#I mean. it always kinda looks the same LOL but still 😇 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

karahalloway · 2 years ago

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Ok, ma'am....ma'am?

I'm gonna need you to stop calling this a short story series 😒😆🤣

Hahaha yes... alright... if I must... 😆 It was honestly a short story in my head when I started this project... But things always take on a life of their own, don't they 🤣

Ok...now.... this is how fucking excited I am that this chapter is out....

I was so excited to read your reblog!! 🤗🤗🤗 Also that second gif... 🤣🤣🤣 Dead.

Fine then

I literally rofl'd at this gif

he keeps saying that....and it keeps not being true.....

Look, Drake, look....it hasn't sailed...it's docked goddamn it!!!

Lol - agreed. Though in his mind it's a bit more...

I freaking LOVE your ability to turn a phrase!!!!

🧡

you wish

Yup - bc as we both know, it's not really the shirt that's the problem... It's his noggin'...

Wow, that was brutal

Yeah... I did feel bad for him in this chapter... Probably even more so than what happened in Burnt, and I thought that was brutal in it's angst 😅

Swear I could feel and hear this....

I can see all of this, the swimming, the sailing, all of it and I love the backstory!!!

This whole thing actually came out of an off-the-cuff observation that Harper makes in UA during the beach party that Drake seemed more at home in the water than he did even in the woods. Which I didn't anticipate being the case in my head (given how much Drake loves camping, etc. - which he still does) but apparently his love of the water is even higher.

I loved this entire sequence and I think this is my same reasoning behind why Drake would have a motorcycle. Flying over the water, flying over the ground...same sense of freedom.

Yes!! Definately agreed! Which I think is part of the reason why he drives like a mofo in my fics 😅 Love the Top Gun gif btw! 🥰

This is how I feel in water and I love how well you convey that feeling!!!!🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Aww thanks! Both my brother and my hubby love being in the water, so I very much based this sequence on how I know they feel/act in the water. Happy it came across the way I was hoping it would! 🧡

Damn. He's got it BAD

This line.....

I have to admit I was very proud of this one 😇

yessssssssss!! What is it about feral Drake that's so fucking hot?

No clue. But I can't seem to write him any other way 🥵

Bruh! I got so caught up in that, I almost forgot it wasn't real!

🤣 That was kinda the point lol But bahahaha that Jack Sparrow gif...!! 🤣🤣🤣 I honestly died!

This chapter was amazing and I mean amazing!!!!!

I cannot wait for the next chapter!!!

I'll try to get the next one out slightly quicker 🤞 It will definately be a lot less angsty (bc I think we all need a breather from that lol)

Thanks so much for reading, liking and reblogging in such an epic fashion!

...now I need to go and catch up on some of your stuff lol

Sleepless in New York: Chapter 10 - Darkfall

Series: TRR

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Rights belong to Pixelberry, most characters and some dialogue belong to them.

Synopsis: This is a short-story series written from Drake’s POV that explores an AU where Drake meets Harper (my OC from (Un)Common Attraction) by himself before the boys come to the bar on the last night of Christian’s bachelor party.

Masterlist: Sleepless in New York

Chapter Summary: Drake tries to navigate a rough night...

Word Count: 5,300

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, angst, obsessive-compulsive exercise, sexual fantasy, masturbation)

Chapter theme song:

A/N: Sorry this took soooo long to get out! As per usual, real life has been exceptionally busy, so I haven't had as much time to write as I'd like to.

A/N: This is also my slightly belated submission for World Whiskey Day, hosted by @drake-walker-appreciation, and the prompt that this fits with (more or less) is 'The whiskey burns my throat like her absence burns my soul.'

Chapter 10 - Darkfall

I kick the covers off with an irate growl.

Un-fuckin'-believable...

After the shitshow of a day I've had, I should be running on fumes.

And I was.

Yet for some reason, I wasn't able to nod off. Despite the fact that I'd been on the go since 6am and had barely gotten any shut-eye the night before.

