/ˈɒpjʊl(ə)ns,ˈɒpjʊləns/
⇒noun
great wealth or luxuriousness.
"you taste of melancholia and rotting pain"
"and you, of an opulence that courses within the broken veins of a decaying dynasty"
cover by @plutoqissed
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─ · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─
The night grew colder, their moans fuelled the crackling specs of auburn fire from the melting candle in the lantern. The stars seemed to glow tonight just to bathe them in a diaphanous citadel of lust.
He leapt on top of her, feeling her ephemeral breaths as Ransom collided his lips onto hers, sucking the residual saliva from her mouth as he reveled in the taste of her sin. His hands roaming under her tight bra as he massaged her breast within his palms.
Anya's hands roamed over his back to get a hold of any part of him that she could, unwilling to let the man go herself.
Ransom's body pressing down on her smaller frame was indefinitely heavy yet she loved it for its warmth, as if suffocating her with its melody of protection. She felt safe under him.
His hand soon travelled down to free her off her leggings, reaching up once again to play with her hardened buds as he shuffled them between his fingers - leaving the part of her body that was most in need of his attention spare, feeding Anya a taste of her own poison ivy teases.
Ransoms' cock lay resting upon her abdomen as he finally removed her bra, taking her breast into his mouth while he circled his tongue over her sensitive bud as his hand captured the other, playing with it to the melody of her moans.
The cherry pulp between her thighs had only liquidised even more from the sheer need to feel Ransom in his entirety. Her fingers rummaged through the tufts of his mocha strands, clinging onto it with every ounce of pleasure that circled her chest.
His hand soon left her breast, tracing circles down her unclothed stomach, only to gain recurring flinches from Anya through the series of her insecurity that she had tried so hard to hide.
"Ransom." she moaned, hating the way her stomach had bloated, despising the pouch that it encased as she met his hands, guiding them away from it.
"You're so fucking pretty." he hushed her, taking her hand and instead entwining his coarse fingers into them. He melted into her lips the atoms of sincerity and pecks of authentic appreciation.
His reaction had sent her mind into a frenzy of mistrust, she had never gotten such a reaction out of the heartless man. His hands were truly wrapped into hers for the first time.
She felt a mounting inferiority, asking herself why he'd ever found her pretty when his own wife had a body sculpted of marble with its delicate dimensions that allowed it to be supple at the touch.
She had never truly shown how disgusted she felt about her body, but she couldn't help it today after her cascading series of self hatred that Anya harboured for herself since the last time she saw Ransom.
A couple of months was all it took for a gradual decline into self sabotage. But, for a change, she liked his hands entwined into her after being deprived of any form of care since what had felt like her birth; a single droplet of dulcet tear streamed down her cheek at the feeling.
