( she gets so fucking tight when she comes, it's like a vice grip wrapped around his cock saying don't you dare move. he doesn't dare. buried deep inside her, down to the hilt where he can feel every crashing wave of her orgasm as she gushes and pours over him — he stays firmly rooted, only moving his hands across her wing, and in light, rapid circles around her clit. elongated her orgasm. his fingers feel soaked. she's so wet she's staining the sheets, and all he can think about is getting them dirtier, coming inside her and watching it leak out of her well fucked hole.
but he doesn't. he doesn't want it to be about him. he wants to fuck her for hours and give her a hundred orgasms, until she's limp and pliant and snuggly warm, until he can kiss her and not taste the grief on her tongue. ragdolling, rhys grabs a hold of her and maneuvers her deeper onto the mattress, giving himself enough space to kneel up there with her. pointedly, he sets her hips down, leggings biting under her ass, until she's laying flat on her stomach, weighed by the heaviness of her own wings. throughout it all, he stays deep inside her, sluggishly grinding his cock in circles against her.
slower, now. the frenzy is settled. this is his wife and high lady, and she deserves to be fucked like the goddess she is, with all the intimacy he can muster, all the worship he's capable of. he palms a hand against her sweaty back, sliding her messy hair over one shoulder before his hands settle firmly against her muscles. without being told, his thumbs dig into her flesh, exhausted from making the wings, rubbing against the dip of her spine with a keen talent. massaging the tear of skin, where the wings sprout from. searching out aches and easing them away, one swipe at a time. )
Feyre.
( it's a prayer, her name. she's every star in his black, darkened night. as her body eases, he pulls his cock an inch from her, smoothly thrusting back into her. it's so slow, by comparison — a gentle, intimate thing. his body begging for hers, loving as best as it can.
he's never really received much love, but he's always known how to give it. infinitely, with everything he has. )
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but he doesn't. he doesn't want it to be about him. he wants to fuck her for hours and give her a hundred orgasms, until she's limp and pliant and snuggly warm, until he can kiss her and not taste the grief on her tongue. ragdolling, rhys grabs a hold of her and maneuvers her deeper onto the mattress, giving himself enough space to kneel up there with her. pointedly, he sets her hips down, leggings biting under her ass, until she's laying flat on her stomach, weighed by the heaviness of her own wings. throughout it all, he stays deep inside her, sluggishly grinding his cock in circles against her.
slower, now. the frenzy is settled. this is his wife and high lady, and she deserves to be fucked like the goddess she is, with all the intimacy he can muster, all the worship he's capable of. he palms a hand against her sweaty back, sliding her messy hair over one shoulder before his hands settle firmly against her muscles. without being told, his thumbs dig into her flesh, exhausted from making the wings, rubbing against the dip of her spine with a keen talent. massaging the tear of skin, where the wings sprout from. searching out aches and easing them away, one swipe at a time. )
Feyre.
( it's a prayer, her name. she's every star in his black, darkened night. as her body eases, he pulls his cock an inch from her, smoothly thrusting back into her. it's so slow, by comparison — a gentle, intimate thing. his body begging for hers, loving as best as it can.
he's never really received much love, but he's always known how to give it. infinitely, with everything he has. )