I wouldn’t just take you. I would worship you, devour you, and ruin you in the slowest, most intoxicating way possible. My hands would move over your skin like they were meant to, like they belonged there, tracing every curve, every dip, every place that makes you tremble beneath my touch. I would make you feel so wanted, so undeniably mine, that you would forget the world existed outside of this moment.
I would start slow, teasing, keeping you on the edge, watching the way your breath catches every time I shift deeper inside you. My lips would find your neck, dragging over the heat of your skin, kissing, biting, murmuring against you, telling you how good you feel wrapped around me, how perfect you are, how I never want to stop.
I would pin your wrists above your head, locking my eyes with yours, making sure you see how much I want you, how much I need you. Every movement, slow and deliberate, deep and unrelenting, making you feel every inch of me, again and again, until you are shaking, gasping, clinging to me like I am the only thing keeping you grounded.
I would whisper against your lips, my voice low, teasing. You feel that? How perfectly you take me? How you are made for me? My mouth would claim yours, swallowing your moans, drinking in every sound, every plea, until you forget your own name and only know mine.
And I would not stop. Not until your body gives out, not until you are trembling, completely undone beneath me, your body etched with the memory of my touch. Not until you understand, without a single doubt, that you are wanted. Desired. Mine.
Because this is not just about taking you. It is about owning every inch of your pleasure, leaving you aching, ruined, and craving more.
