Moonshine

Traditionally Made and Distributed Illegally

My god, his teeth! Grazing, teasing the delicate strap of her brassiere. She'll never ever fucking stop talking about his teeth grazing her skin. Never!

Once, twice, and then again—more than twice. His mouth pressed against her skin, suckling at her shoulder. She whispered breathlessly how much she loved it, how much she wanted more. She reveled when he fucking gave it to her. Her pleasure, her needs, her wants, that was what's important to him. He was generously giving her all that she demanded.

And his eyes—those piercing blue eyes, clearer than the sky bathed in Sunday morning light. She could lose herself in them, drowning in the reflection of her own lust, her unspoken hunger. He looked at her with a raw desire she had never imagined she could provoke. He made her feel desired. Oh, how he tried—an animal, primal and untamed, yet slow, deliberate, like rock and roses poised to pounce, to dance along the curve of her skin. He pressed his hardness against her softness, his breath a whispered promise of what was to come.

The scent, the taste, the burn of white whiskey—clearer than water, that fucking whiskey he loved so much, sweet as sin, intoxicating like poison. Addictive. Maddening.

Had she ever felt anything like this? So impure, so utterly wickedly adulterated? Perhaps never. Or perhaps she had, but never like this—never with the courage to act. That was the difference.

He called her a walking contradiction. Strong, untouchable, never weak, yet trembling beneath his touch, surrendering to the thrill of vulnerability. But she was never, never vulnerable. Only liberating.

Oh, how she adored the way he took her to heights she never knew existed.

And when he reached for her, caressing her cheek, her face—oh, how she did the same. In that fleeting moment, nothing else mattered. Just them, lost in a secret that only they shared.

Albeit momentarily.