1. “Howlin’ For You” by the Black Keys
The white door bursts open, hinges tested, wood almost splintered. The only thing more violent than the door opening is it being kicked, slammed, battered shut behind them. And it’s lucky they remembered to get it shut at all as the hurricane of arms and legs swirls into the room.
The two bodies are both attached, lips, hips, hands, till they land up against the exposed brick of the place. Her head crashes into brick, her back cold against the stone, her front on fire against him. She lets him devour her lips for a moment before pushing against his body. Together they’re able to yank off his shirt, her shirt, fabric flying before he crashes up against the other wall, the opposite side. For just the slightest breath they smile, laugh, at the sting of the crash, then return to feverish kisses. The bites and kisses and scrapes and licks.
They’ve been too still for that heartbeat. Only lips moving against each other, hands clawing at each other. It’s his turn to push against her, get her somewhere, anywhere, horizontal. Her feet bobble just before crashing against the wall again in their frantic pingpong forward. This time the brick actually does scrape, the sting mingled with hot, cold, wet, tingling skin. The pain just lights her eyes on fire.
Have their lips even left each other? Skin or hips or hands? Judging by the swollen, red, angry, delighted skin, No. Judging by the hard, horney, dripping wet and desperate, hell no.
He’s got her behind the knees, yanking those legs up to wrap around his hips, leaning her back to scratch and scrape against the exposed brick one last time. She growls a truly animalistic sound, sharpening her claws into his broad back. He’s got her for a moment, a breath. Then the tangle, tumble, the hurricane takes back over just to move them forward. In just a little further.
Out of nowhere the couch is there, biting at his legs, at her hips and all too quickly she’s barreling back over the furniture, landing with a thud, a poof, a groan, a growl. She arches away from the soft gray, up into the hard flesh. He pushes down away from the cool air and into the hot flesh. The horizontal hurricane, even more feverish now that it’s made landfall, leaving scratches, scrapes and sweet, sweet sex wherever it’s gone.
2. “Trainwreck 1979″ but Death From Above 1979
The song comes on the radio at the same time his fingers start to move up her thigh. She shifts against the leather, the purr of the engine suddenly reaching in and vibrating her bones. The pad of his finger suddenly reaching up into her arousal.
For fuck’s sake get this car home.
Her hand returns the favor without ever giving it conscious thought, moving to his hard dick and stroking. It swells beneath her hand. Desire always swells beneath her touch.
I have to have her NOW.
Across the console, across the stick shift, across a seemingly widening gap, they paw at each other. Hoping beyond hope that the car won’t careen into oncoming traffic.
Somehow the drive got longer. Pavement rolling in front of the headlights for minutes, meters, hours, miles, years. At least that’s how it feels while they tremble with anticipation, fingers still stroking, hands still rubbing.
The second they pull into the driveway he slams the car into park, lurching to an idle. Who can be bothered to turn the damned thing off.
They’re both scrambling out of the car, hoping beyond hope that they will careen right into each other. A whole new type of wreck, a crash of bodies, of lust and want and need and desperation that seeps from thighs to fingers to lips and then up and over the hood of the car. Because that’s where they crash. Where fireworks ignite and honey pours languidly across limbs all at once, that spot where they meet at the hood of the car.
She’s bent over immediately. He’s draped over even faster. Who has time for fabric when you can make time for plunging, thrusting satisfaction instead. The car still vibrates bones, boners.
Her back to his front, she wiggles up into him. His front to her back, he shoves up into her. And there, humming, buzzing with the engine, the engine of lust, the engine of eroticism, the engine of a Porsche, he hammers, she builds.
All too fast its over. The humming of the engine echoing the hum inside her bones, his fingertips. There’s no key to this ignition, no way to turn this purr off but then again, who would want to?
3. “Eez-Eh” by Kasabian
Their eyes met across the club, both sets glowing with a golden hunger. He doesn’t know her name. She only knows his begins with K because she caught his urgent signature on the bottom of the bar receipt. When his fingers shoved into her hair and and his thick fucking cock shoved between her thighs she stopped trying to figure it out.
No one waiting in the bathroom line seems to care that they are groping, fondling, clawing at each other. First she’s against the blood red wall, feeling the bass thump against her ass, then he is, as the inch toward the locked door. Someone is taking for damn near ever in there. It gives them time to ravage right over top of all things neon, all things fabric, all things decent. It gives them time to anticipate.
Finally, mercifully, thankfully, urgently they plow through the small door, careening into whoever was doing lines on the sink a minute ago. Feet shuffle through discarded paper towels, creating a tornado of sorts. It’s one mess of limbs ramming into whatever wall space they can find. The sink ledge comes in handy, a shelf for her plump ass.
And as soon as she’s propped up, he can properly fuck her. Thong shoved to the side beneath short skirt. Dick pulled out from undone zipper. There against the blow dusted porcelain, the bass thumping porcelain, the cold and wet and slick porcelain, he thrusts in. No one can hear the moans, the screams, the growls of pleasure, the bass replacing every sound, every heartbeat, in the club, the bathroom, their bodies.
