Morgan Myst

PINK

UNDIES

Fan in the corner just pushes it around in lazy circles, useless. Your shirt clings to the soft swell of your belly, to the undersides of your breasts, dark patches blooming wherever fabric meets skin. Shorts have ridden up, cotton stuck to the backs of your thighs every time you shift. You’re liquid with it, slow ooze of heat between your legs, behind your knees, at the nape of your neck where sweat gathers and drips.

Johnny’s worse. Or better, depending how you look at it. Stripped down to thin grey briefs that do nothing to hide the heavy curve of his cock resting thick along his thigh, the fabric gone dark and clinging where sweat’s soaked through. He’s sprawled on the couch, doesn’t give a single fuck who sees, one leg hooked over the arm, head tipped back, throat working as he drains the last of a bottle of water. When he catches you staring he grins, crooked, boyish, dimples carving deep, teeth flashing sharp.

“Ach, look at ye,” he says. “Starin’ like ye want a taste even while yer meltin’. C’mon, doe. Got an idea.”

He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the freezer door yank open, the sharp crack of ice trays breaking free. When he comes back his big hands are full of cubes already weeping meltwater, dripping between his fingers onto the floorboards in little wet spots. “Floor’s cooler than that couch. On yer back for me.”

You go because the promise of cold is too much, and he guides you down with a palm between your shoulder blades, settling you on the rug over the tiles, floor kissing your overheated skin. He kneels between your spread thighs, one knee braced solid, and holds up a single cube between thumb and forefinger.

“Gonna cool ye down proper,” he murmurs, and the first touch lands at the hollow of your throat.

The shock punches the air from your lungs. Cold, so fucking cold against skin that’s been baking for hours. Drags it slow, deliberate, down the line of your throat, over your collarbones, the cube melting fast, rivulets chasing after it, soaking into the neckline of your shirt until the fabric goes translucent and clings. Your nipples tighten, stiff peaks dragging against the wet cotton, and he sees, grin widening, edges going sharp.

Tugs the shirt down with his free hand, baring your breast, circles the tight bud with the ice until you arch clean off the floor with a whine. Does the other the same, alternating until both nipples are aching, flushed dark, water running in cool trails down your ribs to pool under the small of your back. Makes your thighs twitch wider around his knee, makes the heat between your legs throb harder, slicker.

“Pretty thing,” he says, voice gone low and rough. “All pebbled up and drippin’ already. That for the cold or for me, hen?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just hooks his fingers in your shorts and underwear, drags them down and off. The air feels hotter against your exposed cunt, swollen and slick, and then the ice is there, right against your slit, dragged slow from entrance to clit and back again.

Rips a moan out of you, hips bucking up into the cold, and he holds you down with one broad palm on your belly while he works the shrinking cube in tight circles over your clit until it’s throbbing, until you’re dripping more than just meltwater down the cleft of your arse.

When the cube’s gone he replaces it with his mouth, tongue broad and flat, licking up everything the ice left behind, sucking your clit between his lips with a groan that vibrates straight through you.

Stubble scrapes the soft skin of your inner thighs. His hands keep you spread, thumbs digging into the give of your flesh, and you come like that, thighs clamping around his head while his name fractures on your tongue.

He pulls back with his mouth shiny, that sharp toothed grin still in place, and wipes his chin on the back of his wrist. “Yer turn, doe. Fair’s fair.”

He stretches out beside you on the rug, briefs tented now, the head of his cock straining dark against the fabric, a wet spot blooming where precome’s soaked through.

You push up on shaky arms, grab a fresh cube, and start at his throat, watch his head tip back, Adam’s apple bob as the cold hits. Drag it down over the flat planes of his chest, over the tight peaks of his nipples, feeling them pebble under the ice. He hisses, hips twitching, that thick cock jumping in his briefs.

Lower, following the dark trail of hair down his stomach. You tug the briefs down and his cock springs free, flushed, heavy, the head glistening.

Run the ice right over it, base to tip, and he curses sharp and filthy, hips lifting clean off the floor as the cold hits sensitive flesh. The cube melts fast against his heat, water running down over his balls, and you chase it with your tongue, lapping up the melt, then taking the head into your mouth, sucking slow and wet while another cube rolls over the tight skin of his sac.

He groans, one big hand fisting in your hair. “Fuck- yer mouth, hen. Gonnae make me spill if ye keep that up.”

You hum around him, the vibration making his thighs tense hard, and work the last of the ice lower, rolling it behind his balls until he’s cursing again, hips rolling up into your mouth in short, helpless thrusts.

When you pull off he flips you, settles his weight between your thighs, cock drags hot and heavy through against your cunt, the head catching at your entrance, and he pushes in slow, stretching you open inch by inch until he’s buried, hips flush to yours. The burn is sweet, perfect, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into sweat slick skin as he starts to move- deep, rolling thrusts that grind the base of his cock against your clit with every stroke.

The heat’s still there, thick between your bodies, but he reaches for another cube, holds it right where he’s fucking you, lets it melt against your clit. Cold water mixes with the wet sounds of skin on skin, his cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, and your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he pants, words slurring with want, dimples flashing even now. “Take it, doe. Take all o’ me. Fuckin’ perfect- made for this, for me.”

You come again around him, walls fluttering and clenching tight, and he follows with a low groan, hips stuttering as he spills deep, hot pulses filling you while the last of the ice melts between you, water cooling the feverish skin.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays buried, softening slow, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in while sweat and meltwater cool between your bodies. His thumb strokes lazy circles on your hip.

“Still hot, hen?” he asks, voice lazy, teasing, crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Or did we beat it?”

You laugh, breathless, fingers tracing the sweat at the nape of his neck. “Think we might need another round.”