The door was heavy for a six-year-old's arms, but Anya had practice at being quiet. She'd followed the thoughts like a thread of sound only she could hear—filthy, frantic, repeating her name in a voice that didn't sound like the Damian who sneered at her in class. That Damian was all sharp edges and louder-than-needed insults. This one, the one leaking through his skull in the steam-thick air of the boys' locker room, was desperate in a way that made her stomach feel strange and tight.
Her white gloves gripped the frame of the door as she eased it shut behind her, the latch clicking soft as a secret. The air hit her face—wet, warm, smelling of soap and boy and something else, something sharp and musky that she'd learned to recognize in the last few minutes of following him. The fluorescent bulb above stuttered, light flickering in bursts across the rows of battered metal lockers, painting the room in uneven pulses of white and shadow.
She saw him before he saw her.
Damian Desmond, second son of the Desmond family, tall for his age and proud in a way that made the other boys follow him like ducklings—he was backed against the lockers, his white shirt untucked and his trousers undone, hanging open at his hips. His small hand was wrapped around his cock, and his head was tipped back against the metal, and his eyes were squeezed shut, and his mouth was open on a sound that hadn't quite made it out yet.
His thoughts were so loud she could almost see them. Anya, Anya, Anya— her name, over and over, tangled up in images of her that made her cheeks heat. Her mouth. Her hands. Her. Her. Her.
His green eyes snapped open.
For one long, flickering second, neither of them moved. His face went through a whole argument in the space of a breath—shock, then horror, then a frantic scramble to cover himself that his frozen hands couldn't quite manage. His back hit the lockers with a hollow metal bang that echoed off the wet tile, and his mouth opened to say something—an insult, probably, or a command, the way he always did when he didn't know what else to do.
Anya crossed the floor before he could speak.
The tile was cold and wet through the knees of her uniform as she dropped. Her white gloves pressed flat to the floor on either side of her, the damp seeping through the fabric as she settled onto her knees in front of him. She looked up at him from under her pink bangs, and she watched his throat work as he tried and failed to find words.
"W-what are you—" His voice cracked on the second word, going high and thin. "Anya, what are you—get up, someone could—"
She reached out and wrapped her small hand around his wrist. His cock was right there, inches from her face, hard and flushed and leaking at the tip, and she could feel the pulse in his arm jumping like a trapped bird. His thoughts were a disaster—half of them screaming at her to stop, to run, to pretend she'd never seen this, and the other half, the louder half, wondering with a desperate, dizzying hope what she was about to do.
Anya didn't say anything. She just leaned in.
The first touch was her tongue—flat and warm against the underside of his cock, pressing up along the length of him. Damian made a sound that wasn't quite a word, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and his free hand flew down to tangle in her pink hair. He didn't push her away. His fingers just gripped, tight, trembling, holding on like she was the only solid thing in the room.
"Anya—" His voice came out strangled, barely a whisper. "Anya, you don't have to—I didn't mean for you to—"
She closed her lips around him and took him deeper.
The taste of him was strange and salty and warm, nothing like anything she'd ever had in her mouth before. She'd read about this—she'd read a lot of things, in the years since she'd learned to hear what people were really thinking—but reading about it and doing it were very different things. His cock was thick against her tongue, and she had to concentrate to relax her jaw, to open her throat the way the thoughts in his head were desperately imagining.
His fingers tightened in her hair. "Oh—oh, that's—"
She pushed down. Her nose brushed his belly, and she felt him shudder all the way through, a full-body tremble that rattled his teeth together. His other hand came up to grip the edge of the locker beside him, knuckles going white, and she heard the metal creak under the pressure.
"You're—" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hips moved again, a small, aborted thrust that pushed him deeper into her throat, and she felt his cock pulse against her tongue. "You're actually—Anya, you're—"
She hummed around him, a small sound of encouragement, and felt the vibration travel through him. His gasp echoed off the lockers, loud and broken, and she felt his thighs tremble against her hands. She'd moved her gloved hands from the tile to his hips, gripping the fabric of his undone trousers, holding him steady as she worked him deeper.
Drool was starting to run down her chin, hot and wet, and she could feel the strain in her jaw, the pressure in her throat. But his thoughts were so loud now— oh god oh god oh god, her mouth, her mouth is so warm, she's actually doing this, she's on her knees for me— and she wanted to give him this. She wanted to be the thing that made his thoughts go quiet and white and empty.