Her head jostles the cheap mirror. His hips hit the sink. She arches up to meet him. He sags down to feel her. For a moment he wonders what’s under her shirt. She probably returned the favor. But there is that bass again, thumping through them, just as thoroughly as he’s thumping into her.
The music crescendos. The bass rattling everything in the room now. Mirror, bones, sink, tits, paper, pussy, blood red walls and big, hard dick. Climax is the only place to go. For the music and sex. And climax it does. Climax they do. Hot, sweaty, sticky, satiated. They’re both left panting as the bass plays out.
4. “Starstruck” by Santigold
He’d consume her if he could. All of her. Lips, hips, vagina. Sweet ass too. Heart, soul even.
His hands are on either side of her face, arms flexing as he pushes her up against the wall. She gasps into his open, desperate, waiting mouth. Hands, feet, hips, chests brushing, pressing, mingling.
Whether she lifted her knee or he grabbed to hitch it up they don’t know, or care or even think about, but there she is, a wet, aching, open pussy for him to press into. She gaspes again when his thick, pulsing cock does just that.
He tightens his grip on her, neither remembering, realizing, caring when he shifted to neck and knee. All they can feel is the heat drawing them closer, the heat radiating from the apex of their thighs. From the apex of their beings.
Closer. Harder. Slower. Deeper.
Gasp. Moan. Whimper. Breath that just won’t catch.
She’s soaking wet. He can feel her arousal drip down his hard cock every time he pushes into her. She’s so turned on by him, so enthralled by him. By his handling of her. Rough, racy, and really really sweet. She knows damn well he’d tear her in two to get deeper into her sex. Into her soul.
He turns her, hands flying to the wall to brace herself. One of his hands crosses her body, down to her breast. He squeezes between his fingertips, she rolls her head back onto his shoulder. That’s when she realizes where his other hand has gone. Down, low, lower than before and choking the head of his perfect dick, right against her perfectly puckered backside.
“Yes,” it’s a breathy plea.
Slow. Gentle. Firm. Slow.
Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. Groan.
He pushes her up against the wall and her skin touches the cool paint, putting on a show of nipples raising, hard, skin goosebumping everywhere, shivers shockwaving down her spine. Or maybe she shakes because he’s settled inside of her. Completely.
Now his hands can leave her body. They can weave in between her fingers up against the wall and they can both brace , grip, claw. Nothing, not even the barely there city lights can shine between their skin. Nothing, not even his hitched breathing can trickle down across her skin. And as he thrusts, in time with the beat, any line between them is gone.
His lips come to her ear, to whisper sweet things, dirty things as her body gets closer to the wall, to the cool brick beneath her. They become a single rolling body. This mass would press hard against the paint if it could. If it could keep rolling, thrusting, fucking flat against the paint.
5. “Gooey” by Glass Animals
There’s is the perfect outline of a female form up against the windows. Is she standing naked or in something that perfectly hugs her curvy form. In the dim light it’s too hard to tell. Too unimportant too. Because she’s beautiful either way. Perfect either way.
As quietly as possible his briefcase, shoes, socks, suit hit the floor and like a moth to a flame he draws towards her. Does she pull? Does her pussy pull? Is he helpless against her? Against his own erotic desires?
Who gives a damn?
Watching her breathing, watching her fog the glass, watching her skin flush. He snakes towards her and her softly sagging shoulders, her rosy skin, her foggy, breathy circles. His breathing hitches, his heartbeat races and his collar constricts. Is she the moth or the flame? Would he mind either way?
She is naked. Pale skin goosebumped and waiting. Rosy flush waiting. His cock is even harder, waiting. Waiting to kiss, caress, trace, tease. Lips start skating against skin. His. Hers. Fingertips skating in opposite and similar directions. His. Hers. To the left and right, into hair and against skin.
Slowly, trembling, she works at every button of his shirt. Slowly, trembling, he lets her fumble with every button of his shirt.
She gasps when he presses her against the glass. He gasps at the wetness between her thighs. Lips start skating against skin. His. Hers. Fingertips skating in opposite and similar directions. His. Hers. To the left and right, into hair and against skin.
It’s one of those times when the moments all seap together, swirling, like chocolate and caramel and melting ice cream or a montage or a montage of all the honey, gooey things that could swirl together. This melting every bit as sweet a treat too. Bodies melding, lines blurring, everything just as sticky. Everything just as swirled. It’s not him or her, his or hers, she or him any more.
It’s movement. Rolling, undulating, hypnotic rhythm. A dance up against the dark city scape. Lips skating against skin. Fingertips clawing in. Aching, pulsing, desperate penis, pussy, tits and ass begging to be next, begging to be all.
It all feels good. It all feels fan-fucking-tastic but what he likes most is her heartbeat. What she likes most is his ragged breathing. The reflection of everything that is inside. The reflection of each other. The rhythm only they can pulse together.