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~~Amalia~~ · 07-14-2019, 07:24 PM

Amalia

stop thinking so much

She might have devoured him then and there, voracious for the unsaid things he tells her with touches and glances and lust, the movement of his body, the shivers of his skin, the way he brushes and presses against her, his large hands encompassing her angles, her curves. Amalia responds in kind, grasping and reaching, her tongue dancing across his mouth, his lips between her teeth. Aggressive, possessive, needy and wanting and blissfully unafraid, because he wants her, he wants her, and all she has to give. Her hand floats down the small of his back, on the curve of his ass, the point of his hip; with mischief in her onyx eyes she grins up at him, tantalizing, not quite there but oh so close. Her other hand stays tangled in his locks, holding him tight against her, a promise in her fingers, a delicately strummed hymn. She has gained him, she has won him, and she will not relinquish her prize.

When at last his mouth moves away she whimpers her displeasure; when it reaches her ear she whimpers something else. Tilting her head obligingly to allow him to carry on his journey, Amalia lets her own lips ghost over his cheek, his neck, her tongue darting out to tease an auricle. A heavy laugh leaves her lungs, half mirth, half lust, all growl and need. The leg she has pulled up to his waist tightens further, seeking, wanting, drawing his skin against her own, her wanton desires made apparent by the heat between her thighs. She is ready to growl fuck the bath, to drag him down to the floor beside her and let water grow lukewarm and baked goods burn so long as she can have him now, her carnal and heathen needs fulfilled. She wants to show him everything she is, give him everything she has, to take and take until he is spent and she rises triumphant in the glow of his crescendo. Patience and planning are not her forte: she wants to set her lover on fire and warm herself upon the coals.

Ah, but he has other plans, as he always does. He is the temper to her raging inferno, the patience of glacier with the presence of a summer storm. The lift is unexpected; Amalia gasps and squeals her surprise, dark eyes looking down on his, her cheeks rich with color, her breasts bare and flushed. For a moment she hovers in the air above him, flying on the pleasure of firm embrace.

Then her toes touch the water and she descends, spreading her feet on the bottom of the tub, gasping as hot water rises up her legs. She does not release him as he steps in, too; her hands remain on his figure, guiding and drawing, hoping and pleasing. But slowly her mouth begins to move, kisses trailed down his nape, his clavicle, flowing down his sternum in pursuit of her hands. Caressing, embracing, she lowers herself down, tracing scars and muscle as she falls to her knees. A featherlight touch of her mouth on his hip, then across, butterfly touches over his pelvis until she comes to the opposite thigh. She glances up at him, waiting for permission before moving on, intending to reach out with her right hand and wrap it around his length, her tongue and mouth following suit as a gentle moan leaves her throat.

you're breaking your own heart