"Anya—" His voice was cracking, breaking apart. "Anya, I'm—I'm going to—"
She pushed down again, taking him all the way, her nose pressed into the soft skin of his belly, and she felt him come apart.
His hips jerked, hard, and his fingers fisted in her hair, pulling, holding her in place as he spilled down her throat. His cry was strangled, broken, barely human—a sound that bounced off the metal lockers and landed in the flickering silence of the room. She felt him pulse against her tongue, felt the hot rush of him filling her mouth, and she swallowed, and swallowed again, and his grip in her hair went loose and shaking.
The fluorescent bulb stuttered. Water dripped somewhere in the dark, a slow, steady plink that was the only sound besides his ragged breathing.
Anya pulled off him slowly, her lips dragging wet and red, and she looked up at him. His face was flushed, his green eyes wide and dazed, his chest heaving under his untucked shirt. His hand was still in her hair, but it had gone soft, his fingers just resting there, like he'd forgotten how to let go.
"Anya," he said. Just her name. Like he didn't know what else to say. Like it was the only word he had left.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove, smearing spit across the white fabric, and she felt his cock—still hard, still pressed against her cheek—twitch against her skin.
From somewhere beyond the door, she heard the distant sound of voices in the corridor. Boys' voices, laughing, getting closer.
Anya's gaze dropped to the evidence pressing against her cheek. Still hard. Still flushed. Still leaking a thin, clear bead from the tip. She'd watched adults' thoughts about this enough to know what it meant when a boy stayed like that after—his body wasn't done with her. And hers, if she was honest with the strange warm ache sitting low in her belly, wasn't done with him either.
"Anya." His voice had steadied a little, but only a little. "You should—they're coming. You need to go before—"
She didn't move. Her knees were wet and cold against the tile, and her jaw ached in a way that felt like a secret she wanted to keep. She tilted her head instead, pink bangs falling across her eyes, and she watched his face as she let one gloved thumb drag up the underside of his cock, slow, from the base to the swollen head. He shuddered, his hips twitching forward, and the metal locker behind him rang with a soft, hollow note.
"You're still hard," she said. Not a question. A fact, stated with the same flat certainty she used for the answers on her Imperial Scholar exams.
His mouth opened and closed. The thoughts above him were a tangle of panic and want— she can't be serious, they're right outside, but her hand, her hand is still on me, and she's looking at me like she knows exactly what she's doing—
"I know," he managed, and his voice cracked on the second word. "I know, I'm sorry, I don't know why it won't—it just—"
The voices outside swelled, closer. A laugh. Someone's voice raised in a complaint about a lost shoe. The door was thin, and the steam in the air carried sound, and Anya could hear the scuff of shoes on the corridor floor just beyond the metal.
Damian's hand found her shoulder. His fingers were shaking, pressing into the fabric of her uniform blazer. "Anya, please. If they find you in here—" His voice dropped to a frantic whisper. "You're a girl. In the boys' locker room. Do you understand what they'd—what the teachers would—"
She understood. She'd read enough of his thoughts to know exactly what the Desmond name would do to protect him, and exactly what would happen to an orphan scholarship student caught in here with the second son of the Desmond family. The math was simple, and it didn't end with her walking away clean.
She didn't move her hand from his cock.
"Then don't make a sound," she said.
His eyes went wide. The green of them caught the flickering fluorescent light, and she watched the panic in them war with something else, something darker and hungrier that his thoughts were already losing to. What is she—she can't mean—here, now, with them right outside— and underneath that, a desperate, dizzying yes, oh god, yes, please—
She leaned in again.
Her lips parted around the head of his cock, and she heard his breath catch, high and thin in his throat. The taste of him was still there, salt and warm musk, and she let her tongue press flat against the underside the way she'd learned in the last few minutes—the way his thoughts told her he liked it, the way his hips had bucked when she'd done it before. He was slick with her spit, easier now, and she took him deeper in one slow push, her nose brushing the soft skin of his belly, her throat opening around him like it had learned his shape.
