Chapter 178: Chapter 178- Nara getting Banged

The shelter entrance: empty. Through the weave of the palm frond wall, the fire’s reduced glow. Beyond it: the dark.

She turned onto her back.

Looked at the roof.

Preet, three feet away, was on her side.

Her face toward the wall. Her breathing — Celia assessed it. The specific, too-controlled quality of breathing that belonged to someone who was managing their breathing rather than simply breathing.

Awake.

They both lay still.

Then from outside, around the boulder — the large, flat rock he’d been using as a work surface all day, the one that sat between the shelter and the treeline — a sound.

Soft.

The specific, low sound of a woman making a noise she was trying not to make.

Celia’s eyes were open.

Preet did not move.

Then: a second sound. Raven’s voice, low and even and unintelligible from inside the shelter, carrying the specific register of someone giving an instruction.

Nara’s voice, in response. Quieter. The words not carrying. But the quality of the voice — the specific, breathless quality — carrying fine.

Celia sat up.

Not all the way. Onto her elbows. Her body moving before she’d made a clear decision about whether to move it.

Preet’s shoulder was shaking.

Celia looked at her. Then at the shelter entrance.

She moved.

Low. Not standing. The specific, crouching movement of someone navigating toward a thing they haven’t fully decided to navigate toward. Through the entrance. Around the side of the shelter. To the edge of the boulder.

She looked around it.

The moonlight.

There was enough of it — the specific, flat silver of a clear tropical night, the moon three-quarters full and unobstructed, the kind of light that didn’t illuminate colors but made shapes exact.

His shape.

Her shape.

Nara was on her hands and knees in the grass behind the boulder. Her face angled toward the ground, her hair falling forward, one hand pressed flat into the earth. Her back arched in the specific, involuntary geometry of a spine that is responding to something happening behind it.

He was behind her.

Standing. One hand on her hip, the other at the small of her back, his underwear down, his cock in the specific, deep-buried position of someone who has stopped moving temporarily.

Nara’s underwear was — not down. Pushed to the side. The fabric gathered at the hip, the cotton pulled taut against the separation, the strip of it cutting into the soft skin of her inner thigh.

The strip of fabric pressing against where he entered her.

Through it. Around it.

Celia’s mouth was open.

She was not making a sound.

“’I need to pee,’” Nara said. The specific, small voice of someone managing three competing physiological demands simultaneously. “’I woke up to — can you just — please—’”

“’You want to pee,’” he said.

“’Yes,’” she said. “’Please stop for a—’”

“’Go ahead.’”

A silence.

“’What.’”

“’Go,’” he said.

“’I’m not going to — you’re inside me, I can’t just—’”

His hips moved.

PAH.

“’HNGH~—’” The sound from her was immediate, swallowed fast, her face dropping toward the grass. “’Wait — wait — I said—’”

PAH. PAH.

“’Raven — STOP — I’m going to — if you keep doing that I’ll—’”

He lifted her.

One motion. His arm around her waist, pulling her upright, her back against his chest, her feet leaving the ground. Her weight settled onto him — onto where he was inside her, the gravity of the new position pushing her down onto his cock with the full, unguided weight of her body.

“’HNNN~—’”

Her head went back against his shoulder. Both her hands found his arm around her waist and gripped it with the white-knuckled intent of something load-bearing.

He walked.

Three steps toward the nearest bush. Her legs dangling. Her weight on his cock with each step. The specific, bouncing impact of each footfall communicating upward.

“’You’re going to — I’m going to—’”

“’Then pee,’” he said.

“’I can’t while you’re—’”

PAH.

The thrust in the standing position. Deep. Immediate.

“’HMFGH~♡—’”

Celia’s hand found the rock.

She was watching.

She knew she was watching. She had no plan to stop watching. The specific, terrible lucidity of someone who has identified exactly what they’re doing and is continuing to do it.

Preet was beside her.

She didn’t know when Preet had arrived. But she was there — her shoulder two inches from Celia’s, her breathing the specific, controlled breathing of someone doing their absolute best. In the moonlight, her face was — Celia glanced at it. The expression on Preet’s face was the expression of someone whose body had received information and had acted on it ahead of any authorization.

They both looked back at the boulder.

“’Raven,’” Nara said. The word barely word-shaped anymore. “’I’m going to — I can’t hold—’”

“’Don’t,’” he said.

PAH.

Her thighs — the moonlight showing the specific, visible trembling in them, the quadriceps shaking with the combination of suspension and what was happening inside her.

PAH. PAH.

“’HNGH~♡♡—’”

Then:

The sound of it.

The specific, hot sound of release — liquid, immediate, the specific rush of something that had been held and was no longer held, streaming down from where their bodies met, running along his thighs in the warm, undeniable evidence of a body that had been overwhelmed into complete function failure.

Nara made a sound that was not a word.

He made a sound that was — low. Appreciative. The specific, quiet register of someone receiving exactly the information they’d asked for.

“’Don’t—’” Her voice was the voice of someone who had stopped managing anything. “’Don’t — don’t say anything—’”

“’Your pussy,’” he said, with the specific, calm observation of a scientist, “’got warmer.’”

“’DON’T—’”

PAH! PAH!

“’HNMGH~♡♡—AHN~♡—’”

His hand found her breast through the thin fabric of her bra cup. Gripped. The flesh of it compressing between his fingers, the cup pressing in, the nipple finding the gap at the edge of the fabric and emerging from it like something that had been looking for air.

PAH!

“’HNN~♡—’”

Her boobs swung with each thrust, the cup now almost fully displaced, the full weight of them in the open air of the tropical night, the moonlight on them. The specific, pendulum motion of a woman being fucked standing, the flesh of her chest finding the physics of it and moving accordingly.

“’I’m—’” Her voice. Breaking. “’I’m going to—’”

PAH! PAH! PAH!

“’AAHNGH~♡♡—NNH~♡—wait — wait — I’m COMING—’”

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