Amalia
stop thinking so much
He follows her down the rabbit hole, and Amalia grins, still shuddering, her body still contorting and racked with shockwaves of lingering, lasting release. He pulls her closer and she gasps again, whimpering as he pushes deeper, filling her with his fervent release, their bodies melded and molded so close that the end of one and the beginning of the other are entirely indistinguishable, skin and sweat and breath and souls bound together, making their broken pieces whole. There is no measure for this degree of pleasure, the awe of being in a lover's arms, brought to completion, raised to precipices, worship and passion replacing loneliness, acceptance a song they harmonize. Her second release of the evening is brighter and more radiant than the first, intimacy tied in ribbons and knots, shuddering down the length of her spine. She can feel it in each of her nerve endings, tingling and trembling, electric and alive.
Shivering, shaking, she relaxes at last, letting the tension of her muscles wane, letting herself fall into his embrace, a quiet chuckle on her lips, a hum of rapture in her chest. Each kiss elicits a soft, pleased murmur, sleepy and soothed, simpering, sultry, appreciation echoed in the way her fingers trace his spine, the aimless patterns in her embrace. It is only when she lower her lips to press against his scalp that Amalia remembers what they have forgotten, sputtering at soap suds in her mouth.
"Your hair is full of shampoo," she remarks, trailing fingers to his front, still settled comfortably in his lap. Leaning back, Amalia lets herself sink almost below the surface of the water as she lies upon the porcelain basin, her own golden hair a wreath around her, the lukewarm liquid coating her skin.
you're breaking your own heart
