The mutual burn
You have flipped me over, and I feel you spreading me legs. My heart is still racing, our night continues
You don’t ask permission.
You never do when the switch flips like this.
One second I’m still tasting salt on my tongue; the next your hands are under my thighs, lifting, flipping me onto my back with that controlled strength that always makes my pulse spike. The slip rides up instantly—black silk pooling around my waist like spilled ink. You settle between my legs, not pressing down yet, just close enough that I feel the heat rolling off your skin, the slow heavy drag of your cock—still slick, still half-hard from what I just did—brushing the inside of my thigh.
Your mouth finds mine first.
Not gentle. Not sweet.
A claiming kiss—teeth and tongue and the faint copper taste of yourself still on me. You groan into it when you taste it, low and filthy, like the reminder alone is enough to start you climbing again.
Hands next.
One slides up under the silk to cup my breast, thumb circling the nipple until it pebbles tight. The other slips between us, fingers parting me slow, deliberate, gathering the slick you already know is there. You don’t tease long—just two fingers sliding inside, curling, pressing against that spot that makes my hips snap up before I can stop them.
“Fuck,” you mutter against my mouth. “So wet already. You liked having me in your throat that much?”
I laugh—breathless, a little mean. “You liked it more.”
You don’t argue.
Instead you drop your head, lips closing around the nipple you’ve been teasing. Suction. Tongue flicking. Just enough edge of teeth that my back arches off the mattress. At the same time your fingers start a slow, deep rhythm—curl and drag, curl and drag—while your thumb finds my clit and circles with the lightest, maddening pressure.
I grab your hair. Not gentle.
You growl approval against my skin.
Then you move lower.
Kisses down my sternum, my stomach, the sensitive dip beside my hipbone. When you reach the place where thigh meets everything else, you pause—nose brushing the soft skin there, inhaling like you’re memorizing me.
“Look at you,” you echo my earlier words, voice rough. “Making such a pretty mess for me.”
Before I can fire back you flatten your tongue and lick one long, slow stripe from entrance to clit.
My thighs clamp around your ears on instinct. You don’t seem to mind. If anything it spurs you—hands hooking under my hips, tilting me up so you can get deeper.
You eat me like you’re starving.
Not rushed. Not frantic.
Methodical. Worshipful.
Circles around my clit, then long flat licks, then sucking the little hood between your lips until I’m shaking. Every time my hips try to chase more you pin them down, forcing me to take exactly the pace you set.
I’m cursing now—soft, broken things that don’t even make full sentences.
Your fingers slide back inside—three this time—stretching me open while your mouth stays relentless on my clit. The combination is brutal in the best way. Pressure building fast, too fast, my heels digging into the mattress, thighs trembling.
You pull back just long enough to rasp, “Not yet.”
I whine—actual whine—because fuck you for knowing exactly where my edge is.
You climb back up my body, kissing every mark you’ve left, until we’re mouth to mouth again.
This time when you settle between my thighs, it’s different.
The head of you nudges at my entrance—slow, teasing glides through the wetness without pushing in.
“Tell me,” you say, voice gravel. “Tell me you want it.”
I wrap my legs around your waist, heels digging into your ass, pulling you closer.
“I want it,” I breathe against your lips. “I want you deep. I want to feel every inch. I want you to fuck me until neither of us can think.”
That’s all it takes.
You slide in one long, smooth thrust—slow enough that I feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse—until you’re buried to the hilt and we both freeze for a second, breathing hard against each other’s mouths.
Then you start to move.
Not fast. Not yet.
Long, deliberate strokes—pulling almost all the way out, then sinking back in so deep I feel you in my throat. Each time you bottom out you grind against my clit, rolling your hips in a slow circle that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
My nails rake down your back—hard enough to leave red trails you’ll feel tomorrow.
You hiss, thrust harder.
“Good girl,” you mutter, and the praise hits like a spark straight to my core.
I clench around you on purpose.
You curse—beautifully—and pick up the rhythm.
Now it’s faster. Deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, mixing with the fan and our ragged breathing. Your hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight, pinning it beside my head like you need the anchor.
I’m close—so close—every thrust dragging against that spot inside while your pelvis grinds my clit just right.
“Come with me,” I gasp. “Please—fuck—come inside me.”
Your rhythm stutters.
Eyes locked on mine.
Sweat dripping from your temple onto my collarbone.
One more deep grind and I shatter—clenching hard around you, thighs shaking, a broken moan tearing out of me.
You follow two thrusts later—burying yourself as deep as possible, pulsing inside me, low groan vibrating against my neck as you empty everything you have left.
We stay like that a long minute—sweaty, trembling, still joined—while our breathing slowly evens out.
Finally you lift your head, kiss me soft this time. Lazy. Lingering.
“Still not done with you,” you murmur, already half-hard again inside me.
I laugh—hoarse, happy, wrecked.
“Good,” I whisper back. “Because I’m not done with you either.”
The fan keeps turning.
The night keeps stretching.
And we’re nowhere near finished.
I bet you would feel this good inside me too. Let’s talk about it!
Part 3 drops on Thursday…get ready for it with me.
Our number is in my name: SINclair @ 888-750-4SIN (4746) X832