Devoured

The atmosphere is thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and rain. Outside, the world is a blurred smear of grey and charcoal, the downpour so violent that it swallows the city's roar, leaving only the rhythmic, hypnotic drumming against the glass. Inside, the room is a sanctuary of shadows, lit only by the dim, moody light of the storm. The ceiling fan cuts through the cool, damp air with a frantic whir, mirroring the sudden, electric tension that snaps the moment you step through the door.

The sight of you in that skimpy black, the way it clings to your curves and leaves your back an open invitation of pale skin—is enough to break my composure. I don't say a word; I don't have to. I reach for you, my grip firm and possessive, pulling you flush against me. You collapse into me with a soft sound, and the moment my palms hit your bare back, a jolt of pure heat surges through me. The silk of your dress slides upward, the hem riding high up your thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination as you gasp, pushing against me to sit up.

The friction is agonizingly perfect. The heat of your naked pussy pressing directly against the fabric of my trousers sends a shockwave of lust straight to my gut. I look up at you, my eyes hooded and dark, completely intoxicated by the scent of your arousal and the desperate look in your eyes.

I don't let you stay up for long. With one fluid motion, I flip the script, pinning you back onto the bed. You sprawl beneath me, exposed and trembling. Your legs fall open naturally, and the sight of you—flushed, dripping, your pussy twitching in anticipation—makes my blood boil. I can see the glistening wetness coating your folds, a silent testament to how badly you want this.