Because my body was apparently a sucker for punishment and didn't seem to know when to quit. And even though I knew I desperately needed the recharge, I also knew that staying in bed was gonna achieve nothing 'cept hypertension.

So, swinging my legs out onto the carpet with a tight-set jaw, I reach for my phone.

02:18

I run a heavy hand through my hair.

The hell was I going to do for the next six hours?

My eyes land almost unwittingly on the ragged shirt-tail peeking over the edge of the trash can.

I rip my gaze away with gritted teeth.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

It was bad enough that I'd walked out on Gale without so much as a half-assed explanation. I wasn't gonna compound my dick-like behaviour by showing up at her door in the middle of the night, demanding to pick up where we'd left off.

Especially not after everything I'd already subjected her to today — getting her fired, burning her in front of her friends, pulling her into a fight, dragging her on a forced route march 'cross town, and then literally ripping the shirt off her back. And, if that wasn't bad enough, I'd topped off her night by dumping the proverbial clutch on her when I should've been taking her for the ride of her life.

I swallow painfully. No. That ship had definitely sailed...

Which meant it was high time to take my own fuckin' advice and get her — and this entire mess of a day — out of my head.

No excuses.

And since the overpriced mini bar had let me down, I was down to my only alternative — running myself into the ground.

Pushing myself up with a resigned exhale, I trudge over to my duffle. Reaching in, I extract the exercise shorts and t-shirt that always formed part of my go-bag, no matter where I went. Because you never knew when you were gonna need to blow off some steam. And going for a run was a damn sight healthier than disappearing down the neck of a bottle. Even if the latter was a helluva lot more convenient.

Throwing the clothes on, along with some socks and my well-worn trainers, I turn back to the bedside table to grab my phone and gun...

...and catch sight of the shirt again.

Motherfucker.

Jamming the phone and the Sig into my pockets — it was always paid be prepared then be left holding your dick when shit inevitably hit the fan — I march over to the bin and yank the accursed thing out.

Scrunching it up, I turn on my heel, and stomp out of the room, snatching the keycard up on the way. Wrenching the door open, I let it bang shut behind me as I head down the corridor.

I could not catch one goddamn break tonight...

Reaching the lifts, I briefly contemplate calling one. But given that I was already wound tighter than a two-dollar watch, I knew I wouldn't be able to stand the wait, no matter how brief.

So, I divert instead to the fire exit. Pulling the heavy door open, I throw myself into a jog and take the stairs upwards two at a time.

I guess I could've just as easily gone downstairs. But I didn't trust myself not to wind up at Gale's brownstone again if I hit the streets. Which meant that the only place I could conceivably go was to the top-floor gym.

Which — all things considered — was probably the better bet anyway. Because going for a jog in the dead of night around the City the Never Sleeps was a risk not worth taking. And even though Central Park was less than a block away, it wasn't actually an option, given that (a) it shut overnight, and (b) it wasn't the best lit, and I didn't particularly feel like getting jumped by a knife wielding yahoo, or twisting an ankle on an uneven path.

Plus, I'd have to be a monumental idiot to even think about leaving Chris unattended again. Not that I expected to him go anywhere at this hour — except maybe all the way with Hayley. But I wasn't about to make the same mistake twice in one day.

Christ knew I'd paid for it hard the first time 'round...

I feel my legs start to burn as I continue to climb relentlessly. But knowing that this was exactly what I needed if I was to have any hope of catching some zzz's tonight, I ignore the discomfort and push myself on.

Arriving on the 25th floor, I pause on the landing to catch my breath. But the short burst of exercise had merely thrown me a second wind. I still had a long way to go if I wanted to waste myself completely.

So, moving over to the stairwell door, I pull it open and step into the gym. Given the lateness of the hour, there's not a soul in sight, and it's just me and the view.

But there was one thing I needed to take care of first.

Locating the changing rooms, I head inside. And before I could think too much on it, or change my mind, I stride over to the dirty towel hamper and chuck the ruined shirt in...

...and dump a few towels on top of it for good measure.

Dead and buried.

