Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

LovelyBrutal is a better editor, partner, and person than a soft boy could ever hope to hold hands with. thank you so much for everything.

we're getting deeper now. this week is going to look a little different.

your pleasure is mine

we can heal together

Otzeki: True Love

XIV

By the time I'm mounting him, I'm so beside myself with need that I spill the breath I mean to push into his chest. It breaks over his chin and cheeks instead, not nearly enough to fully submerge him, but more than enough to lift his head. To turn his face toward where I am and seek the first hints of unfathomable limbo.

Pressing my thumbs to the corners of his mouth, I hold it open so he can take what he craves in one fell shot.

My lover groans as it knocks him out, and I drag so-soft-they-hurt lips down his neck, marking his chest and stomach with my hungry tongue. His pulse pounds and I get dizzy. A fleeting sense of wanting to slow down and savor every second swims through my veins, but my body keeps moving.

Every part of me is unsettled and restless.

Starving.

It feels like years since I last tasted him, but I can't remember how long it's been. I can't remember anything but needing him.

A heavy haze splashes over everything.

I don't remember bringing his hands to my hips, but I'm swaying in them now. Dazed and rocking in an urgent blur of impulse and yearning and feel.

Feel.

"Feel," I whisper, rolling as one jet-black and one unmarked hand seize control of supple curves. Strong fingers dip unconsciously under undone denim, slipping over my feverish skin to trace a sheer little hem, and it feels like a promise. Like he's making me a promise as he finds the fly I've left open, following it with fast-asleep thumbs and feeling how easy it would be.

How effortlessly he could have me.

It drags a sigh from his lungs as he nudges me toward my place between his knees. Bringing his hands up, running his fingers through my hair, he guides me down by my roots.

Like I'm not dying to sink onto him.

Like there's anything that gets me higher than this.

Like there's anywhere else I ever, ever want to be.

His hips rise as I hum all the way to the base. Soaking him in a slow kiss, lapping at every endless inch, I melt under the weight of his hands. Caressing my crown, his touch drifts dreamily from my shoulders to my arms, down to my own hands. Bringing them to his hips just like I brought his to mine. Urging me without words to feel.

Feel him.

Touch him.

Intimate heat heightens inside me, out, coating the full length of his cock as I soothe my needy mouth. It burns and pours from me in whimpers and waves, emanating from every pore until private, primal warmth covers his skin too. Our bed. Our floor. Lush passion fills our whole cabin until it's fogging the windows, clouding out everything outside.

There's nothing but us.

Nothing but Grim.

Filling me to the brim.

Desire and devotion sear my skin in a soft pink fever as I bury him against my pulse, fluttering in the back of my throat as I stroke his tilted hips, following his sides up, over filling and falling ribs, where I stretch the tips of my fingers across his chest. My heart throbs to the kick drum of his beneath my palms as I slide them back down, tracing the entire sublime shape of him, slanted up to me in righteous offering.

I keep him deep and kiss him how he loves to be kissed. I never take my hands away for a single second, and when his dip beneath the shirt I'm still wearing, I swear it feels like I'll come forever.

Drowsy with dreaming, he drags stifling fabric up enough to expose me, and I moan against his lifting hips, pushing himself deeper into my throat as disheveled sheets graze my tits, still so tender from what I asked of him.

The instinct to lean up and take everything off - everything but his hands - races through me.

Another wave swallows it fast.

The weight of how sordid this feels.

How sordid I suddenly feel.

It was already soddenly erotic. What I do. How slick-soft doing it to Grim makes me. I didn't know it could get more salacious than getting off on getting fed, but this - taking him to the hilt with my shirt pushed up and jeans undone instead of entirely off makes me feel purely prurient.

Lust-filled. Lust-locked. Lust-unfolded and fucked in secret.

It makes me feel like his dirty little secret.

Attention-starved. Touch-obsessed. Teenage.

A bad girl he likes to call baby in the middle of the night.

A guilty pleasure. An x-rated habit. A thought he forbids himself to think.

Human.

Making Grim finish while he touches over and under my soft camouflage feels so filthy sweet because it makes me feel like him.

Something like tingles skim my skin, making every inch of me even more sensitive as I take what I need in deep, unrelenting drinks.

With the taste of rosewater lingering on my tongue, I'm barely two heartbeats from dreaming when I slip to his side. Drowsy-breathless and so satisfied I'm blurry-eyed, I gaze at my arm in the moonlit dark, draped over his stomach as my eyes close.

I can't see the little chills I can still feel, tingling all over me. And I know they're impossible. I know. But I swear -

I swear to every single god -

They feel just like goosebumps.