Greedy Girl

Her hips shift under my hand, tilting instinctively to meet each circling pass of my thumb, the muscles of her thigh taut as wire beneath my palm. I draw her apart with easy force, holding her open with a proprietary grip as I work her clit with exquisite patience—never too fast, never too hard, just the steady, knowing pressure that makes her breath stutter and catch, compounding the tension with every second. The room is still, the hush of dawn crowded out by the swells of her pleasure, calls and responses echoing off bare plank walls, and I drink in every sound she gives me like a dying man at a spring. Her hips begin to writhe, knees bracketing my torso as her body bows off the mattress, seeking more friction, more contact, more of whatever I’m giving her.

It’s almost comical, how quickly the feral edge of desire takes over—how Lyla, the same wolf who would bite my fingers off for teasing her in daylight, is now fully at my mercy, clawing at my arm and dragging lines down my forea