Masterpiece...

[xTrishx]

The air in the loft is still, thick with the aftermath. The rain has stopped, but the storm in the room hasn't. I d
on't move. I don't blink. I watch the tremors shake through your frame, the way your hands claw at my shoulders, desperate anchors in a sea of sensation. You are unraveling, and I am the only hand strong enough to hold you together.

"Killing you," I repeat, the words heavy and dark. "A piece of art isn't supposed to survive the process. It's supposed to be transformed."

 

[xTrishx]

I don't give you a moment to catch your breath. I don't give you a second to recover. I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of your ear. My breath is hot, raspy, carrying the scent of the night—the smell of sex and sweat and the metallic tang of your fear and arousal.

"You want to be breathtaking?" I whisper, the words dragging through the heavy air, slow and deliberate. "Fine."

 

[xTrishx]

I reach down, my hand sliding between your legs, finding the swollen, tender flesh, and I press two fingers deep inside you. I don't stroke you. I don't caress you. I *search*. I find the spot that makes you gasp, the one that makes your back arch, and I rub it. I rub it hard, fast, relentless. I don't stop until your eyes roll back, until you're gasping for breath, until you're clinging to me, begging for the mercy that I refuse to give.