He could never write anything like this. Even Heat Wave and the infamous "Page 105" (which he'd spent quite a bit of time sketching out in his head before he committed anything to paper) can't touch what it's like to feel her squeeze around him and let go. Beckett on fire and wanting is a spiritual experience. It's never been like this before.

His name dragged over her tongue is what does him in; he buries his face at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, lips against her skin, a rough groan wrenched out of the bottom of his chest as he gives one final push before everything he knows shatters and there's only him, his pounding pulse, and Beckett beneath him.