Spinning quickly around, I exit the way I'd come, focusing my attention on the row of TechnoGym treadmills that faced out onto the distantly twinkling lights of Harlem in the north, and not on how twisted my guts felt all of a sudden.

Picking a machine, I pull my phone and sidearm out of my pockets and place them onto the console so they wouldn't bang against my thighs as I ran, but still remained within reach in case I needed them.

Taking a deep breath, I step resolutely onto the belt and hit go on a program at random.

The pace starts off sedately, barely faster than a speed walk. Reaching up to the console, I tap the speed up impatiently, not wanting to waste time on a warm-up I didn't need and most definitely didn't want.

I was here to burn rubber.

The motor kicks into a higher gear, but it's not enough. Even though I was now at a steady jog, my heart rate's barely above resting and I've yet to break a sweat. Not to mention the fact that my mind was still fixating on the very thing I needed to flush out of my system.

Gale, legs spread and head thrown back, moaning my name...

Raising my hand with a growl, I slap the panel again... and again... and again... until the belt is a blur beneath my feet and I'm pelting it like a demented bat outta hell.

The sudden speed forces my body into overdrive. My chest expands, my focus narrows, and my blood begins to pump in earnest, trying to supply my body with oxygen faster than it was being consumed.

I fall into a breakneck rhythm, limbs pumping to the rapid beat of my breath in a desperate effort to stay on the treadmill.

In... In... In... In... Out... Out... Out... Out...

The minutes and the miles tick past on the screen in front of me, but I barely register the stats. I'm too busy chasing oblivion...

...which remains stubbornly out of reach.

Because even as I push myself to the limit and my lungs start to burn and my muscles start to cramp, I can't escape her. She's still there, hazel-green eyes dancing on the edge of my awareness, the honey scent of her hair tickling my senses like smoke on the breeze.

And even as my vision begins to swim and the relentless pace pushes me to the verge of puking, I don't let myself ease up. Because that would be an admission of defeat and I wasn't the type to quite that easy.

Not when there was so much on the line.

Because beyond the fact that I'd let myself become consumed by a girl I barely knew — an unhealthy and unsustainable hang-up that I needed to nip in the bud, pronto — my continued preoccupation had also ended up endangering Chris' life tonight.

And that was inexcusable.

Not only was the guy the heir to a fuckin' throne, but he was my best — and arguably only — friend. And I'd let him down, both personally and professionally, by allowing myself to get distracted, just because a pretty set of legs had walked by.

And while I'd somehow managed to salvaged my colossal fuck-up, and we'd all walked away tonight without any casualties, I probably wouldn't be able to pull a miracle like that out of my ass every time.

Nor should I expect to.

Especially not during the social season, when Chris was going to be constantly in the spotlight, shaking hands, being interviewed, always in an exposed setting. All it would take was one moment of distraction, one second of lost focus, for someone to pull a gun, to slip through the crowd, for our worlds to come crashing down.

And I wasn't gonna let Chris — my brother — down like that.

I couldn't.

Which is why I had to purge this festering fixation now. Before it became an all-consuming mania that jeopardised not just my good-judgment, but other people's lives.

So, doubling down, I dig deep and continue to pound the vestiges of my frustrations, my failings, and my regret relentlessly into the treadmill, the hard and fast staccato of my feet against the machine echoing around the otherwise empty space.

I have no clue how long I run for. Minutes? Hours? It makes no difference. Every wheeze feels like my last, every exertion a desperate attempt to break free of the purgatory of mistakes I'd trapped myself in.

And still I push on. Until I hit the proverbial wall and collapse against it, my vision blurry, my limbs shaking, my clothes drenched.

I stand there for what feels like eternity, feet straddling either side of the machine, the belt still whizzing at breakneck speed beneath me while I cling to the console like a life-line, trying to catch my breath.

And eventually my heart-rate slows, the buzzing in my ears clears, and I regain enough coherence to lift a hand and slap the treadmill off.

Pushing myself up to a standing positionas the machine whirls to a stop, I wipe the sweat from my eyes and glance at the screen in front of me.

