I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
The moment Kai shifts forward, her body sings. It isn't just a stretch, it's a reckoning; every breath pressed out of her lungs as he fills her with such decadent precision that for a flicker of time, the only word she remembers is his name. Her eyes slam shut as her teeth sink into her bottom lip in a futile attempt to trap the moan already rising like a storm tide inside of her, but it doesn't work. Nothing could, because gods, the way he moves inside her feels like worship, like every thrust is a promise made with his body, delivered again and again in the rhythm of skin meeting skin. Her name on his lips isn't just a sound, it’s the spell that keeps her together when every part of her is coming undone.
Her hand scrabbles for purchase, curling hard against the slope of his shoulder, but it’s not enough. The need that’s built in her, slow and wicked and bright, crests all at once like something breaking through the sea floor and ripping toward the surface. Her long legs wrap tight around him, heels nudging, urging, trying to pull him impossibly closer even as her free hand slips between them, fingers frantic, trembling, slick as they find the aching knot of her own pleasure. And when she touches herself—when his cock drives in just right and her fingertips press—there’s no more restraint. She doesn't try to warn him, instead there's just a gasp that fractures into a sob as her head tips back and she moans his name like a litany. "Please, Kai—"
What happens next feels like being split open by light. Her orgasm crashes through her with the force of something elemental, some roaring, blooming force that doesn’t just take her, it ravages her. The swell begins in her feet, every toe curling, her calves trembling like wire drawn too tight, and then it expands. Her thighs clench around him, her back arches hard enough to lift her shoulders from the bed, and it’s only the grip of his body, the weight and the warmth of him, that keeps her from shattering completely. Her stomach tightens, fluttering and twisting with the tremors still raking through her, and there’s a flush racing up her chest like liquid sunrise, painting her collarbones, her breasts, even the undersides of her arms with a champagne lightness.
Her nipples are hard and sensitive where they graze against her knees, and her skin is all heat and salt and fire. Breaths fall out of her in ragged bursts, too shallow, too fast, too much, and yet somehow still not enough. She moans again, wrecked and high and breathless, the sounds barely formed and entirely honest, lost in the place where pleasure becomes prayer. And through it all, she's aware only of him; of his weight, his scent, the way his name still echoes through her like a hymn caught in the bones of a church long abandoned to the sea.
Her hand scrabbles for purchase, curling hard against the slope of his shoulder, but it’s not enough. The need that’s built in her, slow and wicked and bright, crests all at once like something breaking through the sea floor and ripping toward the surface. Her long legs wrap tight around him, heels nudging, urging, trying to pull him impossibly closer even as her free hand slips between them, fingers frantic, trembling, slick as they find the aching knot of her own pleasure. And when she touches herself—when his cock drives in just right and her fingertips press—there’s no more restraint. She doesn't try to warn him, instead there's just a gasp that fractures into a sob as her head tips back and she moans his name like a litany. "Please, Kai—"
What happens next feels like being split open by light. Her orgasm crashes through her with the force of something elemental, some roaring, blooming force that doesn’t just take her, it ravages her. The swell begins in her feet, every toe curling, her calves trembling like wire drawn too tight, and then it expands. Her thighs clench around him, her back arches hard enough to lift her shoulders from the bed, and it’s only the grip of his body, the weight and the warmth of him, that keeps her from shattering completely. Her stomach tightens, fluttering and twisting with the tremors still raking through her, and there’s a flush racing up her chest like liquid sunrise, painting her collarbones, her breasts, even the undersides of her arms with a champagne lightness.
Her nipples are hard and sensitive where they graze against her knees, and her skin is all heat and salt and fire. Breaths fall out of her in ragged bursts, too shallow, too fast, too much, and yet somehow still not enough. She moans again, wrecked and high and breathless, the sounds barely formed and entirely honest, lost in the place where pleasure becomes prayer. And through it all, she's aware only of him; of his weight, his scent, the way his name still echoes through her like a hymn caught in the bones of a church long abandoned to the sea.
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
