In Lust

She shouldn’t be here — he shouldn’t touch her like this. But the door’s locked and the blinds are drawn and his hands are already under her dress, pulling the fabric up in greedy fists. Her breath hitches, a soft laugh escaping her as her back hits the wall.

“Wicked,” she murmurs, her fingers tracing his jaw, her nails leaving faint red trails down his neck. “You’re wicked for this.”

He doesn’t answer — he just slides his mouth over hers, swallowing the lie she tries to choke out. Her lips are sweet but her tongue is filthy, curling around his, tasting every secret he tries to keep buried.

Her dress slips to her waist. She’s bare under it — he feels the heat of her, the slick proof of just how badly she wants this wickedness. She grinds against his thigh, a soft curse breaking in her throat when he squeezes her ass, lifts her up just enough to pin her harder to the wall.

“Say it,” he growls into her mouth, his breath ragged against her cheek.

“I want you,” she pants, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood. “I want you wicked. I want you rough.”

Her nipples brush his chest, pebbled tight from the cold air and his touch. He drags his mouth down her neck, teeth grazing the curve of her breast before sucking one swollen nipple between his lips. She shudders, her legs trembling around him.

“More,” she gasps. “Don’t stop. Be cruel.”

He grins against her skin — a feral thing. One hand slides between her thighs, finding her wet, swollen, ready to be ruined. His fingers stroke her, teasing, circling her clit until her moans echo in the small room.

“Wicked enough for you?” he asks, his voice dark velvet. She claws at his shoulders, desperate, helpless.

“More,” she begs again, hips rolling. “Don’t you dare stop until I’m ruined.”

And he doesn’t — not until she’s trembling, sweat-slick and gasping his name like a sin she’s proud to confess.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

✍️ "Weak in the Knees"

 He had me against the wall before I could say his name — fingers digging into my hips like he’d paid for the right to bruise me. He kissed me like he was angry, tongue sliding against mine until I gasped — that sound he loved, the one that made his grip tighten. By the time he slid his hand between my thighs, my knees were gone — soft, trembling, useless. I whispered don’t stop but I didn’t need to. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knelt right there, lips on my inner thigh, mouth making promises my body already believed. And when his tongue finally found me — hot, slow, devastating — my back hit the wall and I heard him laugh into my skin. “Weak in the knees for me, baby?” All I could do was moan — and give him everything he’d come for.
Read more

✍️ Somebody’s Shoulder Is About to Give Up

 Somebody’s shoulder is tired. Not from lifting weights — but from carrying everyone else’s silence. She smiles like she’s fine, but she’s tired of being the strong one. The listener. The fixer. The one who holds everyone together — even while she’s falling apart. She answers texts when she’s the one who needs comfort. She claps for others even when no one claps for her. She gives. She bends. But she’s starting to break. You’d never notice. Because she hides it like a pro. But if you look closely, her eyes say: “I need someone to carry me now.” Somebody’s shoulder is about to give up. And the saddest part? She’ll still ask you if you’re okay — while she's quietly drowning.
Read more

I get jealous over someone who isn’t even mine.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Feeling jealous over someone who hasn’t promised me anything. Someone who owes me nothing. Someone who might not even like me back the way I like them. But here I am — getting irritated when I see their name pop up with someone else, getting quiet when they don’t text back on time, overthinking when they post something that doesn’t include me. I act unbothered. I pretend I’m cool. I respond with “lol” and emojis like my heart isn’t acting stupid. But inside? I’m burning. Not because they’re mine but because I wish they were. I know it’s foolish. I know I have no right. But feelings don’t wait for permission. They attach themselves quietly, softly, and then violently — especially when you try to ignore them. Jealousy without entitlement is the worst kind. Because you suffer silently, pretending you don’t care, while hoping one day they’ll choose you so you can finally stop lying to yourself.
Read more