the pause between breathing

She's putty in his arms (this time), her head tilting back against the wall as he marks her neck, as her hand is pinned. Her free arm curls around his shoulders, bracing there with fingers buried in the back of his hair; he'll find her hot and wet and ready for him, and her moan tapers off into a stuttered gasp as he finally buries himself inside her. "Gods, Cal--" she hisses, her legs locking around his waist as if to anchor him closer. It's entirely too much, the way he fills her completely, and her hips roll forward as if to encourage him. It doesn't escape her, of course, the way he's taut like a bowstring, and she's not keen to prolong this first agonising encounter, not when there can be so much more to come. (Pun intended). "More," she whispers, her cheek pressed against him, her fingers flexing in an attempt to free her other hand, playful as it might be. Isla the flesh is weak