10 miles. 56 minutes.

I scoff wryly. Well, fuck me if it isn't a new personal best... Who knew that self-pity could be such a potent motivator...?

Exiting the menus, I grab my stuff and move to step off the machine... only to very narrowly avoid face planting into the floor.

Oh, shit...!

Grabbing the console, I shake my head to try and clear the sudden nausea.

Christ I felt awful...

My eyes land on the water fountain and I lurch towards it like a drunk out of a bar. Because that was exactly how I felt like — sluggish, light-headed and stumbling around like a newborn calf. Which was no surprise considering I'd just run the best part of half a marathon as if the Devil himself had been after me, having consuming nothing but two bottles of beer beforehand.

Apparently I did hate myself.

Managing to make it to the far wall without any incident — just — I lean over the dispenser to inhale the cool stream of water, nearly making myself choke in the process.

But I knew I needed to rehydrate myself, otherwise I was gonna be in a world of pain in a few hours' time. So, after overcoming the initial shock to my system, I force myself to loosen up on the pace and start taking longer and slower gulps.

Having finally satisfied my body's cravings, I let go of the dispenser button to run the back of a trembling hand over my water-soaked mouth.

Sweet Jesus, I was a mess...

I couldn't remember the last time I'd pushed myself this hard on a workout.

But then I'd never felt this way before... Like I was an idiot, like I'd missed the pass, like I was stuck in a maze with no way out.

And even though the hard run had managed to clear my mind, that latent feeling of... something was still there, writhing just beneath the surface, like an unscratchable itch under my skin.

And maybe it'd never be fully purged. But I wasn't gonna give up without a damn good fight.

Pushing myself up, I turn towards the pool. And even though I hadn't brought any swim trunks with me, my feet are already pulling me towards the siren call of the water.

Because if there was one thing that was guaranteed to set me right, it was a full-body dunk.

Arriving at the side of the pool, I peel my sweat-soaked clothes off, leaving only my boxers on for the sake of modesty in case someone happened to walk in.

Taking a breath, I step out over the edge and plunge straight in.

The sting of salt hits my nose — not the same flavour as the Med, but then no pool was ever gonna compete with that — as the water envelopes me and I let myself sink below the surface.

I hit the bottom and the echoey silence settles like a blanket around me, soothing my senses, taming my pulse.

I've always loved the water. Even before I could walk, I'd make a butt-shuffling beeline towards the end of the beach where the waves crashed onto the shore, unveiling a treasure trove of crabs, seashells and shiny rocks.

Of course, Mom'd been terrified that I'd get swept out to sea, or drown. So, to appease her fear, Dad had started taking me to swim lessons — first at the local therapy pool, but graduating quickly to the higher classes in the lap pool as I learnt to float, hold my breath, and leap off the diving board, all by the age of three.

From there my obsession only grew. I joined the school swim team, the water polo team, and even got certified as a lifeguard over the course of one summer. In short, I'd spent almost as much time in the water as out of it.

And then Chris introduced me to sailing.

At first I couldn't see the appeal of drifting around the Med on a sofa-sized boat when you could be swimming in it. But, I'd never been able to say 'no' to my best friend, so when he'd insisted I join him for a spin around the marina in his new Wayfarer one evening, I'd begrudgingly said yes. And had become instantly hooked. The speed, the technical precision, the feeling of flying over the water — it was all addictive.

Jack Sparrow'd had it right when he'd said that a ship is not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails. Because even though those things are integral to the make-up of any craft, what a ship — or yacht, or catamaran, or any other vessel — really was, was freedom.

And for a restless 14 year-old, there was nothing more attractive than ditching the world to hang out with your buddy in the middle of the ocean, free of worries or adult supervision, just enjoying the endless view while you fished and talked about nothing in particular.

Of course, being teenagers, we were bound to get ourselves into deep water — quite literally. Which is how we'd ended up deciding that it'd be a great idea to take out a much larger sloop one evening... only to end up paying for that mistake when a storm decided to roll in out of the blue, catching us off guard and capsizing our craft.

And while that particular misadventure had ended up turning Chris off sailing once and for all, it had made me even more determined to get back out onto the water and obtain my ICC license. Which I did, the following summer.

And even though I no longer had Chris to share my maritime adventures with, my love of sailing — and of being out on the water — never diminished.

Because the sea was — and always has been — my personal haven.

Feeling my lungs start to itch from the lack of oxygen, I reluctantly open my eyes and kick back up to the surface.

But I don't feel like returning to dry land just yet.

So, drawing a quick breath, I stretch myself out and dip into an easy freestyle. Half-a-dozen strokes and I reach the edge of the pool. Diving down, I flip myself around to kick off the wall, resurfacing into a backstroke.

I repeat the pattern for about ten laps, enjoying the rare sense of peace that came with gliding weightlessly through the water, strokes moving effortlessly in time with my breath.

Eventually, though, I am forced to call it quits as my body finally runs out of steam and my rhythm starts to falter.

Grabbing onto the edge of the pool, I pause to catch my breath, arms and shoulders tingling from the exertion...

...and I suddenly realise that I'm starving.

Which, all things considered, was hardly surprising. The last time I'd had anything to eat was at that Midtown stake-house at dinner-time, which was over eight hours ago. And since then I'd probably burnt through 800 calories' worth of pure stress, not to mention all the physical exertion I'd put myself through. So, my blood sugar levels were shot.

Pulling myself out of the water, I pad over to the other side of the pool to collect my gear.

I briefly contemplate having a shower, but quickly ditch the idea on the basis that (a) I hadn't brought a change of clothes with me, and (b) I couldn't trust myself not to go rooting for the ruined shirt that I'd ditched in the changing rooms earlier.

So, brushing off the worst of the water, I head straight for the lifts.

I wasn't expecting to cross paths with anyone at whatever time in the morning it was. And if I did... well, they could suck it up. It's not like I was walkin' around buck-ass naked.

Arriving back on our booked-out floor, I make my way to my room. Fishing the keycard out of the pocket of my shorts, I let myself in and flick the door closed behind me.

Dropping my exercise kit by my duffle, I locate the 24-hour room service menu and do a quick scan of the options.

A couple of items jump out at me, but knowing that I'll probably have breakfast with the guys in a few hours' time, I didn't want to have anything too heavy.

But then my eyes land on the cheeseburger, and before I can think twice about it, I've reached for the hotel phone and I'm putting the order through.

And even though I tell myself that it's because I never got to finish the one back at the dive bar two nights ago, I know that I'm lying to myself...

...so I add a bottle of whiskey to the order for good measure.

Because I didn't want to blow up all my hard work by falling back into the same emotional sink hole that I'd only very narrowly managed to drag myself out of just now. So I needed something to distract myself.

Hanging up, I quickly sort my sweaty clothes out and stow them in the duffle before making my way into the bathroom to have another shower.

Once done, I throw on my jeans and a t-shirt (not bothering with socks or underwear) and flick the wall-mounted TV on to find something to pass the time with while I waited for the food to show up.

Not seeing any movies or series that particularly interested me, I eventually settle on a rerun of an old Pats game...

...but I find my mind wandering.

And it doesn't take long for my treacherous sub-conscious to dig up the very images that have been stalking me all night.

Gale, up in my face as on the club balcony, testing my limits and my sanity with that sinful smile of hers...

Gale, head thrown back and ass pressed up against me as we moved to the techno-beat on the crowded dance-floor...

Gale, legs wrapped around me as her nails raked over my skin, fighting to get my shirt off as my tongue invaded her mouth...

I groan despite myself, shifting uncontrollably on top of the covers...

...and realise that I've already lost the battle.

Shit.

My eyes land ruefully on the tell-tale tent pole straining the front of my pants.

I huff out a tight exhale.

If there'd been one thing I'd wanted to avoid tonight, it was this...

Because I knew that as soon as I dipped a toe in that particular Rubicon, I was screwed. And not in a good way.

