For the space of a heartbeat, he didn't move, didn't respond, not to her hands running up his back, not to her lips. Just a beat, where the tension eked out of his shoulders and he breathed.
Then he must have been a blur, gripping her hair so tightly it couldn't have been comfortable, shucking his trousers fully after she'd begun the job, hitching her leg higher, tighter around his waist. He was moving, kept moving, a hand searching out the last flimsy, insubstantial barrier that still separated them and divesting her of it, shifting her other leg over his shoulder for the angle, throwing one arm out to prop against the mirror for leverage, not caring that it was hard enough to further crack the surface, not caring if it cut his palm.
Moving, all he had to do was keep moving, don't think, move, don't think, just—don't—
His head dropped to her shoulder as they pressed close, closer, closest, and all manner of sounds, words, tumbled out of him, swears and praises, in all the languages he knew, and some that simply didn't exist. When his bearings straightened, even though his head still swam, he took her in the hardest kiss he knew how to give, lip-scoring, teeth mashing, bruising.
He didn't care.
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