melita
Seemed it’d been for the best to give up the ghost of the game in her head; neither of them were going to wait for the other’s first heady rush. Patience was neither of their fortes, and Melita wasn’t about to pretend that she’d adapted to it now. “Don’t bother then-,” was halfway out of her mouth, coy and amused, when he did exactly that. The command was gone on a gasp, sinking deep into her ribcage and vanishing on the plunges of pleasure – a stark outcry of a moan flickering through her thereafter as he reached and immersed himself. It took her an instant to adjust, for her body to sink against the stone, back to arc, the race and flush across her skin turning into naught but a mewling desire given and granted on all their zealous inclinations. Her legs went around his hips and stayed there, as if taut and caught and tethered, helping to anchor or sink him further on each plunge.
Ravenous and greedy and wanton and mercenary, she tried to follow his rhythm, rushed below the surface and gasping as each surge of decadence served into a pant, a groan, flickering and flooding over his ears. Her hands wove their away along his shoulders, then behind his neck, hanging on; indifferent on who led this destination, given they were intending to make the same sojourn. Reaching forward, she tucked herself into his neck, panted against his nape, his chest, serenaded with each striking chord and keen. Eyed closed, just feeling, just taking, just letting them have these instances of stark, naked desire; letting it fold over time and time again into the hollows of her core, twining into her mind like a buzz, like a pull, like a snare she had to follow and chase and have. That it was him, and only him, that she’d unfurl for and permit to have her in the same way. “Just like that,” she started with a pitch, a whisper, but when he slowed, she snagged and angled her hips again in a swifter denizen, trying to implement a mode to drive them onwards, faster, quicker.
salvation doesn't look like light
