Page 47 of Iron Roses

The sound of our bodies slapping together is wet and constant, almost violent in its rhythm. Her breath breaks in sharp, shattered gasps. Her back arches deeper with every impact. I grab her hips tighter, fingers digging in like I need to keep her from slipping away.

My chest presses to her spine, and I kiss her there—wet, open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder blades, between the knobs of her spine, dragging my tongue over her sweat-slicked skin, tasting the salt, the heat, the soft quake of her muscles under my mouth.

She shudders beneath me.

I inhale her.

Not just her skin—but her. The scent of her hair, damp and wild. The way her body grips me from the inside, clutching at mycock like she was made to take me. The rhythm of her breath, her heartbeat, her tension. I press closer, bury myself as deep as I can go, and reach forward to cup her breasts, squeezing them from behind, rough and possessive, thumbs grazing the sensitive peaks.

She moans—low and strangled—and the sound sinks straight into my spine.

And then—

Under me, her body changes—not in motion, not in form, but in essence. I blink hard, breath catching, thrust slowing. Her skin glows—deeper, flushed from within, like fire beneath marble. Her hair lengthens in seconds, strands darkening to an inky black that spills across the bed like liquid shadow. Her back narrows, delicate, not fragile but otherworldly. She turns her head to look at me.

And it’s her. Giovanna.

Not the woman I just pulled apart. Not the girl I’ve been fucking like I need her.

Her.

Eyes pale and bottomless. Beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. She smiles—not coy, not human—but with something vast behind it. Like she knows me deeper than I know myself.

My hands go still on her body.

My cock is still inside her, throbbing, twitching, but I can’t move. I can’t do anything but stare.

She rolls under me in one motion, fluid as smoke. Our bodies never separate. I fall with her, breathless, and she climbs onto me with the grace of a dream. Her thighs straddle my hips, her cunt still gripping me, sliding down until she’s seated deep—flush against my pelvis, full with me again.

I groan.

My hands go to her hips on instinct, but she places hers over mine—guiding, stilling. Her hair falls in curtains around us, brushing my cheeks, and her eyes never leave mine. They pierce through me like memory and prophecy all at once.

She moves.

Rocks her hips—once, twice, with a smooth rhythm that makes my vision blur. Her pussy grips me in rolling waves, her body milking me with every rise and fall. I’m drowning in her, in the sensation, in the impossible intimacy of being inside something that no longer feels entirely of this world.

The bed creaks beneath us, sweat still clinging to our skin, her thighs flexing as she rides me. She rolls her hips in circles, grinding down, and I feel every inch of her slick, velvet heat stroking my cock in endless, wet waves.

I pant beneath her. My hands roam—her hips, her ribs, her waist—but they tremble.

She rides me at first, hips rolling in long, sinuous waves that pull my cock deep, then grind down hard, dragging across every inch of me. Her thighs tighten around my hips, slick with sweat, her breath shallow and controlled. Every motion of herbody is like she’s drawing something out of me. She doesn’t want to rush.

My hands twitch at her sides, needing to touch, to hold, to anchor—but she leans forward, eyes locked on mine, and takes them in hers.

She presses my palms flat against her body—guiding one to her waist, the other lower, between her thighs.

I groan as her wet, swollen clit meets my fingertips. It’s already pulsing, flushed and begging. She moves my hand in tight circles, until I find the rhythm she wants. She lets go.

I keep going.

She rides me harder.

Up and down, over and over, her cunt gripping my cock with every bounce, squeezing in wet pulses that make my hips jerk, my eyes roll back. Her breasts sway with every movement, nipples tight, sweat dripping from her throat down the valley between them. I lick my lips, dazed, panting.

She leans back, arching her spine like a bow, and fucks me, her thighs slapping against mine, our bodies soaked and loud and beautiful.

Her mouth parts, but she still doesn’t speak. Just breath, just sound. Moans. