The thick white carpet beneath us had become a soft, swallowing sea of plush warmth, muffling every sound except the ragged, animalistic symphony of our heaving breaths and the wet, desperate slurps and smacks of our insatiable mouths.
Lila lay sprawled across my chest, her sweat-drenched skin gleaming under the fractured silver moonlight that poured through the massive glass wall, casting ethereal shadows over our tangled bodies.
Her blonde hair formed a wild, tangled halo, strands plastered to my shoulders and neck with our mingled sweat. Her lips—swollen, raw, and bruised from hours of devouring kisses—brushed my jaw in soft, worshipful grazes, each one sending electric sparks racing through my veins, reigniting the inferno of lust.
"Again," she whispered, her voice a wrecked, husky rasp thick with desperation, vibrating against my skin as she tasted of salt, jasmine, and the sharp, primal edge of her dripping need.
I answered without words—only action.
