TGS Chapter 72.1 Texas in January (R-18) (Patreon)

A/N: This chapter adds nothing to the story; if you don't like this type of content, please refrain from reading it.

The hotel room door slammed shut before Wyatt could even turn the key, pushed by Blaire’s body pressing against his with an urgency that admitted no delay. They didn't turn on the lights. The January Texas afternoon filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting amber stripes across the carpet and over their already disheveled clothes.

"Wait," Wyatt murmured against her mouth.

"No," she replied, pushing him against the entryway wall with her hands on his chest, her lips searching for his frantically.

The urgency between them possessed a physical weight—a density that filled the room and suffocated any attempt at patience. It came from hours spent walking together, from glances that held a second too long, from casual touches that were anything but casual. The Natural Science Museum had been an exercise in restraint, of keeping hands at a respectable distance while desire accumulated in silence. Now, there was no need to hold back. Now, only this existed: their blended breath, teeth clashing, their bodies recognizing each other with the familiarity of those who have done this before, yet never cease to be amazed.

Wyatt slid his hands down her back, finding the curve of her hips and pulling her against his erection. Blaire arched her back, letting out a sound that was neither word nor moan, but something in between—an acknowledgment of what she felt pressed against her belly. They kissed with the desperation of people who knew time was finite, that every second counted, and that tomorrow one of them would be on a plane heading to Boston or Clemson.

"The bed," Blaire managed to say as Wyatt trailed down her neck, leaving damp marks that cooled upon contact with the air.

Wyatt lifted her in his arms without answering, a movement that pulled a small gasp of surprise from her, which she quickly cut off by biting her lip. Her legs wrapped around his waist with the confidence of practice, with the certainty of knowing exactly how to fit. Wyatt felt her weight against his chest, the heat radiating through her clothes, the rapid thud of her heart against his jaw where her neck rested.

"I’ve got you," he murmured against her skin.

"You always say that," she panted.

"It’s always true."

He took firm steps toward the bed, letting her fall onto the comforter with a softness that contradicted their urgency. Blaire bounced slightly, looking up at him with her dark hair fan-spread across the pillow, her dilated eyes drinking in the golden light streaming through the window. For a moment, neither moved; they simply observed each other with the intensity of those who knew exactly what came next, yet still savored the anticipation.

Then Blaire sat up. She moved with an agility that defied the relaxed posture he had left her in, and before Wyatt could react, she was already on top of him. She flipped their positions in one fluid motion, leaving Wyatt on his back with Blaire straddling his thighs.

"My turn," she announced, and Wyatt didn't argue.

She leaned over him, running her hands across his torso with a slowness seemingly designed to torture. Her palms trailed over his chest, slid down his abs, and paused at his waist where his skin twitched under her touch. Wyatt held his breath, feeling her fingers toy with the waistband of his pants, brushing the belt buckle without unfastening it, building an expectation that pooled at the base of his spine.

"You're getting revenge," Wyatt said, his voice lower and rasper than usual.

"I'm taking my time," she corrected.

Blaire sat up and pulled her blouse off in one swift motion, exposing her torso to the air conditioning and Wyatt's gaze. The bra she wore was black, simple, functional—yet on her, it looked like something explicitly designed to destroy sanity. The garment dropped to the floor beside the bed, forgotten, while Wyatt memorized the curve of her ribs, the shadow of her collarbones, and the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

"Fuck," Wyatt muttered.

"Like what you see?" she asked, the question requiring no answer.

She slid backward, moving down his thighs until her knees hit the edge of the mattress. Wyatt realized her intention a second too late to protest, just as her hands were unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper with swift efficiency. She stripped away his pants and boxers in a single motion, leaving his erection exposed to the cool room air and Blaire's gaze. She paused for a fraction of a second before leaning in.

"Blaire..."

"Shh."

Her mouth engulfed him before he could finish the sentence. The wet heat, the pressure of her tongue, and the rhythmic movement of her head created a symphony of sensation that drew an uncontained moan from Wyatt. He arched instinctively, his hips seeking more contact, more depth, more of everything she was offering.