His hand fisted in her hair again, but gentler this time, trembling. "Oh—" The word came out as barely a breath. "Oh, Anya—"
She hummed, low, and felt the vibration run through him like a current. His hips made a small, aborted movement, and she felt his cock pulse against her tongue, thick and hot. The voices outside were louder now—right outside the door, someone laughing, someone else complaining about the heat—and the wrongness of it, the danger of it, made something in her stomach clench tight and hot.
She pulled back until only the head was in her mouth, then pushed down again, slow, deliberate, her gloved hands gripping his hips to hold him still. She set a rhythm, shallow and deep, and she felt his whole body shake with the effort of staying quiet. His knuckles were white where he gripped the locker, and she could feel the tremor running through his thighs against her forearms.
"Anya," he whispered, barely audible. "Anya, I can't—I'm going to—"
She didn't slow down. If anything, she took him deeper, her nose grinding into the soft skin above his navel as she swallowed around him. His whole body locked up, a bowstring drawn too tight, and she felt the pulse in his cock jump against her tongue—once, twice, a frantic stutter that told her exactly how close he was. The voices in the corridor were right on the other side of the door now, a boy's voice raised in a complaint about a stolen towel, and the sound of it, the closeness of it, made her stomach clench around that strange hot ache again.
She wanted him to come. She wanted to feel him fall apart in her mouth while the whole school walked past the door, and she wanted to be the only one who knew. Her gloved hands slid up from his hips to the waistband of his trousers, gripping the fabric tight as she worked him faster, her head bobbing in a rhythm that was all desperation and hunger. His hand in her hair tightened, pulled, and his hips started to move in small, frantic jerks, fucking her mouth in short, shallow thrusts that pushed him deeper with every stroke.
"Anya—" His voice was a wrecked whisper, barely audible over the thud of her own pulse in her ears. "Anya, I can't hold—I'm going to—" The words broke apart, and she felt him swell against her tongue, thick and hot, and she pushed down one last time, taking him all the way to the root as his hips bucked hard against her face.
He came with a strangled, broken cry that he swallowed almost immediately, his teeth clicking shut as his whole body shook. She felt the first hot pulse of him hit the back of her throat, and she swallowed around him, milking him with her throat the way his thoughts had desperately imagined. He pulsed again, and again, his hand fisted in her hair so tight it hurt, and she felt the hot rush of him filling her mouth, spilling down her throat, and she swallowed every drop.
For a long moment, neither of them breathed. His body was rigid against the lockers, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut, and she could feel his cock still twitching against her tongue as the last pulses faded. Then his grip in her hair went loose, and his hand fell away, and he slid down the locker until he was sitting on the wet tile, his legs splayed out in front of him, his head tipped back against the metal.
The fluorescent bulb stuttered. Water dripped somewhere in the dark. The voices in the corridor faded, moving away, and the silence that flooded back in was thick and warm and full of the sound of his ragged breathing.
Anya pulled off him slowly, her lips dragging wet and red, and she looked at him. His shirt was untucked and wrinkled, his trousers pooled around his hips, and his face was flushed and dazed, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. He looked wrecked. He looked like she'd taken something from him that he hadn't known he could give.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove, smearing spit and the last taste of him across the white fabric, and she watched his chest rise and fall. His cock was still hard, still flushed, still pressed against his belly, and she saw the way his breath caught when she looked at it.
"Anya," he said. Just her name. Like it was the only word he had left.
She didn't answer. She reached out instead, her gloved hand closing around his cock, and she felt him shudder, felt the way his hips twitched forward into her grip. He was slick with her spit and his own come, hot and thick in her hand, and she stroked him slow, from the base to the swollen head, watching his face as his eyes went wide and his mouth fell open.
"What are you—" His voice cracked. "Anya, I just—I already—"
"I know," she said. Her voice was flat, calm, the same voice she used for her Imperial Scholar exams. "But you're still hard."
His throat worked. His thoughts were a tangle of confusion and want, a desperate, dizzying loop of she's still touching me, she's still touching me, why is she still touching me and underneath it, a darker, hungrier don't stop, please don't stop that he couldn't have said out loud if his life depended on it.
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, soft and deliberate, her lips parting just enough to taste him again. He made a sound high in his throat, a broken little whimper that he tried to swallow, and his hand came up to tangle in her hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed something to anchor him.
