VESPER
His fingers tangle in Colt’s hair, tugging hard enough to tilt her head back, to bare her throat like an offering he’s more than willing to take. He claims her mouth with a kiss that isn’t soft, isn’t sweet—there’s nothing gentle in the way his lips crash into hers. It’s a brand, a conquest, the kind of kiss that steals the breath from her lungs and replaces it with his own. His tongue slides deep, matching the slow grind of his hips as he fucks her harder, deeper, his body flush against hers, every thrust deliberate and possessive.
The hand anchored at her hip slips lower, dragging across the curve of her ass until it finds the back of her thigh. He grips it tightly and pulls her leg higher around his waist, fingertips pressing into her like he’s trying to write his name in stars across her skin. His shadows ripple with his pleasure as they slide across her back in a wave of living silk, curling up to cradle her shoulders before slipping down, sinuous and cool, to cup her breasts. They toy with her nipples like teasing fingers, grazing and pinching in slow rhythm, while another tendril slithers along the flat of her stomach and pools low between her thighs.
It forms there like a teardrop of smoke until it’s pressing against her clit in steady, rhythmic pulses timed precisely to the drive of his cock. Selfishly, he doesn't want her hands to leave his skin; he wants her clutching at him, nails in his shoulders, hips rolling up into every thrust like her life depends on it. And fuck, the way she feels—tight and slick and pulsing around him—is almost too much. His thoughts splinter with hers, waves of need and ecstasy crashing through his telepathy, every lightning strike of her pleasure sparking through his own spine. The hunger in her mind feeds his own, a wildfire in dry grass, and the grin he gives her is feral as his hips pick up pace.
"That’s it," he growls against her lips, forehead pressed to hers now, breath shared and ragged. His voice is low and ruined, shaken loose from his usual poise. "You feel—gods Colt—I—" He thrusts into her harder, shadows tightening around her thighs, her ribs, her clit—every part of her held by him and his magic, every inch a battlefield of pleasure. "Cum for me—gods, cum—" It starts as a plea, raw and cracked from the strain, but twists into something sharper as his eyes flutter, fighting to stay open. "Before I fucking lose it, Colt." His voice is jagged now, a command laced with desperation, the kind of edge that promises he won’t last much longer if she doesn’t fall first.
The hand anchored at her hip slips lower, dragging across the curve of her ass until it finds the back of her thigh. He grips it tightly and pulls her leg higher around his waist, fingertips pressing into her like he’s trying to write his name in stars across her skin. His shadows ripple with his pleasure as they slide across her back in a wave of living silk, curling up to cradle her shoulders before slipping down, sinuous and cool, to cup her breasts. They toy with her nipples like teasing fingers, grazing and pinching in slow rhythm, while another tendril slithers along the flat of her stomach and pools low between her thighs.
It forms there like a teardrop of smoke until it’s pressing against her clit in steady, rhythmic pulses timed precisely to the drive of his cock. Selfishly, he doesn't want her hands to leave his skin; he wants her clutching at him, nails in his shoulders, hips rolling up into every thrust like her life depends on it. And fuck, the way she feels—tight and slick and pulsing around him—is almost too much. His thoughts splinter with hers, waves of need and ecstasy crashing through his telepathy, every lightning strike of her pleasure sparking through his own spine. The hunger in her mind feeds his own, a wildfire in dry grass, and the grin he gives her is feral as his hips pick up pace.
"That’s it," he growls against her lips, forehead pressed to hers now, breath shared and ragged. His voice is low and ruined, shaken loose from his usual poise. "You feel—gods Colt—I—" He thrusts into her harder, shadows tightening around her thighs, her ribs, her clit—every part of her held by him and his magic, every inch a battlefield of pleasure. "Cum for me—gods, cum—" It starts as a plea, raw and cracked from the strain, but twists into something sharper as his eyes flutter, fighting to stay open. "Before I fucking lose it, Colt." His voice is jagged now, a command laced with desperation, the kind of edge that promises he won’t last much longer if she doesn’t fall first.
Will I ever quit playing with matches?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
Why am I making angels in the ashes?