Because when you'd been continuously pushed to the edge, only to be yanked back each and every time from the precipice of release, a plain ol' wank just wasn't gonna do it.

Sure, jacking one out relieved the immediacy of the pent up need. But it was never gonna hold a candle to the real thing. In part because it was over in minutes and in part because cumming into your own hand was about as satisfying as throwing yourself a one-man pity party.

Because sex was a team sport. And trying to run a solo play — once you knew what the real thing felt like — was always gonna fall short of expectations. Because when you were on your own, there was no one to share the thrill with. To kiss, to tease, to fuck to the limit before letting go so you could finally implode into each other.

Which is why I'd tried my damnedest to exhaust myself so I wouldn't find myself in this situation. At least not until we were back in Cordonia, and I could avail myself of some options...

...'cept now I didn't have a choice.

Not unless I wanted to greet the bell hop with a raging hard-on...

Because unfortunately for me, my dick had apparently decided that it'd had enough of being baited, and was now gonna bend me over the barrel to get what it wanted.

Regardless of the fact that it was gonna be a massive let-down for both of us.

So, even as I try to shift my focus back to the Pats game — and sideline my ever-growing erection — all I manage to achieve is an even more persistent itch in my pants.

Because despite my resistance, we both knew that thanks to the missed opportunity with Gale, chances were high that I wasn't gonna find anything resembling decent satisfaction until after the Masquerade Ball.

As even though we'll be arriving back to a Palace teeming with all manner of women — from maids to staff to nobles — that didn't mean I was gonna be casting a net. In fact, just the opposite. I wasn't the type to shit where I ate (it caused too much unnecessary mess) and I'd learnt my lesson about fucking aristos the hard way.

Which meant that unless I was planning to shell out for a call girl — hell'd have to freeze over first — a self-administered hand-job was gonna have to tide me over until there was a big enough gap in my schedule that I could get away from the Palace for a couple of hours and find some stress relief.

I heave a low breath. Fuck my fuckin' life...

But knowing that I'd backed myself into a corner, I reach resignedly for my belt. Unhooking the buckle, I fling it to the side to expose the top button of my jeans. Snapping the fastening open with one hand, I yank the zip down with the other.

The denim falls away and my dick springs free of its confines, its rigid length snapping to attention like an overeager hound that had just caught a scent.

And even though this particular outing wasn't gonna end in the long, hard run we both knew we needed, that doesn't stop the damn thing from drooling like a mutt in anticipation.

Setting my jaw, I shove my jeans down over my hips, half-heartedly wishing I had some lube or something to try and improve this runaway train-wreck as I reach south...

...and groan out loud as my hand wraps around the warm shaft.

Goddamn...

I was apparently more deprived than I'd realised. Though, I guess that shouldn't come as a massive surprise. Especially after the near constant edging that Gale had subjected me to tonight, combined with the fact that it'd been a good two weeks since the last time I'd managed to eke out time for a fuck. And that had been mediocre at best.

As if to emphasise the point, my dick bucks against palm, and it's clear that I had a lot of mitigating to do.

Sliding my fist firmly down, then back up again, I set about stoking up a rhythm. And even though it's nothing different to what I've done hundreds of times before, something about the familiar friction sparks an instant fire in my veins.

Maybe it's 'cause I was exhausted... Maybe it's 'cause my mind was a mess... Maybe it's 'cause I've gone cold turkey for too long...

But whatever it was, it was sending me into a tailspin.

I feel my head tip back against the headboard with a low moan as I'm pulled rapidly under by the throes of my self-gratification.

And as my eyes shudder closed in the face of the rising tension, I give myself up to the darkest depths of my desire...

...and in a blink of an eye, I am back in that cramped apartment, gazing up at Gale from between her legs, the imminence of her climax written on her face, the slickness of her arousal coating my mouth and tongue.

I groan into her as she grips my hair, urging me on with her increasingly desperate pleas, her body quivering above me as she careers towards the edge...

...and I am suddenly possessed by an all-consuming urge to have her.

