..."
It was all I could say.
And she just laughed. Soft, fucked-out, glowing.
Still not letting go.
I stayed inside her.
Not moving. Not grinding anymore. Buried deep, held tight.
Her body soft around me, pulsing slow, twitching every so often.
My breath evened out.
My heartbeat calmed down.
My cock started to soften but I didn't pull out.
Didn't want to.
I could feel the mess I'd left inside her, warm and wet, leaking out slowly, soaking her thighs, the cushions beneath us, everything.
But she didn't move.
And neither did I.
I was still wrapped around her. One arm across her belly, the other tucked under her neck, fingers slick and resting against her mouth.
She pressed back, just a little.
Then she spoke. Voice low, wrecked, content.
"Good party," she whispered.
"Good show."
I laughed, a breath of sound against her skin.
"You're fucking nuts," I said, and bit her neck. Soft.
She sighed.
And then... nothing.
No goodnight.
No awkward cleanup.
No movement at all.
Just the two of us, half-dressed and completely fucked-out, tangled together on a ruined couch while the house breathed around us. Silent, dark, full of echoes and smoke.
We both passed out like that.
Spent. Satisfied. Still inside her.
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