Touchmywife
Caitlin Bell, Johnny Love Pic(s)
The sun-warmed wood of the dock pressed agat his back, a solid contrast to the slick, yielding flesh beneath his palms. A low groan escaped him, not from the day’s labor but from the primal rhythm his body had found, a deep, driving cadence that made the world shrink to this single, fluid motion. Every thrust was a conquest, met with a gasp that was swallowed by the thick, salty air, the scent of their sweat mingling with the briny perfume of the sea. Her nails dug into the corded muscles of his shoulders, a sharp, delicious punctuation to the steady, pounding beat that connected them. He watched the way her hair fanned out like dark seaweed, her head tipping back to expose the elegant, straining line of her throat, a silent offering. The sound of their joining was a wet, rhythmic slap, a secret music underscored by the gentle lap of water agat the pilings below. He could feel the tightening coil deep within his gut, a building pressure that threatened to shatter his control with each powerful, inward surge. Her legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, her whispered pleas a desperate mantra urging him on, closer to the brink. In that final, shuddering release, there was only the raw, consuming fire of it, a perfect, fleeting capture more satisfying than any prize the ocean could ever yield.
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