desiderium | m. o'hara

twenty-two*

  He's seriously gonna kill me if he keeps this up.

  Miguel finishes first with a stutter of his hips and a heavenly, whispery moan of my name. He keeps pumping despite the overstimulated hiss he gives through his teeth. His fingers keep moving against me, and between that and the horrid squelching of his cum being pushed deeper and deeper, I'm quick to orgasm.

  It's slow; drawn out and blissful. It's a lazy-morning orgasm that leaves me shaking and seeing white. Miguel exhales lowly at the feeling of me gripping him through it and pins himself deep inside me.

  He presses his forehead to my back as we catch our breath. He doesn't pull out. He likes the feeling of me around him too much to leave my warmth just yet. Again, I don't complain - I like the feeling of being full.

  We stay like this for a few minutes. His hand pats soothingly down my side. I almost fall asleep again.

  "We need to pick up Rosita." His mumble pulls me back to the waking world. "... we also need a new couch."

  I turn my face into the mattress and groan. I don't want to get up. I'm too comfy like this. And Miguel's not making it any easier with him mouthing the spot behind my ear and caressing my bruised hips.

  But I am sticky. And sweaty. And I smell like sex, which is nice in the moment, but now I'm craving the clean scent of my vanilla and cinnamon body wash. I sit up with gritted teeth and wince as Miguel's dick slides out.

  "Shit," I sigh. I hang my head and try to settle the waves of pain that swiftly emerged upon moving. "I'm so sore."

  Miguel turns onto his back with a satisfied smile. "Sorry."

  "Don't lie to my face." He snickers at my halfhearted bitterness and watches as I edge my way out of bed like an old lady. "I'm taking a shower."

  Miguel sits up fast.

  "I'll join you," he says eagerly, only to stop when I hold my hand up.

  "No, no, god, please," I say with a whine. "I haven't had this much sex since my honeymoon and I was a lot younger then. I need a break."

  Miguel drops back onto his pillow with a disappointed pout. I shake my head at him and limp towards the bathroom. It's all well and good that he's a sex god-slash-machine, but I'm not. His poor hand? More like poor me.

  I do a double take when I spot my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are bright, I look like me again - until my gaze drops to the bruised mess that is my neck. We're going through bandages like they're water.

  I pull one down to check the wound and grimace at the dark, angry punctures. It'd be nice if Miguel was like one of those fictional vampire boyfriends whose saliva heals the bites they give their lovers. That'd be so easy, so discreet. I'm not that lucky.

  I sigh and cover the wound back up. Another scarf day it is.

••🕷️••

  "How are you doing?" Miguel asks as we wander down a furniture department's aisle of couches. His hand's entwined in mine. There's a slight limp to my walk that he's mercifully not made fun of yet. "Still sore?"

  I check the price of a two-seater. "Still sore."

  "Painkillers not working yet?"

  "No. They kicked in ages ago." I send him a glare. "I'm just that sore."

  He doesn't look guilty. If anything, it only swells his ego. His broad chest puffs with pride. "Guilty as charged."

  I roll my eyes. He's such a man. I'd be pissed at him if the sex didn't rock my world. I'd be pissed at him if he wasn't Miguel and I wasn't so head over heels.