we write out the ends on our palms, then forget to read
Flora is nothing if not determined, and so when Danta moans for her to keep going just like that, she's more than happy to oblige. Her grip on his wrists is firm, a counterbalance that lets her fuck him as hard and fast as she can manage, the burn in her muscles only driving her forward rather than slowing her down. She feeds off of his pleasure, off the way he writhes beneath her, his body flexing as he braces himself against the headboard only to be denied the use of his hands entirely.
But gods, she doesn’t need him to touch himself to know how much he likes this. It’s written all over him, in the way his breath comes fast and ragged, in the way his shoulders tremble ever so slightly under her hands, in the way his moans pour out like honey, rich and thick with need. And gods, the way he watches her—his gaze heavy-lidded in the mirror, drinking her in, his pleasure-stunned expression only making her preen harder, pushing her to roll her hips sharper, faster, just to see how much further she can take him.
She knows she isn’t feeling this the way he is, but it doesn’t matter. The way his eyes roam over her body, the way his mouth parts on a breathless curse, the way he begs—it’s enough to make her smirk wickedly, her movements slowing for a teasing moment as she tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "So, when it’s like this," she purrs, dragging her nails down his sides, letting the teasing bite of her touch contrast the ruthless thrust of her hips, "do you usually get yourself off, or is that something I'm supposed to do?"
As she speaks, she shifts, pressing herself flush against his back, letting him feel the heat of her body, the soft swell of her breasts against his spine, even as she keeps her grip on his wrists firm. Her other hand slides around his hip, fingers wrapping around his cock in a slow, deliberate stroke. "Because I could," she murmurs against his ear, her breath hot, teasing, punctuated by the sharp snap of her hips.
But gods, she doesn’t need him to touch himself to know how much he likes this. It’s written all over him, in the way his breath comes fast and ragged, in the way his shoulders tremble ever so slightly under her hands, in the way his moans pour out like honey, rich and thick with need. And gods, the way he watches her—his gaze heavy-lidded in the mirror, drinking her in, his pleasure-stunned expression only making her preen harder, pushing her to roll her hips sharper, faster, just to see how much further she can take him.
She knows she isn’t feeling this the way he is, but it doesn’t matter. The way his eyes roam over her body, the way his mouth parts on a breathless curse, the way he begs—it’s enough to make her smirk wickedly, her movements slowing for a teasing moment as she tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "So, when it’s like this," she purrs, dragging her nails down his sides, letting the teasing bite of her touch contrast the ruthless thrust of her hips, "do you usually get yourself off, or is that something I'm supposed to do?"
As she speaks, she shifts, pressing herself flush against his back, letting him feel the heat of her body, the soft swell of her breasts against his spine, even as she keeps her grip on his wrists firm. Her other hand slides around his hip, fingers wrapping around his cock in a slow, deliberate stroke. "Because I could," she murmurs against his ear, her breath hot, teasing, punctuated by the sharp snap of her hips.
