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There's not too much to think about, after all.
It's more about the sensation. Rough hands closing around your waist, fingers dug in just deep enough to sting, and the dull burn of carpet on knees and forearms. There's still a world outside, but it doesn't much feel like it, not when there are fingers in your hair, tugging back by the roots, and when your legs are pulled apart with all the delicacy of a hammer.
It's about the heat - my chest against your back, the way my breath comes in unhurried slides across the back of your neck, tickling your ear in a way that might be romantic if it weren't for the heat still tingling across your ass from a casual slap.
The heat inside you comes without warning or preamble, of course - shoving, swollen, rutting and bare, satisfied grunts and a wordless, grinding rasp from deep in my chest like a pornographic chorus.
There's motion, and might, and not too much more thought on my part, really. Fingers casually pushing between your lips, tangling with your tongue; tugging and hauling and squeezing in equal measure as I chase down whatever makes you clench deliciously.
There's no art in the pursuit of it. Just a relentless, driving, need, always in you, eyes hungry when you catch a flash of them as the world shakes around you.
There's an end in sight.
Maybe.
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