His mouth went to her neck, and her hands aimed for the heavens. No, wait, back up. That&r
His mouth went to her neck, and her hands aimed for the heavens. No, wait, back up. That’s not how it goes. His mouth goes to her neck, and then he grabs her wrists, and pushes them up above her head. That’s how it goes. His mouth went to her neck, and her hands aimed for the heavens. On their own. Her brow furrowed, and she squirmed against the wall, a mixture of discomfort and pure, unbridled lust, pulsing out in tidal waves across her spine, a few dozen islands in a chain, each one submerged in pleasure. She could feel the wallpaper cold against the backs of her hands. She could feel the heat of one wrist on the other. She could not feel the power of his palm around them. She’d done it on her own, and she wasn’t sure what to think. His hand was between her legs. His other hand was coming up, sliding across the side of her face, tangling in her hair before untangling from her hair, and then they were there. His hand slammed around her wrists like gravity returning to earth, heavy and pissed off at the mess we’d made while it was gone. Everything fell to the ground, and she started to calm just as her heart started to pound. The lust took over, eroticism distilled into an art form, his hand against her sex, his mouth against her neck. Her wrists squirmed under his hand, just testing. His hand stayed where it was. Her hands stayed where they were. -- source link
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