( there's something perversely satisfying in watching ben's fingers against the wound, drawing to mind the sensuality of a woman stroking her wet cunt up and down, all saccharine sweetness. there's something extremely religious to the motion, pulling cake from his leg and into her mouth, parting holy eucharist on her tongue — and parisa is not religious, and certainly not a catholic, but it still feels holy, almost devastatingly so. eyelashes flutter shut, sucking his fingers, moaning to the tune of melted cream on her tongue. she likes sugar, likes parisian desserts, likes bread with too much butter and pancakes with too much syrup. ben is better than all of them.
sucking off his fingers with a wet plop, her hands curve around the back of his calves, stroking his legs up and down, soothingly. her tongue cleans up the crumbs on her lips in a big circle, gaze heavy when she locks eyes with him, chest rising and falling on heavy, needy breaths. )
Is that all you want to feed me?
( more, she seems to say. cock and cake. either. both. )
lets fucking go
sucking off his fingers with a wet plop, her hands curve around the back of his calves, stroking his legs up and down, soothingly. her tongue cleans up the crumbs on her lips in a big circle, gaze heavy when she locks eyes with him, chest rising and falling on heavy, needy breaths. )
Is that all you want to feed me?
( more, she seems to say. cock and cake. either. both. )