MELITA
Avarice was as much a part of them as everything else; she preened from it as sensations roared through her, the pleasure layered, stoked through her with every movement, every sibilance. His growl made her shudder, yearning to hear it again as she met his strokes and hips with her own, striving to set a pattern, a rhythm, rather than an uncoordinated, clumsy haze of lust and confusion. If they'd aimed to slow things down that was long forgotten.His mouth on hers fed all the more need stirring low, low, low in her belly; lips meeting his with breathless design, her teeth and tongue flashing, dragging, taking where she could. Any moans, high-pitched and enthusiastic, or murmurs of his name were woven back into him, absorbed by skin and flesh and bone, louder when they echoed against water or stone. His drive urged hers onward, rougher, and her hands sought purchase and height as his movements went deeper. “Yes,” she crooned when she came up for air, encouraging, wanting, craving, toes curling while her thighs tightened around him. At some point she'd become a trembling, ravenous mess, feeling like she was coming apart in all directions, but focused solely on one. “More – just like that,” and she’d strive to do the same, climbing those heights and reaching for the peak.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
