melita
Oh, she was thoroughly lost by then, body demanding the quick pulse of his movement and her thriving on the fringes. Just teetering on the edge and riding along each pleasurable undulation, she was a breathless, heedless entity, coaxing him onward as she followed the motions. She moaned into his skin to perilously drive him onward, her hands snaring at the quick pulse of his neck or the muscular brawn of his shoulders; a place to brace and clutch while the rest of her body kept him right there; mind blissfully snagging at any opportunity to savor him properly. She’d long since forgotten any essence of some game she’d conjured in her own mind – for it scarcely mattered now – need and desire commanded over anything else.
So she didn’t expect the sudden change of angles; a quick gasp unfurling from her as she was suddenly tipped upwards and off the rock – the sultry sweep sending a wave of confusion before the reason became quite clear. “Wait – holy shit-,” blurted out of her – but then he was filling her so intensely and deeply that anything coherent was left in the air. Her keening moan and the wave of their brethren thereafter further encouraged, and she was already steeling her thighs back around him at this new slant; chasing and riding and wanting nothing more than those highs and satisfaction again and again.
His mouth was on her once more too and she felt engulfed; surrounded and pervaded by the rhythm and march of their forms, intertwining and salacious, her frame a sinuous arc and lilt to each shuddering breadth of gratification. She called his name and he swallowed it down with his lips, back arching, the blooming feeling rising through her throat. “I think-,” came as both a warning and an argument – for there truly was no thought – but that she was clambering on the boundaries, gripping him thoroughly, pulling him downward and onward with her.
salvation doesn't look like light
