June 2025

My days usually passed in sculpted precision, chiseled into predictable hours, each one echoing the last with the dispassionate reliability of the moon in her silver circuit. But with the sun lording high in its midsummer blaze and the school bell silenced by the first weeks of freedom, a rare and decadent loophole appeared, one unclaimed and unscheduled. A slip in the knit of my usual order.

I had spent the week crafting my surprise for Jack with the meticulous deceit of a seductress trained in espionage, every glance a lure, every word lacquered in sweet, forgettable innocence. My questions were corseted in charm, cinched tight with veiled meaning, each one designed to leave no trace, not even the faintest perfume of suggestion.

The act of packing evolved into something decadent. Each item I laid into the case was selected with the ache of exquisite restraint, fingers trailing across silk and leather, tucking them away until my summons. Every fold was a promise. Every clasp, a waiting dare. My own breath grew shallow, and tingles raced over my skin with the anticipation curling between my ribs.

Beneath the surface, my Inner Goddess stirred and stretched, all lithe and silvered intent. After a week of denial, she was all sheathless claw, her breath molten, her hunger sharpened to a blade. She prowled the borders of my civility, brushing against the brittle gates of decorum with a decadent patience.

I would let her have the reins. 

He wouldn’t see it coming. And that, of course, was the delicious crux of it all.

When the hour arrived, I refused to trespass upon his sacred time with his yearling. No, I lingered at the edge of it, hidden around a corner until his timely departure. When at last I pulled into Jack’s vacant drive, I unloaded in hushed delight, tucking the car away like a secret lover beneath the cloak of privacy. It had all gone perfectly to plan.

Competent fingers saw to my sustenance. I anointed myself, ran a brush through my sapphire curls, and added a touch of blush to my cheeks. I slipped into the cerulean lace one-piece he had purchased weeks ago…a garment he had not yet had the privilege to witness on flesh. It clung to me like a confession too delicious to keep, catching at the swell of my hips, the soft valley between my breasts, the fragile place at the curve of my spine. It was delicate as moth wings, but there was nothing innocent about it. 

There would be no god to save him from what I’d become.

In the silence of the Great Hall, my heart did not flutter from nerves. No, it galloped with anticipation, every beat a drum calling him to me. Hours unfurled like petals. I strained to catch the grind of gravel, the exhale of tires on stone. And then…I heard him. The low grind of wheels, the soft halt of unsuspecting motion. He was here. And every thread I’d spun now pulled tight.

I arranged myself with calculated abandon upon the couch, draped in nothing but that wicked scrap of lace and the sin of longing. Ankles demurely crossed, arms looped behind me, my spine a perfect line of poised defiance, I perched on the couch, just in sight of the front door. A sly, serpentine smile curled my lips, knowing I was in his direct line of sight. He had no idea I was here.

The truck door thudded. Footsteps approached, worn, weary, oblivious.

My Inner Goddess arched one wicked brow. Oh, but he would not be weary for long…

Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven.

The key turned in the lock, five, four, and my toes curled at the delicious audacity of it.

The creak of the door was a prelude, a moan before the first touch. By the time it swung open, my pulse had become unbearable, a tidal pull in my throat.

He stepped into the dimness, the doorway yawning behind him like a threshold between lives.

“Hi, handsome,” I purred, low, slow, thick as spiced honey, candlelight illuminating me from behind.

His head snapped up from the cat shrieking by his feet, demanding his undivided attention, ignoring the blasted creature entirely, as his eyes whipped across the room and caught fire on the sight of me.

“What are you doing here?” he stammered, awe bruising the edges of disbelief. “You’re…how…how are you here?!”

I tilted my head, lashes heavy as secrets.

“Is that really the question you want to be asking right now?” I murmured, undulating just slightly as he advanced. I let the final syllable drip from my lips like a challenge dressed in perfume.

He was on me in a breath. Feral. Consuming. Mine.

The door slammed behind him with the reverberation of a war drum, but his hands found me before the echo had died. One anchored at the nape of my neck, not merely holding, but consecrating, as though his loneliness had carved a place that only I could fill. The other plunged into the dark fall of my hair, fingers tangling with greedy disbelief, his thumb tracing an unrelenting rhythm into the tender hollow of my throat.

