His own pace is just as erratic - one moment fumbling with the angle of the counter and the next driving into her: sharp and low and desperate, punctuated by the scrabble of his fingers, short nails, against her bare knee and thigh. Charlie pants against the corner of her mouth, leans heavily into the palm of her hand against his chest.

It's not really good, except for how it is. She tastes good and feels good and the hot marks of her fingernails on his neck sting in a way that feels right, but the sex itself is sloppy and scrambling and it's honestly not long before he's making low, hard noises - fingers finding the front of her shirt and tangling and pulling and-- and he comes hot inside her. Hips catching. Jerking.