Free Hammer & Air by Amy Lane Page B

thrust his hand down my pants and I’d said, “Not her, idiot! You!”
    It were happiness, not just to be in bed, but to be skin-to-skin with me.
    I looked at him with nothing less than my soul in my eyes, and he took it. His next kiss weren’t hard or savage. It were firm and tender, and his hands framed my face and soothed down my neck and my shoulders.
    He would have moved his mouth then, to follow those hard, scarred hands, but I didn’t want the kiss to end, and when I protested, he came back to kiss me some more. And some more. And some more.
    Our bodies were quaking with urgency, with the need to fuck and come, but our mouths, our souls, didn’t seem to want to break off contact for that other thing. Our hips ground savagely, and harder, and I kept flexing my arse, craving him inside of me, craving that sweet burn, the shudder of my body as he nailed that thing inside me that made me see stars, craving the fullness of him, crammed into me, making my chest swell with the force of his cock buried inside me to the root of him.
    He grunted and shoved two fingers into my mouth, and I sucked on them, hard. He pulled them out, covered in spit, and slipped them under me. The first one burned, the second one scorched, and then he spread them, and I gasped.
    As I breathed in air, he filled me with his cock, and that were as good. The pleasure… it were excruciating, and it were necessary, and I screamed with it, and shoved myself further on him, before he took over and fucked me hard into the softness at my back.
    And our eyes never left the other, and our lips met skin desperately, yearning for contact, begging for connection, howling for the closeness that didn’t come by fucking alone, but that we had no words for.
    His end were coming; he’d been sick, his arm still gave him some pain, and he couldn’t last long.  He went up on his knees, slung my thighs up against his shoulders and supported my arse and my hips with his big, broad hands. “Yank on it,” he growled, and I didn’t even think about disobeying as I found my prick and began to pull.
    My head tilted back at my rough strokes, and my eyes started to close, until he snarled, “Look at me, dammit!” And I snapped to and did.
    He weren’t treating me like I would break. He were fucking me like an equal—damn me, if he weren’t—and it were hard, so hard to keep to his eyes as he drove us both to shivering, painful, swollen heights of wanting with every thrust into my arse.
    In the end, he were the one who closed his eyes, who threw his head back and grunted and howled. In the end, there were something so tender in him, so vulnerable, that he had to hide it, and as my own cock spurted and spat come onto my belly, he collapsed forward, not minding the mess, and buried his face into my neck and sobbed breath into the hollow of my ear.
    I wrapped my arms awkwardly around his shoulders and thought to soothe him, but he were trembling so hard that my embrace tightened, and I started to shake in return. We just held there, clenched together, still joined, quivering with the power of the fucking, and of all the things that we didn’t know to say.
    Eventually he muttered, “Stay there,” and rolled away, leaving my body open and weeping with his spend, and covered in my own. I heard sounds from the washroom. He came back with a cloth, and he cleaned me up with hands that shook, and set the cloth aside and climbed back into the bed with me, although it were still daylight. He pulled the fluffy white cover up around us while I looked at him with wide eyes, and then he lay back and patted his good shoulder. I put my head on it and wrapped my arms around his middle and clung, and he dropped kisses in my hair in the silence.
     
     
    That night, we heard a sound at the door.
    I were sitting, reading Hammer another fairy tale, (this one about a horrid little man who liked to kidnap children) and when Hammer looked at me shortly, I held up my hand. It didn’t