Velvet Grip

She knocked like she already owned the place,
didn’t wait for an answer.
Eyes loud, dress louder
and that smile?
It needed no permission.

I didn’t ask.
I took.
Pinned her to the moment
like the night owed me something
and her skin was the receipt.

She tasted like trouble
warm, wet,
and wildly addictive.
One lick in, and I forgot
why I was supposed to behave.

Her legs wrapped around me
like promises she had no plans to keep.
But I wasn’t there for promises
I was there to ruin sleep.

She whispered sins
in a voice that dripped down my spine,
moaned like a melody
I’d sell my soul to hear again.

No poetry.
Just palms on thighs,
teeth on neck,
tongues saying what words couldn’t.

She didn’t need love.
She needed pressure.
And I gave it.

Hard.
Slow.
Deep.
Right where her silence turned to gasps
and her grip said “don’t you dare stop.”

She rode it like revenge,
arched like a weapon,
clawed like survival
and when she came
with her legs shaking,
she collapsed like the world had tilted off its axis

I didn’t make love.
I took it
and left her soaked in proof
that pleasure has no rules
when two bodies speak fluently.

K.

aftermath:

Now she types at 3 AM,
fingers trembling on keys,?
writing messages she’ll never send
because some hungers
don’t translate to daylight.

But I know.
I know she replays it
when her sheets feel too cold,
when safe feels too small,
when she needs to remember
what it feels like
to be completely consumed.

And every time she does,
she confirms what I already know
some encounters
don’t just end.

They echo for eternity.