Cut, Clarity, Carat
This is not about love. This is lust, plain and simple, this is heat. Anger. Fear. This is uncertainty and panic and his hands touching her hip just right. His tongue on her neck. His teeth.
The ceiling fan slowly circling. The room humid and stifling.
She tries to think. To remember. Cut, clarity, carat. Clay. She licks his eyebrow, needing to taste. Her mind buzzing and blank, she sucks on his ear. His cheek. His mouth. Their hands in constant motion; everything is heavy and damp.
She can't breathe. Can't. Breathe. Can't. Think. His fingers pushing into her.
Her fingers stroking him. Feeling. Touching. This is not about love. This is not. This is. Fuck. Yes. Damn. Taste. This is his tongue and her teeth and bruising and raw and the sweat between her breasts. This is the heat of midday. The fan creaking. The moan that starts in her toes and ends in her hair. His growl.
His lips. This is not about him. Not about her. This is her hands clutching at the headboard. His mouth on her inner thigh, moving up and oh. Yes. His tongue. His mouth. His teeth. This is buzzing and fucking and "just. like. that." Ringing.
And everything stops. And he is inside her. Pounding. Hard. Her nails digging into his upper arm. The world upside down. Spinning. Fucking. Hard and harder and she bites his shoulder. Frenzy. Pain. Heat.
Swirling. Sunlight catching her ring and spots of light dancing on his chest.
This is not thinking. Not tomorrow. Not real. This is.