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It Reminded Me Twice That I Was Alive

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It's after that he always likes best. 

He knows that's weird. Most guys would favor the during part, he's pretty sure, and some the before, if they're into anticipation and teasing. And he likes those plenty. Like before, when she's stripped bare and straddling his lap and working her mouth over his in slow, messy kisses, running her hands down his chest and flicking her thumbs over his nipples—which are so much more sensitive than he realized until she showed him—and when she arches and rolls her hips into a lazy grind, her cunt so close to where his cock is straining desperately against his fly, and he knows how wet she is, how ready for him, and yet she has the self-control and the wherewithal and any number of other things to let her drive him insane. 

He didn't know it was in him to want someone like this. He didn't know it was in him to want to be in her so badly. 

Not even when they get to that stage; there's more before than that. When she strolls past him on her way to the gardens in the yard in her tightest pair of cutoff shorts and a stringy little tank top, and no bra—because turns out she's shameless like that when she wants to be—and her full hips swaying, the dip of her spine begging for his fingers. Little dimples above her tailbone yearning for his tongue. When she flips her ponytail over her shoulder and casts him her beaming smile. She flirts relentlessly with him, because she can now that the entire prison knows what they're up to. She could saunter right up to him and kiss him as deeply as she does when they're alone, but she doesn't, and he's well aware that it's not for any anxiety or hesitation on her part. It's that flirting with him like this is so much more fun, and she loves when his face and ears burn crimson and he has to look away. 

Move behind something to hide the growing bulge in his pants. 

He didn't even know what horny meant until they started this whole thing. Literally, he didn't know. Didn't know what he was missing. Didn't know he was missing anything. Didn't know he was capable of this. There's the old cliché of I never felt this way about anyone but in his case it's flatly true, and it's so marvelously bewildering. 

Felt like more of a blushing virgin than she ever did. At any rate he's never seen her flushed from embarrassment. 

Not from that. 

So, the before. He likes that. And he likes the during very much. He likes when she's on her back with her strong farm girl legs wrapped around his waist and her arms flung over her head with ectastic abandon as he pounds her, or fucks her nice and slow, each thrust deep. He likes when she's on top and she rides him, her hair and necklace and little tits bouncing along with the rest of her—so in control as he's falling apart, holding onto him when all he can do is grope for her and moan. Even when she comes all over his dick she's holding herself together ten times better than he is, and when she hops off just in time and drags him the rest of the way with her hand or heavenly mouth, in the midst of the climax roaring through him he stares at her in utter awe. 

And what he likes best during, as it turns out, is when she's on her elbows and knees with her ass high in the air and her inner thighs glistening slick, and he can clasp her waist and rut in her like a fucking animal, his teeth bared against the nape of her neck. Another thing he didn't know was in him, being rough with her like that. Being rough with anyone, but especially her, sweet girl who he’s come to cherish. Who blows his mind with how much he cares. But he grasps her and he takes her from behind like a goddamn dog, like a beast, and she tosses her head back and struggles unsuccessfully to muzzle her keening, and he milks himself out over her back and falls onto her, panting, out of his mind and never wanting to get dragged back to sanity.

He likes that. He likes all of it. But after is his favorite. 

Because after, it's quiet. It's still. She's wrapped up in him, snuggled against him, her skin and hair damp with exertion, and the smell of that hair fills his nose—her sweat, the soap she used, and Beth, just Beth, just everything he wants. 

Wants her like this. Sleepy and happy, tired because of what he's given her and how good he’s made her feel. He can't imagine anything better than that, than lying in his bunk or hers with the hush of night in the block all around them. No one is screaming or running. No one is shouting orders or crying out in pain and fear. No one is yelling anger. No one is saying anything. There's only the sound of her breath and the thud of his own heart in his throat and between his ears, the rustle of the sheet when their legs shift and tangle. 

This is his favorite part. It's a fact, and he would even admit it to her, that sometimes he would skip the before and the during just to get to this. Except the only way to reach it is to go through those other parts, and he's more than happy to do so. 

But this. 

She stirs, tenses and murmurs something in her sleep with a worried edge, and he softly shushes her and combs his hand through her hair. Soothes her, until she relaxes again. It's all peaceful, all easy. There's nothing to worry about. She's with him. 

Later, there will be worries aplenty. But this is the after, his very favorite part, and he’ll stay here with her for as long as he can.