Pulling back, his gaze devoured me. 

“You wore this,” he rasped, voice frayed and awed.

“I did,” I breathed, lips ghosting into a smile more sin than sincerity.

Then his mouth crushed mine, and I melted into him, like wax too close to flame, begging to be remade.

Then there was, a pause. A necessary interlude, breath-catching and vexingly rational, as we retrieved my vehicle from its clandestine post around the corner. The sensible part of me stewed over the threat of a tow, while the other part quailed at the thought of prowling back in the inked hours before dawn bound for work. On our return, Jack disappeared for a brief rinse, sloughing off the day’s heat and humidity in the shower. I welcomed the lull…but every tick of his absence strung itself along my nerves like a violin bow drawn too slow, friction and longing thrumming beneath my skin.

When he emerged, the candlelight clung to his damp bronzed torso in trembling golds droplets. My breath stuttered to a halted even as my fingers reached for him of their own accord.

He closed the distance between us in three strides and swept me up with a hunger so complete it eclipsed gravity. The moan that tore loose from my throat was indecent, a sound that certainly did not belong to daylight. My eyes rolled, lips parted in slack need as I clung to him, my thighs locking tight around his hips, unyielding as a seal.

He kissed me then, not sweetly, not gently, but with the ravenous heat of a man starved. Seven nights’ worth of solitude poured into that press of lips, that bite and suck and drag. My Inner Goddess sighed, all fangs and satin, entirely pleased. She filed away a note with wicked satisfaction: his hours at the gym had not been in vain.

Then I was on my back, scooting along the sheets as he stalked toward me, pantherine, pupils dilated, breath slow and purposeful.

And then his mouth was everywhere.

My lips. My throat. The hollow of my collarbone. Down to the breathless rise of my sternum, then lower, to the swell of my breast, where his fingers parted cerulean lace with exquisite care, as though unveiling a marvel, a present too rare to rush.

I arched beneath him, sinuous and aching. His tongue circled the peak of my nipple with a touch just this side of cruel, and pleasure bloomed beneath my skin like crushed dark violets.

My hand slid between us, searching. Claiming. When I found him, heavy and velvet-smooth, I curled my fingers with slow deliberation, teasing, rolling one tender jewel between my thumb and forefinger, savoring the fruit no well-bred woman would dare admit to desiring. He did not stop his feast, but I felt the sound in him. A groan, subterranean and seismic, vibrating in his chest and spilling into the hollow of my throat.

My chuckle was sultry and impish, lips grazing the curve of his ear. “I missed this,” I murmured, words plush with implication. My hand tightened, both jewels cradled in my palm, and I pulled, carefully hovering on the exquisite brink where pleasure begins to fracture into pain.

Releasing his jewels, I sought his envious length, my fingers beginning their languid strokes, each one curling tighter, wrapping possessively around that glorious shaft, coaxing him to full hardness with strokes designed to tease and torment. He shuddered beneath my touch.

When neither of us could bear the wait any longer, I arched my hips in offering, guiding his slick crown through the gossamer heat nestled between my thighs, dragging him mercilessly through my folds, coating him, beckoning him, daring him to claim me.

And then…He sank into me, an invasion, holy and consuming.

A single thrust. Slow. Profound. The stretch was molten pleasure, so rich it nearly tipped into pain, my breath caught, spine bowed, lips parted in soundless rapture as I clung to the bed, to the air, to him. Inch by deliberate inch, he filled me. Reclaimed me. Undid me.

And then he stilled, hilt-deep, body pressed flush against mine. I felt his heartbeat within him echoing the frantic rhythm of my own. My body nearly wept around him. My breasts ached, nipples hard beneath the scrape of lace, nerves alight from scalp to ankle. Even the fine hairs at my neck stood on end, as if they too were gasping. My toes curled, helpless and awestruck in their bliss.

And then…he moved. Familiar, yes, but only in the way one remembers fire: by being set alight.

