Streams of mellow light splay over so slow through the blinds one could catch it, keep it in a jar, and watch it flicker. His hands follow the cool noon as it runs along her body—molds it into her skin with only the heat of his fingertips and his candor. It’s been around five minutes or hours or days or so. She’s not too sure. Time billows into a thing of raindrops and dotted lines ticking away as he leans forward to press his lips under her jaw, shifting his length inside her walls so idly she could give the cold twitch that burns in her stomach a nickname—fuck, god, god, “God.” “How are you doing there?” he asks when he pulls back, licks his bottom lip like he’s tasting something, his cock throbbing so heavily inside her as he says it. Rain follows his voice in a soft pitter-patter. “Just peachy,” she manages, trying to commit herself to a routine of easy breathing that should be easier now that she’s better familiarized herself with the bare definition of his size, his shape—his heat. But now that she knows and feels so much of it and everywhere, it’s quite the opposite. She wants to take her mind off it, or else she might (quite literally) cum on the spot, “Tell me about your kaçak iddaa day.”He hums, and in the span of a heartbeat, she wishes she could’ve asked him to sing a song instead. “Not much, actually. Met up with my sister earlier. She’s engaged now, apparently.”“Congrats,” she says with a smile, albeit absentmindedly. She’s a bit distracted; more intent on admiring how long his eyelashes look this close. Maybe she could curl them a bit if he let her.“But she hardly knows the guy,” he sighs, a hot breath that lands across the junction between her neck and shoulder, “I know I’m the younger one but she’s always been the reckless type, y’know? Or. Well. Maybe just impatient.” He scrunches his nose, a face he makes when he’s either upset, confused, or can’t decide between white bread or wheat bread. So, in a shy attempt at comfort, she kisses his nose as he continues, “Either way, I don’t…” (his cheek) “…really…“ (the corner of his lips) “…trust him.”When she pulls back, she brings her hands to his cheeks, the apex of her thumb only so barely touching the lashes that flare out along the bottom of his eyes. A bit pavlovian, he closes his eyes and nuzzles into her touch. It’s awfully kaçak bahis pretty. A lot like how whispers should look like.“I know for a fact that your sister’s not impatient.” When she tries to remember all the times she’d met her, she finds that they spent a good chunk of them just bickering with each other. “If she were, I’m sure she’d have disowned you by now.” He huffs a laugh. “She’s smart, and knows what she wants,” out of some lazy boredom, she wriggles a bit around his length, the heat flaring up against her abdomen until she focuses on where it goes, tracking the burn as it pushes and sizzles into every part of her. He opens his eyes at this minute action, half-lidded like a cat who just woke up hungry. “Plus, you haven’t met the guy yet, give him a chance. I say you trust him—trust your sister.” “I guess,” he whispers, fingertips digging into the skin at her hips, keeping her still on the muscle of his thighs and the weight of his length. It makes her go a bit dizzy, the heat surging into her at a curling speed, dulling her vision with the distant promise of sheer ecstasy. It’s as if she’s feeling exactly what he’s feeling, so much so that she loses track of where illegal bahis she begins and where she ends. “How does it feel?” he asks, hands dragging themselves up her sides, his breath so unfairly steady.It takes her more than a second to process the request, still a bit stunned quiet at the density of sensations that surge at her in waves—only for them to simmer down as quickly as they came. A cold breeze blows over.“Full,” she sighs out. “I feel so full, daddy.” He smirks. “Tell me how I feel,” he cants his hips upward as if trying to goad the answer out of her. “B-big, ah, you’re so big,” she ends up blurting out as his hands practically cement her against him, leaving her no other choice but to become so ultimately hyperaware of the way his size throbs when she so much as clenches around him. He groans at this, and the mere fact that she can feel how he gets harder inside of her makes her want to yell into a pillow and throw it at him. She tries to relax her body; tries to listen to the beat of the rain as it hits the pavement outside just to preserve the ideal romantic context of it all, but it’s a damn near superhuman feat to focus on anything that isn’t her boyfriend, especially when his hands move down from her hips to her thighs—especially when his thumbs begin pressing deep circles into her skin—drawing lines of heavy warmth across every naked plane of her he can reach.