The twelve year old suffers from insomnia, and writes erotica. Story of my life. For whatever matter there is; this came out. I'm going to attempt to get a little more in-detail this time. Just to see what happens. Have fun and please review! :)
Alivia
Disclaimer: Nope. I borrow, not sell. :)
She tosses her head back against a fluffy white pillow and bites her lip, emerald eyes dark. He looks down at her and studies; though, it's a lazy thing. Kind of like an artist admiring another's work or a food taster sampling a dish. Her red locks fanned out against the pillow, her ivory skin, her curves, is greater than any masterpiece he's seen before.
Almost angelic, in the ironic sort of way. Because, oh, the things she does are far from saint-worthy.
That look in her eye is positively sinful, teasing, and he only attempts to play the game they begin.
She wraps delicate hands around the back of his neck and pulls him down into a heated kiss, filled with fervor and everything in between. She runs her fingers through his hair, tugging a bit, because she knows he secretly enjoys her being just a little needy.
Skin against skin, and low whispers against a clavicle that is suddenly wet with saliva. Ragged breaths fill the silent air of the hotel room. Stuffy air.
The bedframe creaks as his body moves above hers, and she fists the sheets tightly as his rough grasp holds her firmly by the hips. A moment of complete stillness, and then fireworks.
A groan. A sigh. The headboard hits against the wall and her cheeks flush a bit more than they already are; the walls can't be that thin. Then he moves, though, and she sees stars.
It's a rhythmic thing, what they've developed. Unison and hot and unhinged as she whispers his name over and over again, increasing the volume as he increases the intensity. Skin slaps against skin in the end, and a breathless scream is thrown out into an empty room.
Soon, it's over. The show she and he have put on to an empty audience which she pleads to in an attempt to never let what they have end. What they have.
The bed's comforter is gone. A single pillow, and a sheet. Balcony doors thrown open to the dark night, yet they are unafraid of being heard or seen. This is just as much proverbial foreign country as it is literal, and nothing can be off limits now.
They try to make this last, they really do. The sweet nothings. The heated argument. Tasting skin already slick with sweat and sex. Drawing out moans and screams just for the hell of it. It defines them. It destroys them. Because this is all they have; and it's not enough.
She lies with her head upon his chest and gazes out past the open doors and into the starlit night. The Eiffel tower glows in the distance, and she clings to the reality of it. The solidarity that nothing will change when they wake and she will still be here. Tomorrow.
Nothing can say what the day after will bring.
She closes those emerald eyes as he does his icy blue, and they have peace.
Even for just a moment in time.