Her legs are shaking,
quivering proof of the storm he left raging inside her.
Her thighs still pulse with the memory of his thrusts,
her soaked flesh clenching greedily,
as if trying to pull him back in,
to trap the heat, the hardness, the hunger.
She is drenched
sweat, desire, and his possession dripping from her skin,
her body a battlefield where pleasure
struck like lightning,
each wave tearing her open
and drowning her in its flood.
The storm has passed, but she aches for its return
for the merciless rhythm of his hips,
for the weight of him pressing her down,
for the raw claim that left her screaming his name.
In that space, she is nothing but need,
a vessel of moans and tremors,
devoured and consumed,
her soul unraveling like a ribbon
around his hunger.
And she wants it again
to be broken, taken,
and rebuilt only in his fire.
