For that moment when it seems like he might actually slow down, with a murmured “You sure?”, but Gwenaëlle immediately banishes that thought by driving him deeper again. Her nails press harder, and even that’s a pleasurable kind of sting, anchoring him in his body and reminding him where he is.
And for the first time in years, Stephen Strange’s mind has emptied into white-hot pleasure, all higher-level thinking wrecked, for once not distantly multitasking or thinking about reports he has to write or the fate of the world or the war,
no, it’s just the physical movement and pressure, the slick slide of their bodies against each other and him inside her, Gwenaëlle’s mouth against his ear, Stephen’s against her throat. He nips her skin, tasting the sweat on her neck as they set that rhythm and stick to it.
It won’t take long for him to follow her to that cliff: it’s been years with only his cramping hand for company; not an extremely athletic and extremely enthusiastic partner riding his lap. Any rigid self-control soon unravels beneath her, and he knows that orgasm’s about to hit him like a freight train— which is right about when some last-minute rational instinct finally reasserts itself.
“Wait, can rifters,” presumably the answer’s no because there’s no half-Fade toddlers running around, but decades of habit mean he suddenly, urgently finds himself asking that panicked question before it’s too late, “do I— protection—”
no subject
And for the first time in years, Stephen Strange’s mind has emptied into white-hot pleasure, all higher-level thinking wrecked, for once not distantly multitasking or thinking about reports he has to write or the fate of the world or the war,
no, it’s just the physical movement and pressure, the slick slide of their bodies against each other and him inside her, Gwenaëlle’s mouth against his ear, Stephen’s against her throat. He nips her skin, tasting the sweat on her neck as they set that rhythm and stick to it.
It won’t take long for him to follow her to that cliff: it’s been years with only his cramping hand for company; not an extremely athletic and extremely enthusiastic partner riding his lap. Any rigid self-control soon unravels beneath her, and he knows that orgasm’s about to hit him like a freight train— which is right about when some last-minute rational instinct finally reasserts itself.
“Wait, can rifters,” presumably the answer’s no because there’s no half-Fade toddlers running around, but decades of habit mean he suddenly, urgently finds himself asking that panicked question before it’s too late, “do I— protection—”