Evie
tell me all of the things
that make you feel at ease
They are poetic puzzle pieces, their contrasting patience and appearances like the fiery sunset hues on dark ocean water; ephemeral meeting everlasting the same way tanned skin meets ivory, sweeping across the canvas of her skin and alighting sensation until she drowns in the patient depths of his waters. And, in contrast, there is no poetry at all. Just the desperate, self-fulfilling bounce and grind of her own body chasing pleasure from his own, and he from her in turn. Each sound he makes, each returned vow of love, only brings her that much higher. His voice alone is her ambrosia, and here in this house he prepared for them, with nothing beyond but water and sky, there is no need to hold it back.
His kiss across her brow has her hands pressing up his chest and around his neck, tangling in his hair or wrapping around his shoulder. Needing him closer, closer, closer. As if there is anywhere closer to be when he is already inside her, and yet she trembles and - quite unexpectedly - orgasms without a touch. It's weaker without the external stimuli, and maybe it was a holdover from how close he'd gotten her before, but she cries and shudders and breaks apart on his lap all the same as her thighs constrict where they bracket his and her spine arches beneath his hand. And yet she doesn't stop - though her pace might falter and buck with oversensitivity - because she is greedy, and there is no amount of Deimos she could ever have that would sate the way she craves for him.
