local x-men enthusiast

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now:

Instead, he's slow and deliberate. He's had precious things slip through his fingers before—it makes sense that he'd want to drag this out now that he has you.

You're left hypnotized by the pace he sets. Fingers graze your arm just so, tracing each goosebump that forms on your skin thanks to his touch. Thumb only slightly touching your bottom lip, his gaze glued to the way he coaxes them to part.

It's slow when he first leans in to kiss you, too. The room is so quiet you almost can't hear him breathe, except for the little hitch in his breath when your lips slot against his. One might call it chaste if they viewed it, but being on the receiving end, you think it's dirty—the drag of his tongue, slowly slipping into your mouth, the snake of his hand up your chest. The long, low growl that escapes him when he feels you cling onto his shirt, your tongue brushing against his in a wet kiss.

Somehow it feels like he's trying to cheat time, touching you as if you're in slow motion, because all he wants is just to milk this moment for every drop of pleasure it's worth.

He's patient even as he sinks his cock into you, even as you squirm and writhe, wanting—no, needing more. He hovers on top of you, crowding you while you melt into the sheets. Hand steadily presses on your hip to still you, forcing you to feel every vein on his hard length as he feeds his inches into your slick heat, as if a demand for you to memorize them. On his part, he's licking his lips like he can taste the moment, darkened eyes roving your naked figure, painting fire on your skin.

"So fucking tight."

You whine.

"Look so good like this."

His words are slow too, rumbly and guttural in his chest, moreso than his usual speech. They coil around you, bending you to his wants as he takes you, pumping slowly in and out of you.

"L-Logan," you cry out, frustrated at how leisurely he's taking this. Nails on his back tell him you're restless. "Please..."