She pressed her thigh to his on the bench, and buried her face against his arm. There were no words to exchange. She had waited for this.
For him.
What they needed from each other was not tender. She spread her legs over his lap and ground herself on his thigh, gnawing softly at his neck and chest. He grabbed her breast roughly, and she liked it. Liked when he was rough with her. When he tugged at her hair, and made her look at him.
She liked him to fuck her so that she knew that he had been with her. The feeling of his weight on her, the way he grabbed her that was tough, but made her feel wanted.
In bed, she opened her legs wide for him. He held her thighs apart, so that she felt exposed and desired. His tongue felt like a tiny brand, when he went down on her like a fire. She burned up under him, and felt charred with desire.
When he was inside her, she clawed at him and could almost smell the blood she extracted from him. He moved with her, in time with her aggression. He understood the language of her lust and her need for him.
It was after, they were only joined by their skin in bed that whispered louder than it had in the bench where they had been sitting before.
Quietly, before the storm of love…
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