They tumbled into the room, she falling into the chair and he nearly breaking it as he followed suit. It had been a long night, made longer by endless conversation with people who didn't matter quite as much as either of them did to the other. And now it was finally over, and they were alone at last.
The cliche rang true. As they fought for dominance with their tongues and their lips pressed hard against each other's, he found no need for words. Instead he kissed her deep, deep enough to draw the air from her lungs and leave her gasping for breath in between kisses. And as she fought for control his hands strayed down her slim neck to push the straps of her dress off her shoulders.
"Wait," she gasped once, but gave in as his fingers dove beneath the chiffon, into the satin of her wisp of a bra, to curl around a nipple. She moaned as he did so, exhaling hard against his lips. He scented, no, tasted, the peppermint on her breath from that last after dinner mint and dove deeper with his tongue. His other hand snaked around her back to undo her bra, and to tug it out of the fabric of her dress. Her breasts, perfect C cups with a spring to them only women in their twenties have, spilled generously against him. They strained against the thin chiffon and his mouth moved at last from her lips, down her neck, spiralling south in a feathery pattern that drove her mad.
"Fuck you," she said, in the same breathless voice. She pushed him violently away so that he rocked back on his heels and struggled out of the low chair only to lunge at him. With his balance askew they hit the ground hard and he grunted, but her lips found his first. As she suckled the hell out of his lower lip, her fingers nimbly undid his belt and returned the favour he had shown her.
It was a cold night, and it had been drizzling, and her thin, skimpy little dress had done little to keep her warm. Her fingers were cold when they wrapped around him, but her grip was firm, and she knew just where to stroke him. Her thumb slipped across the head of his cock in a circular motion - and a warm wetness told him she had draw the first bead of precum.
"Babe," he murmured against her mouth. He ran one hand down the curves of her body, down to the hem of her dress, while the other found the back of her head and pressed her to him. They kissed for what seemed like ages, tongues tangling in mounting desire, until he pushed her off unceremoniously and took off his shirt.
It was her cue to do the same. She spent a brief moment ogling his form - that shirt had left a lot to the imagination - before pulling her dress over her head quickly. Her hair fell haphazardly across her face, obscuring her vision momentarily. She did not see him as he grabbed clumsily for her, for her pale perfect breasts and lush lips, and so was knocked backwards against the bedframe before she could react.
"Fuck you," she said again, raising one hand to where she was sure a bruise would form on the back of her head. But she had no time to inspect it or to complain about the pain. His arms were beneath her armpits, forcibly hauling her upwards onto the bed.
"Where are the-" she tried again, but he was too engrossed in ravaging her naked body, displayed for him like an offering to a god. All that was left of her modesty was a pair of wispy black panties, of the same material as her bra. Her skin was otherwise smooth and clear, and pale like moonlight on the water's surface. It looked as though it would be cold to the touch, but was warmer, much warmer than expected. And he knew just where it would be the warmest.
With his lips latched to a dainty nipple, his questing hand slipped across her soft belly, past the down of her pubes, and into the folds of her cunt. It was wet there, and warm, almost hot. She drew breath as his rough fingers encountered her small clit, then let out a choked moan as he slid them into her wet and waiting self.
