Laura isn't as spent as she may look and though her body relaxes as if she's done and there's nothing left in her as far as energy goes, she is far from done. When he shifts them again, she buries her face into the mound of the blankets that she had pulled into disarray when she landed on the bed. Her hands slide up over her head and grip the fabric as if they were some kind of lifeline.

A wail breaks the silence of the room when he slams into her, and Laura feels as if she's about to be ripped in half with how deep he goes right away. Most women draw the line well before now, but she was a moan away from begging for more.

"Fuck you," she provokes, wanting him to do more. Her attempts at reaching back and sinking nails into some patch of his skin fail miserably, so she uses her voice instead. Another loud moan. "Fuck. You."

She wanted to feel everything in the morning; the bruises and bites and the pounding he was giving to her without any protest from her.