"F-fuuuck," I groan, breathing hard as I collapse on top of you, mindfull not to put my entire weight on you. I lean my forehead against yours, the two of us breathing hard as we come down.

It all started after I got home from a run, training for the marathon in Tokyo, wearing those red short-shorts you like. You'd made some silly joke about me being old (as if you're not only a few years younger) and something about my stamina. I knew what you were doing and I bit. Honestly, I can't even remember what all was said right now, all I know is it lead to us seeing who would tap out first.

Now, we're three? four? rounds in and though we're both absolutely wrecked, neither of us are tapping out yet. You look so fucking beautiful like this, blissed out and glowing, hair fanned out on the pillow like a halo. I can't get enough of you.

"You tapping out?" I ask witha a smirk despite knowing the answer.

"Not a chance," you retort with that look on your face like you know you've got me right where you want me.

You hook a leg over my hip, flipping us over so I'm the one lying on my back. You look like sin above me. Skin flushed and covered in little bruises that I'm sure you'll complain about tomorrow when you have to cover them up. Hair a mess from where I've had my hands. Smirking down at me as you brace your hands on my chest.

The second you feel me ready, you don't waste any time and the room is filled with the sound of the two of us cursing.

"Fuck, angel."

I think this is one challenge I'm not going to win.