It takes a leap of faith

Amalia

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stop thinking so much

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The water is warm upon her legs, soothing the muscles of her calves, licking luxuriously at her thighs as she falls down to her knees. Aggressive as she may be, insistent and impatient, she is nevertheless stalwartly his, an agent of his pleasure, a herald of his cries. Days and weeks and months ago the girl lost the game, falling willingly into his orbit, mistified and magnetized by the wonder of his regard. Does he know the things he has done for her, the steps he has taken to mending her tears, the pieces of her fractured heart he has rescued from the ash?

There is no sufficient way to thank him, so she devotes each action to trying. Amalia does not know how to fight, how to flirt, how to do much at all. But she does know how to worship, and today she worships him.

His moans are a hymnall, his whimpers a serenade. Each sound he makes emboldens her, fulfils her as much as any touch, leaves her shuddering and eager for more. Inexperience is made up for with fervor, promises and pledges spilling from her tongue as she continues down the canvas of his body. Mine and mine and mine she sings with lips and hands and teeth, greedy and giving, jealous and wild. And when at last she reaches her destination it is with a growled triumph she takes him on, whimpering softly as he fills her mouth, his hands coiled in her hair.

She is happy to let him lead, compliant and obedient as he sets the pace. A low moan escapes her throat, vibrating over her lips as he urges her on, pleased and delighted to incite his pleasure, feel his length against her tongue. Her right hand continues to stroke his shaft; the left reaches up to steady herself, reaching to fiercely grasp his ass, posessive and passionate and permissive and his.

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you're breaking your own heart

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