Amalia
stop thinking so much
She plays with the idea of pausing, adjusting her course and pulling him down, imploring him to fill other things, swallowing the whimpers with voracious lips. But Deimos, it seems, has other ideas. The sound of her name exhaled from his mouth is enough to drive the girl wild, the warning a challenge, a fan to the flames. She groans in response, low and deep and predatory, her efforts redoubled by the promise of victory, the incredible reminder that he wants her.
Dark eyes upturn briefly to his face, hooded and heavy beneath thick lashes; the flush on her cheeks is emblazoned triumph, as clear a translation of her intent as the girl can possibly give. Long fingers clench at his ass, his thigh, while the other hand continues to stroke and play, following the contours of her mouth, the rhythm he sets by his hand on her head. She will not allow him respite; she will take from him all she can, make him cry her name to the heavens as the crescendo of his lust crashes down upon them both. All she wants is to please and delight, to bring him to the cusp of unspeakable bliss; she is a tool for his pleasure, an acolyte at his shrine, worshiping and wanting and loving with her lips. Yours and yours and yours her eyes cry; mine and mine and mine from her mouth.
you're breaking your own heart
