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Release (All Your Breath Deep in My Lungs)

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This has to be the third time, at least. Or the fourth. The fifth? Or maybe you’re losing count because you’re not getting enough sleep. And why is that? Because of the jerk sleeping in the bed across from you.

He’s the reason you wake up in the middle of the night with an ache between your legs. A throbbing you can’t control, desperate for touch, and a mind full of so many dirty thoughts it makes you dizzy. All because he can’t keep his thoughts to himself.

And sure, you’re not prying . You aren’t. Prying would be bad. Prying would be against your self-imposed rules. Besides, it’s not like you could anyway. He’s the only person whose thoughts you can’t see clearly, like a TV with fuzzy channels. Though you can feel them. Boy , can you feel them.

It’s not even your fault. He’s projecting. Without even realizing it.

You almost decide to wake him up, snap him out of his lust-ridden dream so you can get some sleep, but for whatever reason, you don’t.

Instead, you choose to ignore it all and pray that morning gets here quick.


 

The next day is brutal. You wake up groggy and out of it, snapping at him and everyone you encounter. When he asks what’s wrong, you stop to give him a dark look before you head to the hotel’s bar, ready to drink ‘til you can’t see straight.

Of course the day just has to get worse. You try, like usual, to hook up with someone so you don’t have to go to bed and face the crushing loneliness, but tonight, you can’t shut your powers off. Everyone’s thoughts come blasting through your mind like stereo speakers.

You listen and sift through each one, hoping to find that one interesting person, someone to break the cacophony, but to your dismay, they all sound the same. You know what you really want, who you really want to hear, but he’s chosen to give you your space. Maybe it’s for the best.


 

It happens again. His thoughts curl around you like a smoky plume of heat. The throbbing between your legs starts up again, impatient and desperate and you can’t take it anymore!  

You get out of bed and switch on the lamp on the nightstand. Reaching out to nudge him, you can’t help but be a little rough seeing as you’re literally going insane from sleep deprivation and it is all. His. Fault.

He blinks awake but there’s a steel grip around your wrist. A habit of his training and his time in the military. “Henry,” you mutter. “It’s me, Y/N. You can let go.”

It takes him a second but soon he’s releasing his grasp and you’re left feeling the burn from where his fingers touched your skin. He’s staring at you, waiting for an explanation as to why you’ve woken him up at this unforgiving hour.

“You were having a dream,” you say, staring at the floor, hoping he doesn’t ask for clarification.

“Hmm.” He nods, understanding. “About you,” he finishes, moving to sit up in the bed.

You blink, mouth agape, staring at him in shock. You didn’t expect him to be so bold about it. “Well, uh, yes.”

His azure eyes flash with mischief as they stare into yours, challenging you. “I thought you weren’t going to listen in on my thoughts.” He doesn’t look mad or bothered, instead, if you aren’t imagining it, he looks smug.

You chew your bottom lip, trying to piece the words together. “I wasn’t, but they were so loud. I couldn’t ignore them.”

“Did they keep you up?”

You nod.

“I apologize,” he says, lips curved into a crooked smile. Then, “I’m crossing a boundary, aren’t I?”

You shrug. “You’re the one who created these stupid boundaries in the first place.” Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you say, “I can’t exactly fault you for dreaming. It doesn’t count.”

“But you’re angry with me? Why?”

“Because it’s not like you’re going to do anything about it!” It slips out; the truth you couldn’t even admit to yourself. “It’s not fair. Why tease me with promises of things you would never dare do?”

It’s his turn to be shocked. His eyes widen as the words that have left your mouth weigh heavily in the atmosphere. You’d revel in this moment of victory of catching him off guard if you weren’t busy being so embarrassed.

“There are a lot of reasons why I-- we can’t,” he whispers, looking away. “That, however, in no way, means I don’t want to.”

“Is this because of my father?” you ask, taking a seat on your bed.

“I promised him I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Now that we’re in the middle of some hick town, on the run, hiding from the government, that still doesn’t change anything. I would never take advantage of you like that.” His expression is grave.

