Feral.

It wasn’t soft this time.

No slow teasing, no gentle coax.

It started with a look—

her lips parted, her breath short—

and I was already there,

on her,

in her,

desperate to taste the heat

I knew would undo me.

She pulled at my hair

with a kind of hunger

that didn’t ask—it claimed.

And I answered

with my mouth pressed hard,

my tongue relentless,

driven not by control

but by need.

She cursed,

loud and low,

grinding herself against my face

like she meant to leave a mark.

She was soaked,

and I wanted all of it—

every sound,

every tremor,

the full flood of her.

She didn’t break,

she burst.

Hard.

Once. Then again.

Her legs locked around me,

hips lifting,

shaking,

like something wild had come loose in her.

When she finally pulled me up to kiss her,

my mouth was slick,

my jaw aching,

but I smiled—

because she was still shaking,

and whispering my name

like a spell

she couldn’t quite let go.