This was her birthday present to him.

The way she gripped him with both hands as his breath grew shallow. The way she opened her throat for him and his breath stopped altogether. The way she teased him—enjoying how his face contorted as she played with his pleasure. A teasing that was an essential step towards reaching the crux, although it would not last long.

This, was her gift.

The way she persevered. The way she plunged his cock into her mouth—as massive as it was—and kept it there though her eyes watered, though saliva dripped down her chin, though she gagged audibly.

When she finally pulled back, gasping for air, his hand replaced her mouth, stroking slowly as she caught her breath. She looked up into his eyes and gasped, seeing a completely different person from before. Someone drunk on lust. Someone so close to their peak that nothing else mattered in that moment. The way he was looking at her was burning holes right through her skin. She felt like she was on fire as he reached down and clutched the back of her head.

He was still stroking himself, and now that he had pulled her a little closer, she was forced to pay keen attention to the way he pulsed in his wide palm. It commanded her attention. If not for the way his large, rigid shaft took up her entire field of vision, then for the way it jumped every time her eyes landed on it. Like it was trying to speak to her.

She wrapped her lips around the tip and listened for the sweet sound of his moan. The way it lifted itself from his chest. Gravelly and honest. And when she returned him to where he belonged—lodged deep in her throat—he held her there.

His gravelly moans grew breathy. Strangled. And unlike last time, there was no warming before the onslaught.

She gagged as he exploded into her mouth, choking a little, but eventually swallowing the lump in her throat. She could feel his cum coating her insides as it went down. It was gooey and warm...kind of sweet, kind of salty—just a hint of coffee...

It tasted like him. And she licked down every last drop.

And finally, when he let her go, she fell back to the ground, joining him as he gasped for breath. They smiled at each other—naughty, lascivious smiles that carried with them the understanding that the night had just begun. That they'd barely gotten started.

He picked her up off the floor and brought his lips to hers in a long and greedy kiss. He gripped her hips and pulled her to him, pressing her close enough that she could feel him on her gut. The way he throbbed for her, still.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently at the roots as their tongues explored each other's mouths. As his hands wandered lower and lower still. As he eased apart her legs, swiping a finger across the wetness dripping down her inner thigh. She sucked in a sharp breath when she felt his finger brush her clit through the lace of her underwear. She ached for him. She was so tender that even the feeling of the cool breeze as he pulled aside her thong was enough to cause her to whimper. To crumble in his arms.

"Abel..."

She whispered his name like a prayer.

He held her gaze as his eyes narrowed inquisitively. She got the feeling that he already knew what she wanted to say, but still, he would wait to hear it from her. Whether for the simple eroticism to be found in one stating plainly what they wanted, or for his own peace of mind, she wasn't sure. Nonetheless, she indulged him.

"Please," she whispered. "Fuck me."

And so, he did.

He fucked her on the kitchen counter, on his red suede sofa, on the bamboo coffee table, on the sofa once more, and then somehow, they finally found their way to the bedroom, a stumbling mess, and he fucked her on his queen size bed.

That night, they broke his headboard.

It had already been creaky beforehand, granted. The old thing had been around much longer than either of them had been alive, so he had known its days were numbered. But still, it came as a shock to them both when, somewhere in the heat of it all, there was a crack, and then a louder crack, and then it fell apart. Shards of antique, aged wood littering the bed around them.

And just like the headboard, they, too, came undone. Over and over and over again. Each unraveling a fracturing of self, leaving fragments of themselves floating in the air around them, fusing together, muddying the lines between one and the other. Each unraveling a coming together—a coming into the other.

That night, they came into each other. They turned each other inside out.

That night, she realized that the danger she had really been afraid of wasn't leaving this city and being separated from him. It was leaving this city and being separated from herself. From all the pieces of herself that had lodged themselves into him and would remain there for as long as she remained here, pious at his feet.