He knew every topography of my undoing, the angle that unraveled me like ribbon, the thrust that detonated my vision into blinding white. He bent me like parchment beneath his hands, knees framing my shoulders as he plunged with surging devastation, so deep I swore I could feel him echoing against my spine. I seized the arches of my own feet, spreading wantonly for him as he drove forward with the surgical intent of a man who had studied me like a map, and vowed to leave his mark on every trembling inch.

The room pulsed with sound, slick, wet percussion melding with the breathless thrum of ambient music, our mingled gasps, the staccato of hips to flesh. The lace teddy had long since slipped askew, one breast bared to the air, then both. I felt the moment his gaze landed, hot and absolute.

The noise he made in that instant, low, guttural, primitive, was the one that always undid me. That sound tore another climax from me, like claws ripping through flesh…ragged, relentless, unavoidable.

When I could breathe again, I peeked through half-lowered lashes and saw it, the fierce voracity carved into his face as he watched my breasts rise and fall with each punishing thrust, licentious and free. That burning fixation split me open and my sharp cry rang through the heavens, a tattered sound that stilled the stars themselves.

And then…he withdrew.

His hands fumbled for grip, scrambling against sweat-slick skin, and the sudden loss of him was a phantom ache, already blooming through marrow and muscle. But I knew what came next. I turned with scandalous speed, borne of instinct and design, rising to hands and knees with the mindless grace of a thing possessed.

I positioned myself before the long mirror, a witness of indulgence, a reflection of hedonism. I arched my back, canting my hips, gifting him the full, decadent view. The teddy clung stubbornly to one hip, obscene in its half-effort. Behind me, he paused.

He always paused here.

He took his time, oh, his cruel, exquisite time, trailing the supple head of his cock through my wetness, from front to back, again and again. A wet tease. A torment. A coronation. I whimpered, breath hitching, every part of me taut with need. But I held steady. I knew better than to rush. He always made it worth the wait.

He claimed me.

One thrust, brutal and unforgiving. The force of it drove my elbows forward, crushed my cheek into the sheets. I bit down on my knuckle, desperate to contain the moan that tore from my chest as he set a pace made for ruination. His hips slapped into mine, hands grasping tight at my waist, dragging me back into each punishing movement.

My body was molten, liquified and unmade beneath him. Every thrust a punctuation, a decadent sentence scrawled along the length of my spine. I lifted on my elbows, adjusting the angle. My breasts swung heavily beneath me, a pendulum of pure sensation. My knees burned against the sheets, tingling beneath the effort to stay upright, to stay offered.

Within, my Inner Goddess clawed at her gilded bars,gleaming and eyes wild with bestial lust need. She licked her ruby lips and watching the reflection as she soared.

The sound of us, wet, raw, delirious, flooded the room. A symphony of possession. Every time he pulled back, just far enough to tease that aching emptiness, I whimpered for more.

And then, he caught sight of me in the mirror.

My face. My ruin. The open-mouthed wreckage of a woman devoured by the overwhelming masculine force.

His savage exhale of satisfaction was raw, primal, and devastating.

I lifted my head, lips parted in a grin I couldn’t suppress all feral and feminine fatale. In the reflection: a bronze god rose behind me, his powerful frame carved in firelight and shadow. My breath tangled in my throat at the sight of him, shoulders broad and golden, that sculpted torso narrowing to wicked Adonis angles I could barely glimpse beneath the lush, pale curve of my own flesh.

My Inner Goddess moaned, not from modesty, but from irreverent delight. At the contrast of us. His sun-warmed skin against the alabaster sweep of mine. The sharp, rhythmic slap of hips into softness. The way my derriere jiggled with every invasion, so lush and wanton, it was obscene. It was art. And it was utterly, unapologetically ours.

The mirror held everything. The sheen of sweat on my spine. The way my fingers knotted in the sheets like talons. The flushed bloom rising across my throat. The wild tangle of hair clinging to damp cheeks. The slender vein at my temple, pulsing with desire.

I watched myself come undone again, and again, mouth slack in gratitude, offering silent thanks for this moment, this ache, this exquisite, ferocious love. For the look in his eyes when he first saw me. For the ragged wonder of being wanted like this.

