when I walk in a room, I can still make the whole place shimmer
Charlie is wildly delighted that despite the way her tail had been teasing him toward a very different sin, Pann clearly has other plans. Oh, she’s more than willing to follow where he leads, especially when it involves being lifted higher, pressed back against the cool rock. The scrape of stone against her bare skin draws a shiver that dances the length of her spine, sharpening the heat pooling low in her belly. Her thighs slide from bracketing his torso to draping over his shoulders, the new position baring her completely to his mouth.
With a pulse of disintegration, the wall behind her crumbles just enough for her fingers to carve into, creating shallow holds. She grips them easily, taking some of the weight from his arms; not that he seems to mind holding her, but she’s never been one to allow there to be unnecessary barriers to worship.
The first drag of his tongue against her rips a gasp from her lips, raw and unpolished, her head tipping back against the stone. The sensation blooms like molten sugar—sweet and hot—curling low and deep, spreading through her in waves that make her toes curl against his back. Every time his tongue circles her clit, the pulse of arousal spikes through her like lightning in a summer storm, sharp and perfect. Her tail, wrapped snug around the base of his cock, tightens in rhythm to the strokes he gives her, as if to return every flick of pleasure he sends.
"You clever boy," she mewls, the praise curling from her lips like smoke. Heat unfurls down her torso, sparks catching at her nipples in tiny bursts of fire before racing lower, scattering over her thighs before licking playfully across his shoulders. The pleasure builds fast and thick, her body arching into his mouth, chasing every lap of his tongue with shameless greed. It’s not just the skill, it’s the way he drinks her in, each movement deliberate, coaxing every tremor, every sharp little cry, until her grip on the wall feels carved as deep as the want flooding her veins.
With a pulse of disintegration, the wall behind her crumbles just enough for her fingers to carve into, creating shallow holds. She grips them easily, taking some of the weight from his arms; not that he seems to mind holding her, but she’s never been one to allow there to be unnecessary barriers to worship.
The first drag of his tongue against her rips a gasp from her lips, raw and unpolished, her head tipping back against the stone. The sensation blooms like molten sugar—sweet and hot—curling low and deep, spreading through her in waves that make her toes curl against his back. Every time his tongue circles her clit, the pulse of arousal spikes through her like lightning in a summer storm, sharp and perfect. Her tail, wrapped snug around the base of his cock, tightens in rhythm to the strokes he gives her, as if to return every flick of pleasure he sends.
"You clever boy," she mewls, the praise curling from her lips like smoke. Heat unfurls down her torso, sparks catching at her nipples in tiny bursts of fire before racing lower, scattering over her thighs before licking playfully across his shoulders. The pleasure builds fast and thick, her body arching into his mouth, chasing every lap of his tongue with shameless greed. It’s not just the skill, it’s the way he drinks her in, each movement deliberate, coaxing every tremor, every sharp little cry, until her grip on the wall feels carved as deep as the want flooding her veins.
.
