It feels so fucking good.
My lips part, eager for more, and when his tongue catches mine, sparks flood up from somewhere low and dark, my fingers find the back of his neck, digging into his hair before I even think.
He tastes like smoke, something bittersweet and safe. The kind of safe that makes you stupid, the kind of safe that tightens in your gut—because it always leads somewhere you can’t come back from.
The slow sweep of his tongue turns greedy, a stolen breath I don’t get back. My hips answer before my mouth can, rocking into him like instinct. He presses back hard, locking me to the wood, setting me exactly where I want him, where Ineedhim.
My heartbeat kicks up as I feel the solid press of him between my legs, thick and hard through his clothes, andfuck, it punches a soundless gasp from my chest.
I lean in more, chasing it. Deeper, messier. Craving the weight of him, the contact, the friction, the sharp give of his teeth when he forgets to be careful. It’s dizzying.Addictive. I lose track of where I stop and he starts, just the drag of his body against mine.
And god, I never want this to be over.
His breath skims my collarbone, my fingers knot in his hair, head falling back.
“You okay? Your magic—” he murmurs against my skin, then pauses for the briefest second.
“It’s fine,” I reply, rushed, laced with frustration. “Stop worrying. I don’t want soft. I don’t want careful.”I lean in, bite down on his lip just enough to make him curse. “I want toforget. So if you're going to fuck me, stop talking anddo it right.”
His expression shifts, and the smile that follows is wicked, crooked and full of promise—spreading slow across his face like he’s just been waiting for this, for permission, forme.
His left hand stays locked at my hip, anchoring me against the door, but the other roams down, skimming the bare line of my thigh—still wrapped tight around his waist—until he reaches the spot where my dress has ridden up.
His fingers hook under, thenhigher, and my chest tightens so hard it knocks the air right out of me. But then his hand stops halfway, palm grazing against my sensitive skin.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been holding back.” A ragged inhale, his lips hot against my ear. “How long I’ve wanted to feel you andnotlet myself. I don’t even remember what it feels like tonotwant you.”
He claims my mouth again, fierce and hungry, and I gasp when his finger sinks into me. Not a thrust. A claim. Steady, unrelenting pressure that holds me right there.
The rest of the room disappears. It’s just his breath, his voice and the sweet drag of his hands like he already knows all my pressure points.
My head tips back, “More.” I manage, the word half-plea, half-command.
“Fuck, the way you sound—” his voice roughens. “I’ve never wantedanythingmore than to hear you come.”
The words hit, but it’shisvoice that wrecks me. It lands like a hand on my throat, possessive and unrelenting
Then the pleasure sharpens—sweet, unbearable; as he sinks another finger inside, deeper this time, curling until he finds that exact spot that tightens everything.
I fist my hands in his hair, holding on, hard, while his mouth continues to devour mine. There’s no hesitation now, and when his thumb grazes my clit, a blinding jolt of utter bliss tears through me—fast, sharp, impossible to hide.
My back arches before I can stop it, chasing the touch, the friction—but he doesn't give in.
He stays maddeningly slow, fingers barely skimming as he draws those light, infuriating circles that only make the ache twist tighter, lower, hotter,deeper.
I bite down on a sound tangling in my throat, but it breaks free anyway. A low, helpless moan.He doesn’t stop—keeps kissing me, keeps touching—pleasure swelling in slow, pulsing waves.
My hips roll against him—needy, unthinking—and this time, he moves with me, like he already knows exactly how I want it. Every drag of his fingers is precise, every movement relentless. Holding me right there, suspended on that knife-edge between not enough and too fucking much all at once.
“Fuck, don’t stop.” I say it, or maybe I just think it. Either way, he hears me. And answers, the pressure shifts. Firmer. Deeper. Faster. My legs tighten around him, muscles drawn taut.
“You feel unreal. Fuck, I can’t get enough,” his voice warm against my mouth.
God, yes. My Threads stay quiet, but the feeling flooding me is pure magic—searing and wild, sparking through every nerve.
He breaks from my lips, tracing down my neck, then across my chest, his hands never stopping, coaxing more from me with each stroke and curl. Pulling a brutal rush that slams through every inch of me, my hands scrambling—shoulders, hair, anything to hold onto—because I’m shaking now, strung so tight I could break.
He exhales hard, a half-swallowed curse, as I tighten around his fingers inside me. “Come for me, Lyra—fuck, please.”