A low, whimpering cry broke loose as I endured wave after wave of rolling climax, muffled by linen and lust. Jack coaxed yet another shuddering release from the tender hollow of my soul, relentless in his devotion to my undoing. My body trembled beneath his, wrung out and bliss-struck, all sensation and surrender. Boneless. Worshipped. Wrecked.

Later, we collapsed into one another, aglow and tangled in the ruin of shared rapture. The air was heavy with sweat, warmth, and something hushed and human, sanctified in its own vernacular. Our bodies had whispered, but now it was our words that fed us.

We spoke for what felt like endless hours.

It was as if a dam had broken, every story hoarded, every half-baked confession, every joke orphaned in the limbo of unsent messages, came tumbling out in a honeyed deluge. We talked. We touched. We touched again. Laughter laced through the room like ribbons through corset stays, looping us tighter into each other with every breath.

Eventually, he curled behind me, an eternal big spoon. His limbs wrapped around mine, anchoring me in the slow tide of post-ecstasy. My eyes drooped, but sleep evaded me. My mind fluttered open again and again, recollecting one more nugget of information, and then another. And another.

He was the same. I felt it in the way he inhaled, then murmured into the shell of my ear, “Oh, and did I tell you what happened Tuesday?”

I laughed, low and drowsy. “No, love. You didn’t.” And maybe I wouldn’t remember it come morning, but I didn’t care. I was drifting to the lull of his voice, wrapped in stories and skin and the sweet musk of us.

The last thing I remember was his breath warming the nape of my neck, his legs tangled through mine, and the wordless sound of my name spoken with that sacred hush that lovers reserve for just before dreams.The evening closed not with climax, but with quiet. Tender kisses. Wandering fingertips. Murmured nothings that meant everything.

It might have ended there.

But my Inner Goddess, insatiable wretch that she is, rose long before the sky began to pale. The stars still hung heavy in their muricate thrones when her hunger stirred. No trinket toy from my little drawer could placate her.

So my hand wandered the planes of his tight body.

He was warm in my grasp, heavy with sleep and not the slightest promise of waking. I stroked him slowly, reverently, a silent invocation curled within each languid pass of my palm. Wake, beloved, not from dreams, but into this. Into me.

In the gray hush before dawn, he stirred, a dark silhouette moving within darker shadows. Barely more than a sigh of motion. But it was enough. That slight flex of heat blooming across his stomach, the slow swell beneath my touch, it was permission unspoken.

And I did not wait.

I straddled his hips in the hush of dawn, that early-morning ache carving itself between my thighs like thirst. My Inner Goddess licked her lips and swore she would be gentle, though we both knew better. My hand guided him, the broad crown of him nudging at the edge of me, and I gasped, already slick, yearning so intense I thought myself mad.

I did not take him inch by inch.

I devoured him as I sunk my weight onto the fullness of his hips.

My body moved with the desperate grace of a siren on borrowed time, the call of the shower a distant echo already forsaken. I whispered, not just to him, but to her, to the greedy goddess curled beneath my ribs, and to the stars still clinging to their pale thrones beyond the gauzy veil of the windowpane, that this would be enough. Just a taste. A sip from the chalice.

Tonight, we would feast. We would take from him until we were spent, until the ache between my thighs was no longer a prayer but a memory.

But though my heart was willing to slow down, to answer the demands of responsibility, my Inner Goddess was not.

So I rode him in the hush of early morning, blindly, beautifully, breath catching in gasps that barely belonged to me. Moans, not minutes, marked the hour. I counted heartbeats instead of time, every slow thrust a promise, every sigh a tether. Biding. Savoring. Preparing for the fall of dusk when desire would again demand its due.

Traitorously, the world pulled at me…its to-do lists and obligations, its dull arithmetic of duty. With my Inner Goddess huffing in irate displeasure, I slipped from his warmth, gathering myself piece by bitter piece. My lips still buzzed with unspoken things. My body sang with the ache of want, every nerve a slow-burning ember.

I left a kiss in the sacred space between his brows.

I would return.

And until nightfall, I would carry the memory of him on every inch of me, his imprint, his scent, his strength…the phantom lover clinging to my thighs and throat and soul.

Counting the seconds.

One…two…three…four…

Until next time, XO, Elsie