"Anya." His voice was barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"
She looked up at him, her pink bangs falling across her eyes, and she didn't have an answer. Or maybe she did, but it wasn't one she could say out loud. She just knew that the strange warm ache in her belly hadn't gone away when he'd come, and that her own body felt tight and hot in a way that had nothing to do with the steam in the air.
She pulled back, her hand still wrapped around him, and she looked at the wet tile beneath her knees. Her uniform skirt was bunched around her thighs, and she could feel the damp seeping through the fabric, cold against her skin. She shifted, and the movement made her thighs press together, and the pressure sent a spark through her that made her breath catch.
Damian's eyes followed the movement. His thoughts were loud again, a frantic scramble of what is she doing, what is she doing, she can't be—she's not— and underneath it, a desperate, dizzying hope that made her stomach clench.
"Anya." His voice was hoarse. "What are you—" He stopped, swallowed, started again. "You're not—you don't have to—"
"I know," she said again. And she meant it. She didn't have to. She wanted to.
She let go of his cock and reached down instead, her gloved fingers finding the hem of her uniform skirt. She tugged it up, just a little, just enough, and she saw the way his eyes went wide, the way his breath caught in his throat. His thoughts went white and static, a single stunned oh echoing through his skull, and she felt a small, fierce thrill of triumph.
She was the thing that made his thoughts go quiet. She was the only one who could.
She shifted forward, her knees sliding on the wet tile, and she settled over his lap. His cock was still hard, still flushed, pressing against her thigh, and she could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of her panties. She reached down with one hand, hooking the fabric aside, and she saw the way his eyes tracked the movement, the way his mouth fell open.
"Anya—" His voice was a wreck. "Anya, you can't—we can't—"
She pressed the head of his cock against her, and they both went still.
The heat of him was shocking, a wet, pulsing pressure against her most sensitive skin, and she felt her whole body clench around the sensation. She was slick, wet in a way she hadn't expected, and the head of his cock slid against her easily, catching on her clit, and she gasped at the spark of it.
"Anya." His hands found her hips, gripping the fabric of her skirt, trembling. "Anya, please—if someone—if they—"
"Then don't make a sound," she said again. And she pushed down.
He was thick, thicker than she'd expected, and she felt the stretch of him as he pushed inside her, a slow, burning pressure that made her breath catch. His hands tightened on her hips, his knuckles white, and she heard him bite down on a groan, his teeth grinding together. She sank down, inch by inch, her body opening around him, and she felt the strange, full ache of it, the way he filled her, and she wanted more.
She pushed down until she was seated on him, his cock buried inside her to the root, and they both sat there, frozen, breathing hard. The fluorescent bulb stuttered. Water dripped somewhere in the dark. And she felt him pulse inside her, thick and hot, and she felt her body clench around him, and she knew, with a certainty that had nothing to do with the thoughts she could hear, that this was exactly where she wanted to be.
She started to move.
It was slow at first, a tentative rocking of her hips that made him gasp and his fingers dig into her waist. She found a rhythm, a small, grinding circle that made the head of his cock press against something inside her that sent sparks through her whole body, and she heard his breath catch, high and thin in his throat. His thoughts were a mess of oh god oh god oh god, she's so tight, she's so warm, she's riding me, Anya is riding me— and she felt a fierce, possessive thrill at the sound of it.
She was doing this to him. She was the one making him fall apart.
His hands moved up her sides, fingers dragging through the damp fabric of her blazer, and she felt the tremor run through him all the way up. His thoughts were a tangled mess of *she's so tight, she's so warm, she's actually riding me* and underneath it, something newer, something that had only just started to form—*her chest, her chest is right there, I could—*
She rocked her hips again, a slow, grinding circle that made the head of his cock press against that spot inside her, and she felt his whole body jerk. His hands closed over her blazer, fumbling with the buttons, and she heard his breath hitch when his fingers slipped on the first one.
"What are you—" she started, but his thoughts answered before he could.
*I want to see her. I want to touch her. She's wearing my come and I want to see all of her.*
The button came free. Then the next. His fingers were shaking, clumsy with want, and she felt the cool air of the locker room hit her skin as he pushed the fabric aside. Her white shirt underneath was thin, and she could feel his gaze on her like a physical thing, hot and hungry.
She stopped moving. Just for a second. Just long enough to watch his face.
