thoughts are being thunk about Valarr goody-two-shoes who is just sooooo uninhibited in bed.
Doing the things pretty princes like him aren’t supposed to, aren’t given a manual, and things that would downright scandalise everyone who knew you. If they knew what you had done with Valarr. What you let him do to you.
He is a relentless lover. Experimental. Attentive. Shameless when he pries his fingers inside your knickers in high-end clubs when you’re ordering drinks. You feel the cool metal of his ring against your clit and you have to bite the inside of your before even looking at anyone. By the end of the night you are a sensate, quivering mess, already leaking when you get inside his car and get on top of him, pulling at his belt and taking him right there, in the back of his car like a fucking hippie.
Valarr is attentive inside your bedroom. Methodical when he waits, waits and waits with your walls squeezing tight around his length and your voice reduced to a hoarse whisper—to hit that one place that makes you see stars in closed spaces. He's charting out his favorite sounds, he's making an inventory of your come-face.
He is experimental when he takes you in front of his heirloom mirror just after shower; You have to steady yourself on the frame of the mirror, watching the soft, effervescent clouds forming on the glass from your combined breaths. The silver strand is almost translucent when it's wet. Look at you, he gasps into your ear. His stubbles tickle your cheeks. He thrusts so deep you bulge forward, your cheeks red and your breaths all spent out.
Look at us, he groans. Mismatched eyes on you. So fucking perfect. Can’t fucking believe... His speech gets muffled when you really pick your pace though; you like watching the scarlet flush on the nape of his neck and your faces—contorted into helpless, relentless bliss. Moans like gasps. Your skirt gets bunched up—not taken off. And the moment you realise that you like it. You like the fact that he’s fresh out of shower and the sight of you in your work clothes makes him so feral he has to rush across the room and pull off his towel and have you this instant. You realise you like the hurry of it, the desperation, the animal-hunger you never knew you had in you—you come almost as soon as he enters you with a moan loud enough to be heard across the room. His hand sneaks in your shirt, palming your breasts, petting them like his favorite toy. He comes right after, ten seconds after. And the bashful, beautiful smile—this is the first time it happened. You make me hungry, darling. Make me needy.