Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"He is more myself than I am.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
He is always, always in my mind.
Not as a pleasure to myself,
but as my own being."
- Emily Brontë
His words seduced me in ways a body never could like he had constructed a perfect morphology curated for me and only me. Their semantics reached out and touched parts of me that had never been touched before, their phonetic beauty peppered my ears with soft kisses and I found myself kissing him hungrily. What I was previously upset about, I could not remember. Nor did I wish to. I was much happier now, now that he was with me.
I pulled at his tunic while he worked the straps of my nightgown down my shoulders until it fell to my ankles in a forgotten pile that we kicked and stepped over as he walked me back into the bed. My legs hit the frame and I fell back onto the mattress, dressed in nothing but the lavender and vanilla-scented oils that had flavored my bath.
He looked at me in complete lust, eyeing me waiting for him as he pulled his tunic from his body. Throwing it to the side, he inched over me, lowering himself between my parted legs until I felt the fabric of his trousers press between my legs, and his lips across my breasts. I sighed in pleasure, biting my lip and closing my eyes. In a desperate attempt for more friction, I brought my hips higher against his, encouraging him to harden against me. He did, but I wanted him even closer.
Kissing my neck, he rubbed slow circles between my legs, toying with the bundle of nerves that sent my body into heat for him. "Sebastian," I moaned, reaching for his belt. I felt him move to stop my hand, but this time I wanted my way. I kissed his neck, licking, sucking, biting just as he had done to me. His hand stopped in its tracks and I brought mine to rub him through his trousers, feeling the wet fabric where he had pressed himself against me. He groaned into my neck while I touched him and I managed to work his belt from his waistband.
"Calliope," he warned, but I ignored his warning and slid a hand into his pants, rubbing him through the thinner fabric of his boxers. Even against my hand, he felt huge and I dared to go beneath the thinner fabric still. "You don't know what you're starting," he said, snatching my hands over my head with one of his. His eyes were drowning with lust as he stared down at me and it only made me want to touch him further.
In a futile attempt to pull my hands free, his eyes hardened and squeezed my wrists tighter together. He wasn't going to let me touch him, at least not with my hands. Using my hips once again, I moved them against his erection, my lips parting in pleasure. His grip, however, did not loosen. Instead, he kissed me, his tongue toying with mine while his other hand touched me again where I needed him most. To my surprise, his fingers lowered over my opening, touching the place where I was most wet for him, and he slowly inserted one into me, burying its length inch by inch where my walls hugged it tightly.
