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It was perfect. I closed my eyes and let the music breath for me and the insence burn bright patterns in my eyes and the moving bodies rustle and caress and then reform into firm fingers griping my hips and a scent I didn't recall. I wrenched my attention back from the glittering sounds and opened my eyes, head rolling back to glimpse dark dilated flashing eyes and then he blurred closer, and his tongue was hot and moist scratching up my neck, and his hands threw cinnamon and clove pinches. I don't remember moving, only the solid pressure of his fingers hooked into my mouth, letting my tongue suck gold-green pleasure from them, letting my mouth settle our compact with it's promises. His fingers, my mouth, his hand, my groin, his heat, my back, and then the wall and shadows and candles and physics lost it's grip and we were grounded and the music was blackened silver, growling away in the distance.
His mouth throbbing red at my throat and his hands like smoke working on buttons and belts He stripped like a phoenix, smoky dark clothes and burnished skin, and flames over charcoal at his crotch, a dark pattern that caught my eye with warm silk letters, jumped at my fingers, tracing the 'A'. He caught my hand, quicksilver and iron, and burnt a long path up my chest, moving over me, oil on water, settling over me, slick hard heat tracing my lips.
"Write 'good angel' on the devil's horn."
He thrust, his words crawling through me with a burn like whisky, opening my mouth and gagging me on the first short slide in a burst of reds and shivers. My arms found their arabesque, long threads of hunger arching me to find breath and taste, and the skin of his backside was perfect, champagne catching my fingers and dancing like dust motes in time with my base-beat heart. His hands hit the wall above me, and we're moving like spiced wine, branding my mouth with musk and heated curves, branding his ass with staccato fingers flickering and feathering, and time melts into music and explosions of colour that don't match my hitch step breathing.
His mouth throbbing red at my throat and his hands like smoke working on buttons and belts He stripped like a phoenix, smoky dark clothes and burnished skin, and flames over charcoal at his crotch, a dark pattern that caught my eye with warm silk letters, jumped at my fingers, tracing the 'A'. He caught my hand, quicksilver and iron, and burnt a long path up my chest, moving over me, oil on water, settling over me, slick hard heat tracing my lips.
"Write 'good angel' on the devil's horn."
He thrust, his words crawling through me with a burn like whisky, opening my mouth and gagging me on the first short slide in a burst of reds and shivers. My arms found their arabesque, long threads of hunger arching me to find breath and taste, and the skin of his backside was perfect, champagne catching my fingers and dancing like dust motes in time with my base-beat heart. His hands hit the wall above me, and we're moving like spiced wine, branding my mouth with musk and heated curves, branding his ass with staccato fingers flickering and feathering, and time melts into music and explosions of colour that don't match my hitch step breathing.
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His fingers, my mouth, his hand, my groin, his heat, my back, and then the wall and shadows and candles and physics lost it's grip and we were grounded and the music was blackened silver, growling away in the distance.
Very strong imagery, made me lick my lips :)
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just *beams* - thank you!
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