#bleachfemslashexchange2016

You shift your thighs and of course you are reminded, this slick and moving thing. They still tremble with the memory of her, that silver sharp tongue, those nimble fingers, those pearly teeth, those full and smiling lips. Your breath leaves on a quiver, quick and sharp and glistening. Her arm is draped comfortably across your middle, and you mourn this night. The contrast of her skin, this sort of breathtaking, this sort of pretty, this sort of brown you used to only dream about—what your imagination had never done justice—is so stark against your pale, against your faint and unimpressionable, you long to see it just one more time.

And how beautiful, the moonlight had closed in around her skin like a thin sheet of silk. It could not overtake her, it lied light and fragile atop her skin and spilled over just as you did, underneath those clever fingers. Her golden eyes gleamed brilliant and her tongue had swiped over her teeth, this electric sort of excitement shooting down your spine.

Sex is a funny thing, it cannot possibly encompass the entirety of what had transpired tonight but there is hardly any other way to explain this. Something raw, not quite tender. She had touched you with certainty, as if she’d known you before. She had pulled you in with no room for second thoughts. It was all fire, all shaking hands and whining moans. There had not been enough of the other and yet in fleeting moments there was far too much. Your voice broke for just a second and the bed was so loud, how strange to know she’s just as desperate for you as you are for her.

And such a reassurance, this unspoken promise against her inner thigh—where you know a mark the shape of your mouth will show, this dark only just visible on her. She leaves herself on you in ways you can’t on her and this is the long and short of it, always a throbbing thing at your chest. You close your lips around her nipple, or the soft underside of her breast, or the rise of her ribs, or the strong lines of her belly. You do not dare bite down for fear of marring her beauty, but revel in every nip and suck she makes at you.

In the morning, you will find dozens of them, these scattered spots you name pretty, rose petals, smudges of blush, love letters filled with promises.

Your breath leaves you, tight against your chest, and she stirs to feather a kiss along your cheekbone.

“Sleep,” she says, and her voice sounds rich, melodious. “You must be exhausted.”

This must be a testament of her certainty, her self-assuredness. She has worn you out in all the best ways, you try to curl your toes and something jumps inside of you, your muscles begging for rest. How easily she made you forget you own name.

Your reach blindly for her face, and gently pull your fingers through her hair. It’s tangled, and you wish it weren’t so dark in here anymore so you could see. You kissed her mouth so many times it must be swollen now, no? You worked at her throat for so long there must be a soft dusting of you there, no?

“Please,” you whisper, and you know exactly what you’re asking for. “I haven’t had enough of you.”

Her laugh shakes between you, and you hold your breath when her hand skims down your side, and then over your stomach. “You’re not tired yet?”

You screw your mouth shut. You hunger for more, your mouth waters at the thought of her taste on your tongue, but your body gives, jolts at the first brush of her knuckles against the crest of you.

Your voice strings up high and you grasp at the sheets, rumpled and sweaty and soft.

“Please,” you breathe, again, and she presses a grinning kiss against the end of your mouth.

“As you wish,” she says, and there are unspoken promises there, too.

.x.