Who Names The Colors

Favorite Crime

This is unedited. But- I really miss writing, and them. I think I might have got a little of the magic here. If you read, please let me know!

Takes place after they've been found out, but before he leaves.

Oh- fully smut

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Jo is sweaty and exhausted. Rung out.

She's twisted as well, her body bent into a position she would t have been able to achieve not long ago. Not before, before she had reason to.

Before she had all the encouragement in the world to get into unnatural, sometimes slightly uncomfortable arrangements. Reasons to go beyond her limit.

Sometimes they felt illegal.

The things he did to her, that she let him, still, after they were caught red handed, in the act, the way she could and did ignore the sentence her son had passed, no words, no seeing him. She didn't just live with that deprivation. It wasn't just the ache in her heart for Ethan. It was a bodily ache.

The creak of her bones the next day, the ache between her legs, the deep circles beneath her eyes when he kept them up all night.

But, when they were like this, the sweat, creaks, and consequences paled in comparison to being his.

To be his and to call him Hers.

It went beyond that, like in the current moment between them. There is no space between them. She knows what they mean, about being one, in the Bible.

One flesh.

Her flesh is open to him, and he's bound it to himself. Throw the book at her, she will take any punishment. She loves his so bad. Loves his criminally delicious voodoo, the magic he makes of her moans and membranes.

Rights now, he's behind her, she supposes, she's not sure that's exactly right, she's mostly on her side, him too, but he's mostly on her, has her between his arms, between his hips, between his lips. He is kissing her again, so the pounds have slowed. They've been going in an out of tempo, occasionally slow and sweet, lots of kissing. Like now, she's panting, catching her breath because just a moment ago, she thinks it was a moment, her grasp of time falls away when he gets ahold of her, he'd not been slow. They'd been in the throes of a flurry of fucking, his hand on her shoulder, on her hip to piston into her so fast that she almost couldn't breath.

They'll work back up to that, she thinks, they always do, when he's in this attitude, where he wants it to last, Harry gets as carried away as she does, so he takes them both to the brink, then pulls them back. She'd been about to plunge into the abyss just that false moment ago, then he'd slowed, pulled her back, pulled her in, moved his hand from hip to tit and just moved his hips back slow, his dick losing only an inch or so of its possession of her body, before sliding back in.

Jo's just got her breath when he pulls back again, is about to confess, say the love words she's stopped saying. The words she'd caged up in her heart, detained so she had some evidence of trying, trying ro do the right thing. The problem is, Harry is both her jailer and her redeemer. Her the lock, Him the key. Luckily, It gets caught in her throat over his thrust.

"Harry!" She cries, for only an inch, she can't believe how no much power he just gave her. All the potential energy in his powerful thighs, his surprisingly muscular glúted, becoming kinetic between her thighs.

He does it again and she sure she'd be sliding off, off the edge of the mattress with the force of it, had he not had the grip on her he had. He's also squeezing her tit just the way she loves, a little rough, a little over zealous.