For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The silence that descended after Peter ended the call was heavier, more charged than before. The ghost of his aunt's voice, a fragile thread of the real world, still seemed to hang in the air, a stark contrast to the raw, intimate reality of their situation. He was naked on the floor of his girlfriend's dorm room, his body a canvas of her touch, his mind a tangled web of fresh lies.
He looked down at Diana. She was still kneeling before him, her expression a perfect, unreadable mask of calm, but her eyes held a deep, knowing fire. The wicked, triumphant glint from moments before was still there, but now it was tempered with a profound, almost tender understanding. She saw the guilt, the anxiety, the lie he had just been forced to tell, and she was not deterred. She was his sanctuary, and the gates were still open.
"So," she purred, her voice a low, throaty thing that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. "Where were we?"
A shudder, part residual anxiety, part overwhelming desire, ran through him. "I think," he breathed, his voice a ragged, helpless thing, "you were about to make me forget my own name."
Her smile was a slow, devastating thing. "A worthy goal."
She lowered her head, and the outside world, with its responsibilities and its lies, ceased to exist. Her mouth was a reclamation, an act of deliberate, focused worship that was designed not just to give pleasure, but to erase everything else. Her tongue was a masterful instrument, each slow, deliberate lick and suck a brushstroke painting over the harsh lines of his anxiety. He was no longer a nephew caught in a lie, a student with a midterm, a hero with the weight of the city on his shoulders. He was just a man, and he was hers.
He let his head fall back against the soft rug, his hands fisting in the thick pile, and surrendered completely to the sensation. He was a tightly wound string, and she was slowly, expertly, and beautifully untuning him. He felt the familiar, inexorable build, the coiling in his gut, but this time it was different. It wasn't a frantic race to a finish line; it was a slow, meditative journey, and he wanted it to last forever.
She was a goddess of perception. She felt the subtle shift in his breathing, the tremor in his thighs that signaled he was approaching the edge. And with a control that was both maddening and divine, she pulled back, leaving him suspended on a precipice of pure, agonizing need.
He let out a low, frustrated groan, his eyes fluttering open. She was looking at him, her lips slick and swollen, her expression one of utter, confident possession.
"Not yet," she whispered. "We are not finished with our analysis."
She moved up his body, her slick, naked form a torment against his. She didn't offer her mouth for a kiss. Instead, she lay beside him, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle, and took his hand, guiding his fingers to her.
"Your turn," she commanded softly.
His own need was a roaring fire, but the need to please her, to worship her, was a tidal wave that extinguished all else. His fingers, still slick with her own wetness and the lingering coolness of the lube, found her entrance. She was so ready for him, her inner walls hot and slick, her body a testament to the power of their shared desire.
He slid two fingers deep inside her, and a low, guttural moan rumbled in her chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He moved his fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm, a deep, internal caress that mimicked the act of love itself. He watched her face, saw the waves of pleasure wash over her, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips parted. His other hand moved to her breast, his thumb circling her hard, pebbled nipple, creating a dual assault of sensation that had her hips beginning to move in a slow, grinding rhythm against his hand.
"Peter," she breathed, the name a soft, desperate prayer.
This was their secret language, a conversation held in touch and taste and sound. The muffled noises from the dorm hallway—a distant laugh, the thud of a closing door—were from a different universe, a foreign planet they had no desire to visit.
He leaned in, his mouth finding her ear, his teeth gently grazing her earlobe. "Tell me what you want," he whispered, his own voice a low, intimate rumble.
"You," she gasped, her body arching into his touch. "All of you. Now."
He withdrew his hand, leaving her with a soft cry of protest, and moved over her. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick folds. He didn't thrust. He just held himself there, letting her feel his heat, his hardness, the promise of what was to come.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a raw whisper.
She opened her eyes, and he was lost in the deep, endless blue, a universe where Aunt May and midterms and secret identities didn't exist. There was only this room, this moment, this woman.
He entered her with a single, slow, profound glide, a seamless, perfect joining that was a homecoming and an act of worship all at once. He began to move, a slow, deep, powerful rhythm that was a world away from the frantic, celebratory pace of before. This was a meditation. A sacrament.
The only sounds were the soft rasp of their breathing and the almost inaudible, slick whisper of skin against skin. He watched her face, saw every flicker of pleasure, every subtle shift in her expression. He saw the warrior melt away, the strategist dissolve, leaving only the woman, raw, vulnerable, and completely, utterly his.
He felt the deep, internal clenching that signaled her climax was approaching. He didn't quicken his pace. He went deeper, slower, drawing out the moment, wanting to live inside her pleasure for as long as he could. He saw the tears well in her eyes, tears not of sadness, but of a pleasure so intense it was an emotional release.
Her orgasm was not a cry, but a profound, silent shudder, a deep, seismic convulsion that gripped him, squeezed him, and pulled his own release from the very depths of his soul. He poured himself into her with a final, deep, shuddering thrust, his own climax a quiet, total surrender.
They lay there, their bodies still joined, the setting sun casting long, soft shadows across the room. The phone, discarded and forgotten on the floor, was silent. The outside world could wait. For now, in the quiet aftermath of their private storm, they were the only two people in the universe.
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