Minutes bled into hours, the passage of time marked only by the sweat slicking their bodies and the increasingly frenzied rhythm of their collision. The room smelled of musk, salt, and the undeniable evidence of their prolonged exertion.
The initial desperation had evolved into something more primal, a relentless, grinding marathon of sensation.
Iris was no longer the composed assassin; she was a creature of pure instinct. Straddling Rex, her knees dug into the mattress on either side of his hips, she rode him with a ferocious intensity.
Her head was thrown back, black hair plastered to her forehead as she moved in desperate, circular motions, seeking friction against the massive length that filled her to the point of aching.
Each downward thrust sent a shockwave through her spine, and each upward slide felt like it was peeling away another layer of her sanity.
"Fuck... fuck, yes!" Rex roared from beneath her.