Shooting to my feet, with her legs still wrapped around my shoulders, I send her sprawling back over the top of the kitchen counter.

Because I knew that we didn't have much time, and if I was gonna make this happen, we needed to do it hard and fast.

And I wasn't gonna let myself disappoint her again.

Grabbing her by the waist, I yank her towards me. Her hazel-green eyes widen in shock as her ass dips over the edge of the counter. But my grip on her is unshakeable and she's not going anywhere.

Not yet anyway.

Not until I've fucked her six ways 'til Sunday, and even then I probably wouldn't let her leave.

Because this girl set me on fire like nobody else, and I needed her to burn with me.

Bending down to give her decadent folds one more self-indulgent lick, I steady her with one hand while I rip my belt and jeans open with the other, not able to take my eyes off her as she writhed before me.

"Drake...!"

The sound of my name slipping off her lips like a fervent prayer unleashes something feral inside of me. Something I didn't even know existed in the dark recesses of my soul. Something that instantly swallows whatever vestiges of rational thought I had left, leaving only one, single-minded purpose:

To make her mine.

And in some corner of my brain I know I should be terrified. Of this rabid hunger that she'd unwittingly awakened within me. Of the fact that I couldn't control it... and didn't want to.

But I'm already past the point of no return. And I couldn't give a rat's ass.

Because the only thing I care about is fulfilling that unspoken obsecration of hers until she was ruined for all other men.

Shoving my jeans and boxers down with a growl, I grab her hips and ram myself into her in one, brutal motion.

Her wet heat engulfs me, taking me fully, causing my eyes to roll back into my head as I revel in the sheer euphoria of her, her deep-throated cry of agreement rising up around me.

Holy fuckin' hell, she felt amazing!

And if the mere act of being inside her didn't already feel like pure rapture, she then decides to up the ante even further.

"Fuck me, Drake," she demands, arching her lower back forward.

A guttural sound rattles my throat as she rolls her hips against me, cranking up the torsion as she pulls me in even deeper.

And I could've lost it right then and there.

But somehow — whether through sheer force of will, or by the grace of God — I manage to tamp down the rapidly rising swell in order to heed her command.

Because this wasn't about me. This was about her. And I was gonna make damn sure that she got what she wanted before I let myself cum inside her.

Even if it killed me.

Opening my eyes, I meet her hazel-green gaze with an affirmative smirk. "Yes, ma'am."

She wraps her legs around me expectantly...

...and I slam us together roughly, loudly, unapologetically.

She gasps beneath me, hands flying to the edge of the counter to grip it like an anchor in a storm, her entire body reverberating with the impact of our collisions.

But I don't stop. I can't. I pound into her like a man possessed... because I was. All semblance of logic, of reason, of God-given sense has evaporated and I devolve into the basest version of myself, one that is driven purely by lust and instinct.

And even though I know I won't be able to hold out, that I'll cave in the face of her rhapsodic screams and the almost painful pressure she was putting on my dick, I'm powerless to pull the e-brake. If anything, it makes me rev the throttle harder.

Because she just felt too damn good, and I'd been at her mercy from the start.

Lifting my head, I lock eyes with her. And in those lust-blown, hazel-green depths, I see more than just need... more than just passion.

I see complete faith.

And it undoes me.

I explode into her with a ragged, animalistic cry, my body jerking with the force of my deliverance.

"Jesus... fuck!"

The long-coveted wave of release crashes over me, wiping away my thoughts and my vision, and I'd be convinced that I'd passed out were it not for the high-pitched ringing in my ears and the thundering of my heart.

I stay there, motionless, revelling in that all-too brief moment of calm before the chaos of the world spins back up around me.

Holy shit, that w—

Her warm lips brush against my sweat-streaked forehead, her honey-camomile scent drifting over me like a drunken haze...

I move to lean into her. "Harp—"

...but she's already gone.

The story continues in Chapter 11 - Hungover on You (coming soon!)

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Sleepless in New York only

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Picture Credits

Insomnia - Dawn - New York - Run - Swim - Drake - Pool

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