His green eyes were wide, fixed on her chest, and his mouth had fallen open. His thoughts had gone quiet, white and static, a single stunned *oh* echoing through his skull. She felt a small, fierce thrill of triumph—she was doing this to him. She was the one making him forget how to think.
"Anya," he breathed. Just her name. Like it was the only word he had left.
His hands came up, trembling, and he pushed her shirt aside. The thin cotton of her undershirt was still between them, but she could feel the heat of his palms through it, seeping into her skin. He didn't move, didn't touch, just hovered there, his fingers curled in the fabric, his breath coming in short, shallow pants.
She watched his thoughts. *Can I? Should I? She's—she's letting me—is she letting me?*
"You can," she said. Her voice was flat, calm, the same voice she used for her Imperial Scholar exams. "If you want to."
He swallowed. His throat worked, a visible bob of his Adam's apple, and his hands tightened on the fabric. Then he pushed it up, just a little, just enough to bare the lower curve of her chest, and she felt the cool air hit her skin and heard him make a sound low in his throat—a small, desperate sound that she felt echo through her whole body.
His thumb brushed the underside of her chest, hesitant, barely there. The touch sent a spark through her that made her hips twitch, grinding her down onto his cock, and he gasped, his head falling back against the locker.
"Oh—" His voice cracked. "Oh, Anya—"
She did it again. A slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made him groan, his fingers digging into her waist. The pressure inside her was building again, that strange hot ache coiling tight in her belly, and she could feel herself getting slicker around him, could feel the wet slide of him moving inside her.
His hands found her chest again, bolder now, and he pushed the fabric up higher until her small breasts were bare to the flickering light. She felt his gaze on them, hot and hungry, and she watched his thoughts spiral into a desperate, dizzying loop of *so small, so perfect, I want to touch her, I want to—*
He did.
His palms cupped her, thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she felt the shock of it run through her like a current. His hands were warm, slightly calloused from the Imperial Scholar exams' endless writing drills, and the roughness of them against the soft skin of her chest made her breath catch. She heard herself make a small sound, high and thin in her throat, and she felt him shudder at the sound of it.
"Anya." His voice was a wreck. "Anya, you're—you're so—"
He didn't finish. His thumbs circled her nipples, slow and deliberate, and she felt the pressure inside her spike, sharp and electric. Her hips moved on their own, grinding down onto him, and she heard him groan, his head falling back against the locker.
"Don't stop," she said. The words came out before she could think about them, and she felt him stiffen, felt his thoughts go white and static again. "Don't stop touching me."
His hands tightened on her chest. "I won't. I—" He swallowed. "I won't."
He squeezed, just a little, just enough to press her small breasts together, and she felt the sensation run through her like a spark, arcing down to where they were joined. Her hips moved faster, a desperate, grinding rhythm that made the head of his cock press against that spot inside her again and again, and she felt the coil in her belly draw tight, tighter, a wire pulled to its breaking point.
"Anya—" His voice was strangled. "Anya, I'm going to—I can't hold—"
"Then don't." She heard her own voice, low and fierce, and she felt him shudder at the sound of it. "I want you to. I want to feel you."
His hands flew to her hips, gripping her tight, and he started to move beneath her, thrusting up into her in short, frantic jerks that made her gasp. The angle was different now, deeper, and she felt the head of his cock press against her cervix, a dull, aching pressure that made her whole body clench around him.
"Anya—" He was losing it, his voice breaking apart, his thoughts a frantic scramble of *so tight, so warm, I'm going to come, I'm going to come inside her—*
She felt him swell, thick and hot inside her, and she knew what was coming. She didn't pull away. She pushed down instead, taking him deeper, and she felt his hips buck hard against her as he came.
His cry was strangled, barely human, swallowed against his teeth as his whole body locked up. She felt the first hot pulse of him inside her, deep and filling, and she gasped at the sensation—the strange, intimate heat of him spilling into her, marking her from the inside. He pulsed again, and again, his hands fisted in her blazer, and she felt his cock twitch inside her as the last pulses faded.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. His chest was heaving, his head tipped back against the locker, his eyes squeezed shut. She could feel him softening inside her, could feel the wet trickle of his come starting to leak down her thigh, and she felt a strange, possessive satisfaction at the thought of it.