He ran his hands through her hair, tangling his fingers in the strands, feeling the gentle tug as she moved beneath his touch. Blaire took every inch with a dedication that made his muscles lock and his breathing grow erratic. She backed off to the tip, then slid back down, establishing a rhythm Wyatt felt through his entire body—a vibration coiling in his gut, threatening to spill over.

"I'm going to..." he tried to warn, feeling the tension building too fast.

She stopped. She pulled back with deliberate slowness that made Wyatt groan in frustration, looking up at him with slick lips and bright eyes. There was something in her expression—satisfaction mixed with her own desire—that said she knew exactly how close she had brought him, enjoying her temporary control.

"Not yet," she said, her voice raspy and strained.

"Cruel."

"Efficient."

Blaire moved to climb back up, but Wyatt stopped her. He had had enough of being passive. He rolled her onto her back in one fluid motion, watching her eyes widen in surprise and then darken as he settled between her legs. He looked down at her, taking a second to appreciate the view: lying on the bed, disheveled, cheeks flushed, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

He removed her pants with efficient movements, stripping away her underwear as well. He left her completely bare before him, the contrast between the pale skin of her torso and the tan of her arms and legs creating an image Wyatt burned into his memory. Her legs parted slightly—an invitation that needed no words.

"Wyatt, please," she whispered.

That was all it took. He positioned himself between her thighs and entered her in one deep thrust that drew a loud moan from Blaire, echoing through the room. They stayed still for a moment, connected, feeling each other's pulse, shared warmth, and the absolute intimacy of being joined together as one.

Then Wyatt began to move. He thrust with power, setting a steady rhythm that made the bed shift slightly against the wall. Blaire met him by lifting her hips, her nails digging into his back, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. The sounds of their encounter filled the space: the rustle of the sheets, the dull thud of their bodies meeting, ragged breathing, and the moans escaping Blaire’s throat every time he found the right angle.

"There," she gasped. "Right there. Don't stop."

"I'm not stopping."

But Wyatt wanted more. He wanted to see her from another angle, to feel her differently. He paused, ignoring her muffled protest, and turned her onto her side. He settled behind her, lifting her top leg over his hip to open her up further.

The new angle was perfect. He slid into her from behind, feeling how she opened for him in a different, deeper way. Finding his groove, he began thrusting again, one hand planted on her hip to anchor her while the other reached up to play with her breasts. Her nipples were erect, sensitive, and Wyatt pinched and teased them gently, varying the pressure from soft to firm based on her reactions and the breathy moans slipping past her lips.

"I'm close," Blaire gasped, her voice sounding desperate, broken. "Wyatt, I'm so close..."

He picked up the pace, feeling his own limit approaching, the pressure coiling tight along his spine. His hand left her breast to slide down her abdomen, finding the exact spot where their bodies joined, circling her with precise strokes.

"Now," he whispered against her ear. "Come with me."

She came with a cry that Wyatt felt vibrate straight against his chest. The rippling contractions of her orgasm squeezed him in tight, rhythmic spasms that nearly sent him over the edge. Wyatt fought his own release with everything he had, continuing to drive through her climax, feeling every pulse until she began to come down, breathless and trembling.

And then, and only then, did he let his own pleasure take over.

He finished deep inside her with a low, guttural groan, his thrusts turning erratic as he spent himself with an intensity that left him shaking. They lay like that for long moments, Wyatt still inside her, both panting against the pillow as sweat cooled on their skin and the afternoon light shifted to a deeper, richer amber—inching closer to sunset.

"Fuck," Blaire murmured finally, her voice sounding distant and thoroughly satisfied.

Wyatt let out a husky laugh and pulled her tighter against his chest, burying his face in her neck. They stayed there, wrapped in tangled sheets, their breathing gradually slowing to a steady rhythm, existing together in a private space only the two of them could inhabit.