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Feast
When you're given a taste of the forbidden fruit, you'll always want the entire tree. She's been given a taste, a morsel, a slice of the fruit and as expected, it created a desire so great in her that it overpowered her into a sense of false and displaced bravery.
He is her forbidden fruit, as she has inevitably and eventually become his.
She evaluates everything she does as possible moments for misbehaving. Calculating moments and spaces for stolen kisses and probably quickies, she has become an expert at risk investigations and management.
Now, although he's not about to deny the pleasure he gets from this (and the thrill and excitement too) he wants something else - something more. He wants to feast on her and not just this "snacking". It's like Chinese food, he thinks. You may have eaten a lauriat but after two hours, you're hungry again. He wants a long slow process. He wants to savor every moment, every breath, every sigh. He wants her to open up, spread out before him, tasting the secrets she hides. And he spends an unbelievable amount of time fantasizing about it. She's always there, in his fantasies. But now, when she's there, right against the wall with her legs around his waist, begging him to go deeper, commanding him to go faster, all those fantasies don't matter. Nothing matters but his name on her lips, his hands on her thighs and the tiny sounds she makes. Real sex will always be ten times better than the bullshit in his head and he'll take any kind of real sex over imagined ones.
When everything is done, she leaves with a smile and a pat on his cheek. Her kiss is a promise of a repeat performance in another location. He's left with a sliver of hope and the glory of her taste on her tongue.
He is her forbidden fruit, as she has inevitably and eventually become his.
She evaluates everything she does as possible moments for misbehaving. Calculating moments and spaces for stolen kisses and probably quickies, she has become an expert at risk investigations and management.
Now, although he's not about to deny the pleasure he gets from this (and the thrill and excitement too) he wants something else - something more. He wants to feast on her and not just this "snacking". It's like Chinese food, he thinks. You may have eaten a lauriat but after two hours, you're hungry again. He wants a long slow process. He wants to savor every moment, every breath, every sigh. He wants her to open up, spread out before him, tasting the secrets she hides. And he spends an unbelievable amount of time fantasizing about it. She's always there, in his fantasies. But now, when she's there, right against the wall with her legs around his waist, begging him to go deeper, commanding him to go faster, all those fantasies don't matter. Nothing matters but his name on her lips, his hands on her thighs and the tiny sounds she makes. Real sex will always be ten times better than the bullshit in his head and he'll take any kind of real sex over imagined ones.
When everything is done, she leaves with a smile and a pat on his cheek. Her kiss is a promise of a repeat performance in another location. He's left with a sliver of hope and the glory of her taste on her tongue.
