I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
The sound he makes rips through her with volcanic force, a low groan that splits her spine with heat and curls fire through her ribs like ivy gone feral. Gods. Her hips roll again, helpless now, chasing that sharp-edged friction, that divine resistance that makes her thighs tremble and her breath catch in her throat. When he hikes her higher, her balance shifts, and for a breathless, reckless second all she wants is to crush herself down over his mouth and smother him with her thighs, to drag his tongue against the ache that's been burning inside her since before he even touched her.
But then his lips find her breasts and her mind blanks for a blissful moment. The red lace—half-destroyed, falling like torn petals from a storm-stripped bloom—gives way to the heat of his mouth. And gods, it’s not fair. The pasties melt against his tongue like sugar on hot skin, and she whimpers as one hand knots into his hair, anchoring her, because if she doesn't grab hold of something she's going to disintegrate, to go up in glitter and steam.
Distantly, she tries to gauge how far along he is with taking off his pants, because if he’s still dressed, if there’s still fabric between them, it might kill her. Her skin feels like a livewire, every nerve ending tuned to the heat of his mouth and the strain beneath her hips. "Gods, I want you so bad," she gasps, breath breaking over the words like waves over a reef. There’s no softness in it, no coyness, just need, sharp and searing and sacred.
Before he can speak, she catches his face in both hands, palms curved like seafoam along his jaw, and pulls him up to her mouth. Her lips crash against his like surf and thunder, like something wild coming home. The kiss isn’t sweet, it’s greedy, devastating, edged with teeth and breathless hunger. Her hips roll again, shameless now, chasing the heat between them like it’s the only light left in the world.
Above them, her hat tilts sideways, one pompom trailing across his cheek like a comet’s tail. The other bounces loose with each desperate kiss, ridiculous and tender all at once. Red lace pools at her hip like spilled wine, her chest bare now where he’s devoured her, and still she wants more—wants him—wants to feel every part of her pressed against every part of him with nothing left between them but heat and history and all the wanting they’ve carried since that first kiss in this very bed.
But then his lips find her breasts and her mind blanks for a blissful moment. The red lace—half-destroyed, falling like torn petals from a storm-stripped bloom—gives way to the heat of his mouth. And gods, it’s not fair. The pasties melt against his tongue like sugar on hot skin, and she whimpers as one hand knots into his hair, anchoring her, because if she doesn't grab hold of something she's going to disintegrate, to go up in glitter and steam.
Distantly, she tries to gauge how far along he is with taking off his pants, because if he’s still dressed, if there’s still fabric between them, it might kill her. Her skin feels like a livewire, every nerve ending tuned to the heat of his mouth and the strain beneath her hips. "Gods, I want you so bad," she gasps, breath breaking over the words like waves over a reef. There’s no softness in it, no coyness, just need, sharp and searing and sacred.
Before he can speak, she catches his face in both hands, palms curved like seafoam along his jaw, and pulls him up to her mouth. Her lips crash against his like surf and thunder, like something wild coming home. The kiss isn’t sweet, it’s greedy, devastating, edged with teeth and breathless hunger. Her hips roll again, shameless now, chasing the heat between them like it’s the only light left in the world.
Above them, her hat tilts sideways, one pompom trailing across his cheek like a comet’s tail. The other bounces loose with each desperate kiss, ridiculous and tender all at once. Red lace pools at her hip like spilled wine, her chest bare now where he’s devoured her, and still she wants more—wants him—wants to feel every part of her pressed against every part of him with nothing left between them but heat and history and all the wanting they’ve carried since that first kiss in this very bed.
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