His hands found her chest again. Gently this time, reverently, his palms cupping her small breasts like they were something precious. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, slow and soft, and she felt a shiver run through her that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Anya," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, wrecked. "Anya, you—you're still—"
She didn't know what he was trying to say. She didn't care. The pressure in her belly was still there, coiled tight and hot, and his hands on her chest were making it worse, making it build and build until she thought she might burst.
"Don't stop," she said again. Her voice came out thin, desperate. "Please. Don't stop."
His hands squeezed, a little harder this time, and she felt the spark of it arc through her, sharp and electric. Her hips moved on their own, grinding down onto his softening cock, and she heard him gasp at the sensation. His thumbs circled her nipples, faster now, and she felt the coil in her belly draw tight, tighter, a wire pulled to its breaking point.
"Anya—" His voice was urgent now, frantic. "Anya, you're—are you—"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. The pressure was too much, too bright, and she felt herself falling over the edge, her body clenching around him as a wave of sensation crashed through her. She heard herself make a sound—small and broken—and she felt his hands tighten on her chest, holding her, grounding her as she came apart. Her cunt clenched around his cock, squeezing him, and she felt him stir inside her, half-hard again, and the feeling of it made the wave crest higher, brighter, until she was trembling in his lap, breathless and spent.
The fluorescent bulb stuttered. Water dripped somewhere in the dark. And she sat there, on his cock, his come leaking down her thigh, his hands still cradling her chest, and she felt a deep, satisfied warmth settle into her bones.
She didn't want to move. She didn't want to get up. She wanted to stay right here, full of him, his hands on her, this secret pressed between them like a pearl.
"Anya." His voice was barely a whisper. "We should—someone could—"
She didn't move. She shifted her hips instead, a small, experimental roll, and she felt his cock twitch inside her, half-hard and getting harder. His breath caught, high and thin in his throat, and she watched his eyes go wide.
"Anya—"
She did it again. Slower this time, a deliberate grind that made her feel every inch of him inside her, and she heard him groan, his hands flying to her hips.
"You're still hard," she said. Not a question. A fact.
His throat worked. His thoughts were a tangle of *she's still on me, she's still on me, she doesn't want to get off, she wants to stay—* and underneath it, a desperate, dizzying hope that made her stomach clench.
"I—" He swallowed. "I don't—"
She leaned forward, pressing her chest against his, and she felt his hands come up to wrap around her, holding her close. His heart was pounding against hers, a frantic, drumming beat, and she felt his cock thicken inside her, filling her again.
"I like it," she said. Her voice was quiet, honest, the same voice she used when she told her papa she loved him. "I like being on your dick. I like feeling you inside me."
His breath caught. His hands tightened on her back, and she felt him shudder, a full-body tremble that rattled his teeth together.
"Anya—" His voice cracked. "Anya, you can't just—you can't say things like that—"
"Why not?" She shifted her hips again, a slow, grinding circle that made him gasp. "It's true."
He didn't have an answer. His thoughts had gone white and static again, a single stunned *oh* echoing through his skull, and she felt a fierce, possessive thrill at the sound of it.
She was the one making him forget how to think. She was the only one who could.
She started to move again, slow and deliberate, riding him with a lazy, grinding rhythm that made his hands fist in her blazer. His come was still inside her, slick and warm, making the slide easier, and she felt the pressure building again, low and hot in her belly.
His hands found her chest again, cupping her small breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in time with her movements. The dual sensation was overwhelming, the fullness of him inside her and the warmth of his hands on her, and she felt her breath catch, high and thin in her throat.
"Anya—" His voice was a wreck. "Anya, I'm going to—again—"
"Good." She didn't slow down. "I want you to. I want to feel you fill me up again."
He groaned, his head falling back, and she felt him swell inside her, thick and hot. She pushed down, taking him deeper, and she felt the first hot pulse of him spill into her again, filling her, and she gasped at the sensation. She rode him through it, grinding down, milking him with her body until he was spent and shaking beneath her, his hands limp at his sides.
And when she finally stilled, his come pooling inside her, his hands still cradling her chest, she felt a deep, satisfied warmth settle into her bones. She didn't move. She didn't want to. She wanted to stay right here, full of him, this secret pressed between them, his cock still half-hard inside her, and she knew—with a certainty that had nothing to do with the thoughts she could hear—that this wouldn't be the last time.
She was going to be on his dick for a long, long time.