and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
It happens too fast. Too slow.
All she can feel is the heat of him licking up her sides, the way that her belly tightens, the way that she is surrounded by him. She doesn’t hear his thoughts other than the dull roar in her head. She doesn’t hear her own protests, weak as they are, in the back of her head. She doesn’t feel anything except for the sweet feeling of knowing that this is what submission feels like. Submission to him. To herself. To joy.
If she didn’t know any better, she would think that this was all a product of his own manipulation.
But she does know better.
She knows that this isn’t manipulation. This is just the result of everything that they are.
His teeth on her flesh, his legs around her—they are all the pieces that build into something dangerous and glorious and everything all at once. She drinks it in greedily, storing away every moment, every touch. She lets go of her power and feels the flood of his thoughts, as incoherent and hungry as her own.
When it is over, she is shaking, she is weak, she is glowing with a rare peace in her belly.
Her eyes are soft and hooded as she turns to him, as she presses into his broad chest. She leans heavily against him, blood syrupy in her veins, her pulse slow and heavy and thudding dully. Lazily, she begins to trace patterns into his flesh, tasting the edges of salt from exertion, a reminder of what has passed, of what has occurred. “Is it always like that?” she asks quietly, wondering at the way she feels safe here.
She’s never felt safe—
Not like this.
Part of her wants to reach for her familiar defenses, to arm herself with indifference, but she can’t find it in her to pull the armor on so quickly. So instead she lets herself slip into the warm waters of his presence, giving herself this moment in the afterglow to bask in the sunshine of his smile.
“I’d like to think that it’s always like that,” she whispers.
lynx