You rake an irritated hand through your hair. “Then, I guess you’ll say we’ve arrived at an impasse.”

He nods. “Maybe we just need some more distance between us,” he suggests, silently pleading with you to understand.

“Great idea,” you say with more bite than intended. Turning off the light and wrapping yourself up in your covers you tell him goodnight and once again begin your ritual of ignoring him.

You still end up not getting any sleep.


 

The next night, instead of waiting like a sitting duck for him to reject you again and leave you hot and bothered you decide to do something about your unwanted chastity. Despite his warnings not to cause attention to yourself, you leave for the nightclub a couple of blocks away from the hotel, wearing nothing but a tight black lace dress and your hot pink pumps.

You take a quick drink from the bartender before heading to the dancefloor to grind on the first boy who gives you an invitation.

You’re losing yourself to the music and the night, ignoring the fact that this boy’s hands aren’t the ones you want on your body, when you open your eyes and glimpse Agent Masters questioning the bartender.

He isn’t alone; there are others and you know they’re not here to party. Immediately, you detach yourself from the boy and sneak your way across the dancefloor to the back of the club. Your plan is to escape from the bathroom window and you’re close, you can see the illuminated symbol of the lady’s room in your line of sight, but a strong hand clasps over your mouth and pulls you into a dark corner of the club. Away from any witnesses.

You’re about to scream or full on attack the person when Henry’s voice rumbles close to your ear. “Shh, Y/N, it’s me. Don’t make a sound.”

Your body relaxes with relief. It was so incredibly stupid of you to go out alone, but thank goodness he’s here.

“I’m going to get us out of here. Alive, preferably,” he chuckles and his warm breath heats your skin from beneath the thin lace of your dress. You shiver and close your eyes, trying to focus on not screwing up and getting the both of you killed.

You can hear them, the government agents searching for both of you in the crowded club. One gets close to the corner, but thankfully, doesn’t notice the two of you.

It seems like an eternity, but eventually, Henry removes his hand from your mouth. You take in a huge gulp of breath, but you can sense it, he’s having entirely different thoughts that aren’t helpful to the situation.

You’re pressed flush against him, so close you can feel him move so his arousal isn’t digging hard against your ass. It’s not helping things; the more he moves and fidgets the more the blood feels like its leaving your head to pool between your thighs.

You want to tell him to cut it out, but there are enemies around still and speaking would be a very, very stupid thing to do. So you bite your lip and swallow the words down.

And though this isn’t the right time, the dampness in your panties is becoming more and more noticeable and so is the insistent throbbing. Without realizing what you’re doing, you lean back, pressing him against the wall and trapping his dick with your warm body.

He grunts and his hands grip your hips in an attempt to stop you. If you could hear his thoughts you know he’d probably tell you something like “This isn’t the time or the place.” But you can’t help it, it’s like you’re possessed.

You grind back again, feeling his cock press against the seam of your clothed ass. You want to groan because god does this feel good. He’s hot and hard and it’s driving you crazy. Your breathing speeds up as he suddenly rocks forward, your hips still in his steel grip so you’re the one who’s trapped while he takes control. He bends you slightly while one hand threads through your hair, locking you in place. You can feel it: his triumph. “Is this what you wanted?” is what he communicates to you. “My cooperation?”

A soft whimper falls from your lips and he takes that as permission to continue. With one hand on your waist and the other in your hair he thrusts against you while you, on instinct, arch into it, begging him with your body what your mouth can’t say.

“I’m going to absolutely ruin you,” he promises through the mental connection.

He’s huge, the right size to break you apart from the inside so he can stitch you back together. There’s nothing more you want than to be used by him. To be the one he comes to for pleasure like a wasted whore.

You can feel it coming; you’re nearing the edge of your climax. Whispering his name over and over in your head, you pray to him, to keep going, to never stop, to be yours.

And then you’re a writhing, twitching mess in his arms. Your climax is so strong you feel the moisture dripping down your thighs. It makes you feel so dirty, but so good.

“Satisfied?” he asks, cocky son of a bitch that he is.

You simply shake your head, too tired to keep up the mental connection.  “Never.”