I swallowed her cries like a prayer and kept licking, slow now, savoring her, letting her ride out every last aftershock until she was trembling and boneless beneath me.
Only then did I ease my fingers out of her, gently, like I was pulling her out of some sacred trance. I kissed her thigh—soft, reverent—and climbed up the bed to lie beside her.
She turned to me, eyes heavy, lips parted, still drunk on the high I gave her.
I kissed her, and she moaned against my mouth—tasting herself on my tongue, gasping like the sensation alone might undo her. The sound went straight to my spine. I could’ve died in that moment and called it holy.
She was everything.
The way she surrendered to me—no hesitation, no fear—wrecked me. Her heart beat wild against my chest, her breath catching with every movement as I deepened the kiss. I wanted to stay right there forever—consuming her, feeling her melt for me.
But I needed more.
All of her.
When I finally sank into her, I nearly lost my mind.
She was tight. Hot. Perfect.
I stilled, my forehead pressed to hers, fighting the urge to fall apart the second I felt her body welcome mine. She clutched at my back, nails digging into my skin like she needed to hold on or drown. And I needed her to hold on.
Because I was already lost.
“Persephone,” I whispered—raw, reverent. Like a prayer, like a plea, like a man begging his gods for one more taste of heaven.
She looked up at me.
And when she said my name, it wasn’t just a sound. It was a claim.
She moved with me, met every slow thrust like it meant something more. Like this wasn’t just about sex, but about becoming. About unmaking each other and building something new in the wreckage.
I watched her—watched every tremble in her lashes, every breathless whimper, every time her lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Her body clung to mine, her walls fluttering around me, and I knew she was close.
So I slid my hand between us.
My thumb found her clit, rubbing soft, slow circles. Her back arched. She cried out, head tilting back as she teetered right on the edge.
“Come for me, Persephone,” I breathed against her ear. “Let go for me. Just let go.”
And she did.
Her body clenched around mine—tight, perfect—as she came undone beneath me.
I couldn’t look away.
Couldn’t stop moving.
Every tremble, every gasp, every broken sound—mine. All of it. Claimed in sweat and teeth and the reckless rhythm of skin on skin.
And I wanted more.
My thrusts turned rough. Animalistic. The kind of pace born from hunger, not just lust. The bed shook with every drive of my hips, the headboard slamming against the wall like it was trying to warn us of how far we were going.
She met me, thrust for thrust.
Nails dragging down my back. Breaths coming in sharp, desperate pants. Her body wild beneath mine.
“More,” she whispered, raw and wrecked and needing.
