Twisted Obsession (Editing)

68 - Insatiable

Lorenzo Vincelli

Fuck. I was an absolute goner.

My chest rose and fell like I'd just run a marathon, lungs dragging in air like it might be the last oxygen I'd ever get. Every muscle in my body was loose—boneless. Like I'd melted into the mattress. My hands were still clenched in the sheets, knuckles white, the aftershocks still rippling through me. She had sucked me off so well, with such relentless intensity, edging me until I was trembling. My legs had started shaking halfway through, and by the end—god—I was seeing goddamn stars. Actual, literal stars behind my eyelids like the universe had cracked open and poured light straight into my skull.

There was a sharp hum in my ears, some mixture of blood rushing and disbelief, like my own body couldn't keep up with what had just happened. My brain wasn't thinking. It couldn't think. It was just feeling—overwhelmed, stunned, eviscerated. I felt raw. Like she'd reached inside and lit a match.

Then I heard it.

Her laugh.

That laugh. Warm, teasing, satisfied—and so contagious it almost dragged a smile out of me even though I was basically comatose.

She knew exactly what she'd done to me. And I hated how much I fucking loved it.

I tried to say something, maybe a joke, maybe just her name—but my throat was dry, the words caught somewhere between worship and disbelief.

My body was still buzzing. My skin was too sensitive. Even the sheets brushing against me felt like static.

I was completely spent—but underneath the exhaustion, I could feel it coiling already. The heat. The want that hadn't left. Because it wasn't just physical. She'd gotten to me. Deep.

I let out a shaky exhale, trying to ground myself, my head spinning in a mix of lust and awe. She was sprawled beside me now, pulling the covers up, like this was casual. Like she hadn't just shattered me into fragments.

I turned to look at her fully, eyes trailing over her features. My fingers twitched, already aching to touch her again.

I didn't know what the hell this was turning into.

But I knew one thing—I was absolutely, undeniably, hers.

She gets off me, slow and unhurried, barefoot now—the soft sound of her feet brushing against the tile like a whisper. Her dress is half-falling off her body, clinging to one shoulder while the rest pools around her waist, exposing the soft curve of her back and the flushed line of her spine. Her hair is tangled, that perfect mess of sex and sweat and wild abandon. Lipstick smudged, her mouth still swollen from everything she'd just done to me. Eyes hazy and dark with mischief, like she wasn't done yet—like I was only just the appetizer.

I should've felt wrecked.

But with her? I felt like I was just coming alive.

There was blood in my veins again. Fire. Electricity. She ignited something in me, something primal and ravenous and utterly hers. My pulse hadn't even begun to settle, and yet I was already wanting more. Not just her body—but her power. The way she moved. The way she knew what she did to me.

She turned around slowly, lips curling into a smirk that made the air feel too thick to breathe. She didn't rush. No, she wanted me to see. She wanted me to ache for her.

With one fluid motion, she peeled the dress down the rest of the way, letting it slip from her hips like silk water, pooling at her feet. She stood there in nothing but a whisper of lingerie—black, delicate, ruined from the night. Then, piece by piece, she stripped that away too. There was no shame in her. No hesitation. Just confidence. Seduction. Control.