Her breasts bounced with every thrust. Her fingers clutched at him — his arms, his shoulders, whatever purchase she could find — not pulling him closer because closer wasn't physically available, just holding on.
He leaned down without breaking his rhythm. He was still moving inside her, still maintaining that insane, relentless pace, and he leaned down through it and crashed his lips into hers.
It was bruising and deep and hungry. Her moan met his in the space between their mouths and both sounds got lost in each other, tangled together, indistinguishable, his breath becoming hers and hers becoming his in the brief, airless world the kiss created.
Her heels pressed into his ass — urging him, pulling him. Her fingers found his chest, feeling the muscles working beneath her palms, feeling the effort of him, the controlled power of every thrust transmitted up through her hands.
