release.
Images of longing - Sebastian’s hands reached out for cobwebs. They were memories; ideas and thoughts of situations and scenarios in the past. He remembers her clearly. Sweet little Sally Marx, the valedictorian of his graduating class. She was his southern beauty, with a crooked front tooth, a light, lofty voice and a laugh that was obnoxious and endearing all at the same time.
He remembers the way she smiled, small wrinkles forming at the corners of her mouth at the grins that were a tad bit too big. The twinkling in her eyes that stared back at him as he told her about his day; her scent of pomegranate, dotted with watermelon from the abundance of fragranced beauty products she’d douse her body in.
Sebastian remembers the first time he had seen her come undone, nails digging into his shoulders as he took her innocence in the front seat of his Chevy. Her voice, high pitched and needy in his ear, her lips that tasted like her watermelon lip-gloss she carried around - it was all something he kept treasured in the back of his mind. It’s his favorite memory, the coming together and joining of their bodies in a consummation of love - only to be torn apart by the perky little redhead from police academy.
But this was different - it wasn’t his first time with the woman he married, nor was it the quickie with the intern plastered on his desk. This scenario is all the same, yet unlike. Instead of silky blonde hair, or sweat slickened red, it’s tousled dark hair; the sounds coming from her innocent, yet erotic and holding appeal that is only described as Harlow. Sprawled on a mattress, clean or dirty be damned - staring up at him with swollen, parted lips, the saliva from their messy kiss creating a seductive sheen across the plump edges.
As he moves above her, every angle and penetration hitting deeper inside of her, the body hitches upward on the bed - wanton sounds of pleasure leaving her mouth; her fingers are entangled in the bed sheets, using it for leverage as she wiggles her hips around. “Sebastian…”
Her uniform top is disheveled; the buttons ripped off and on the floorboards from Sebastian’s aggression. Her bra is seen through the open top, red lace prominent against milky skin. Her skirt is bunched and hiked up to her abdomen, barely covering her lower half. The fabric jostles and shifts against her revealed skin at each collision of Sebastian’s hips against her own. Each thrust has whines coming from her mouth, hands leaving the bed sheets to drag sharpened nails across the expanse of his biceps. Harlow takes her time to trace the engorged muscles, sighing softly at the feeling, before her fingertips are grazing up to his shoulders and neck, only to twist into his hair. She tugs, spreading her thighs further. Sebastian shuffles closer, grunting as his fingers dig into thin hips, leaving bruises on her flesh. He’s only focused on the desire, to have and enclose Harlow in himself - he cares not at her hands tugging the strands from his scalp, nor does he care about the people outside of the small haven they have created for themselves.
It’s Sebastian and Harlow, together - joined, as he has longed since his return to Crescent Haven.
He feels her body move upward, his teeth grinding together as he angles a sharp thrust at the panting that escapes from her; his body is on overdrive, not helping the needy noise that escapes from him at the feeling of her lips mouthing along the column of his neck, up until she tugs his head harshly to the side, breathing heavily into his ear.
“I love how you feel inside me.” The words are airy, high pitched as she moans into his ear, swiveling her body and bucking her hips at the sharp push inside of her. His eyes roll into the back of his head at the words, his fingers tightening on her hips - a surge of pride fueling him at her sharp intake of breath. He presses all the way inside, rotates his hips. It’s overwhelming. He’s so tightly compacted, it’s hard to continue on - but god, he can’t help himself to stop, taking another plunge inside of her waiting body.
She laughs softly, her arms coming to wrap around his chest, pulling him closer to her, pushing his head into the crook of her neck. He bites at the flesh, marking it as his own as he feels himself coming closer and closer to utopia - just a bit longer now.
“Do I feel better than her, Sebastian?” The tone is soft, light - gentle almost, but it’s Harlow. There is taunt and mocking in her words because there is nothing nice about the brazen devil he’s so enthralled with. “I bet I do - so young and ripe…” Her nails dig into the skin of his back, dragging down the tan surface. White lines of abuse follow in the wake. “So much better than your dead wife could do, isn’t that right?” Her laughter is cruel against his ear, and for a moment - he thinks of Sally, blue faced and hanging - blood vessels popped in her eyes as she dangles from the ceiling fan. It’s such a dark and disgusting image - it should make him repulsed, he’s too far gone, and the image only has his shouting as he feels the tightening of her cunt around his length, and he’s done for.
It takes a moment of release, his body trembling and shuddering from the harsh orgasm, a moaning mess against Harlow’s heaving body. It sets in now, the consequences of what’s he done, his throat choking up as his eyes sting. And as he cries into the soft flesh of the corrupted vixen underneath him, he finds comfort in her soft laughter and fingers dragging through his sweat drenched hair.