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Matt’s eyes are fixed on some distant point above Karen’s shoulder. He looks ruined, debauched; his hair is mussed and tear tracks have dried on his cheeks. They’ve been at it for a while now, and Matt is sensitive, hyper responsive. She lightly traces one until it reaches his jaw, and instead cups his face with one hand. He shivers slightly, and leans into the gentle touch. His breathing is slightly ragged, and hitches beautifully when she runs a thumb over his kiss-bitten lips. Seeing a man who practically has the weight of the world on his shoulders come undone beneath her is addicting. He looks so beautiful, all acquiescent and shaky like this. So relaxed. There’s none of the tension in his shoulders and none of that ever-present wariness in his expression.
Matt gently kisses her thumb, pressing into her touch, and lets his eyes flutter shut. The contrast between his dark lashes and pale skin is striking. He’s all black and white, stark contrasts and soft angles. Bruises, bite marks, and scratches stand out against his skin like some sort of lewd abstract art piece.
Bringing her other hand up, Karen gingerly brushes her knuckles against the bruises and bites that decorate his neck. He exhales softly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. She wishes he could see just how beautiful he is. She leans in, pressing her chest to his, and tenderly kisses each bruise and bite peppered across his collar bones and neck. He whines softly and rolls his head in her grip when she apologetically licks over a bite that accidentally drew blood. The little sound makes her hum against his skin.
“Feelin’ a little floaty, huh, pretty boy?” Matt blushes visibly and breathes out a chuckle. “I guess so.” His quiet response rumbles in his chest.
Karen smiles and slowly starts kissing up his neck to his jaw line, then slides her free hand into his rumpled hair. Matt pushes up into the touch, savoring the way her fingers gently tug at his mess of dark hair. A shaky exhale turns into a moan when Karen tightens her hold in his hair and pulls upwards, giving her full access to a sinewy neck. She slides the hand on his face down, and wraps it around his throat. Matt bites his lip when she tightens that grip, and the feeling of her fingernails digging into his skin draws a rough whimper from somewhere deep in his chest. The grip is only tight enough to slightly cut off his breath, but it is tight enough to drive Matt wild. He whines out a pleasure-addled “fuck, fuck” and blinks away tears when she tugs sharply on his hair again.
Karen would’ve never guessed Matt to be a bit of a kinky bastard; the whole Catholic thing made her assume he would’ve been against it. And yet, here they are. Here they are, where Karen knows everything that makes him tick. Knows that he loves bruises and markings, loves a bit of pain mixed with the pleasure. Knows that sometimes he needs someone else to take control, needs an escape from everything, needs someone else to decide. Knows that calling him a good boy, calling him pretty makes him flush red. It almost makes Karen feel like she’s corrupted some angel masquerading as the Devil, turned him to sin, and somehow, that’s hot as fuck.
She lets go of Matt’s hair with a final yank, and instead focuses on kissing him. Karen laughs against his mouth when he nips her lower lip, and responds by squeezing his throat a little harder. Matt’s soft whine eggs her on, and she squeezes harder, pressing into the kiss. That soft, breathy whine devolves into a pleasure-filled groan. He trembles, leans into her touch, ever the responsive partner. Karen loves it.
She finally pulls away from the kiss and crowds Matt up against their headboard, pressing his back to the cold wood. She keeps a hand wrapped around his throat, both of them breathing shakily. Matt grins almost dazedly at her, only for his eyes to widen and roll back when she ghosts her finger’s over his cock.
“Please, please.” His plea is half silent, still choked, and cut off by a moan when Karen runs a knuckle down his shaft. He looks so beautiful, flushed red and lids fluttering; with the cross he wears around his neck, he looks like someone fallen from grace.
Matt’s hands grip her shoulders harshly when she starts stroking him fully. His chest heaves when she pulls away from his throat, and he throws his head back with a low keen that Karen can feel more than hear, skull thudding against the headboard. “Oh my god.”
He comes undone with a gasp and choked off scream, his fingers pressing into Karen’s shoulders, hot tears pricking in his eyes. His muscles tense, and then relax, and the sight of such a powerful man unraveling under Karen’s fingertips is heady. Matt lets out a boneless groan as Karen strokes him through it, and melts into her touch when she relaxes into him, presses her face to his neck.
Their breaths are heavy and humid in the room. The gold cross that rests on Matt’s chest rises and falls with his breaths, and Karen runs her finger’s over the warm metal. Bruises adorn his neck and clavicle like jewelry; she caresses those too. They’re both covered in sweat and tears, salt and sweetness. Karen is so in love.