( it's the wholly vulnerable yes that makes parisa obsess over him, a little. she knew it was a yes — he knew it, the bust knew it. everyone knows it. but the difference between knowing it, knotted up in the finery of his threaded thoughts like an unwanted visitor, and hearing it spoken aloud is apparently mountainous. truth, like cake, is highly addictive once you get a taste. bellamy's mind might not be an open book, but there's something raw and real and too honest about him that makes parisa's thighs quiver, hopeful and scared. hopeful, because he could be good. scared, because he probably isn't.
then again, parisa doesn't really need good. not right now, at least. despite her heels, she's still short when up on her feet, reaching hands up to the sides of his head and grinning, sharp, viper smiles, because he waited, because he's kind, because his skin tastes like sugar and his kisses are just as sweet, their mouths pressing together, parisa's fist in his hair. good boy, she thinks. best boy. sweet little violent boy, a soldier in practice, a knight in his heart. her hero. her next meal. her favorite indulgence — reaching into a brain and finding something that feels almost worthwhile.
she moves, dragging him with her, pining herself to the bit of wall he just occupied, head tilted up, nipping at his tongue but not biting it off — there are uses for it yet. parisa dons a drapey, clingy dress that is equal parts tight and loose, silken against her body like the veil on a bride, the bow on a present. she moves her shoulders, the spaghetti strap falling off one, unveiling the full top of one small breast. breaking the kiss, she encourages bellamy lower, his mouth smudging her lip gloss all over her skin, down her chest, bullying him there, there, there. )
Bite, bite. ( her head rolls back, ecstasy. pain. she's never really known the difference, anyway. ) Share me. I'll be in you, you be in me. Let's.
no subject
then again, parisa doesn't really need good. not right now, at least. despite her heels, she's still short when up on her feet, reaching hands up to the sides of his head and grinning, sharp, viper smiles, because he waited, because he's kind, because his skin tastes like sugar and his kisses are just as sweet, their mouths pressing together, parisa's fist in his hair. good boy, she thinks. best boy. sweet little violent boy, a soldier in practice, a knight in his heart. her hero. her next meal. her favorite indulgence — reaching into a brain and finding something that feels almost worthwhile.
she moves, dragging him with her, pining herself to the bit of wall he just occupied, head tilted up, nipping at his tongue but not biting it off — there are uses for it yet. parisa dons a drapey, clingy dress that is equal parts tight and loose, silken against her body like the veil on a bride, the bow on a present. she moves her shoulders, the spaghetti strap falling off one, unveiling the full top of one small breast. breaking the kiss, she encourages bellamy lower, his mouth smudging her lip gloss all over her skin, down her chest, bullying him there, there, there. )
Bite, bite. ( her head rolls back, ecstasy. pain. she's never really known the difference, anyway. ) Share me. I'll be in you, you be in me. Let's.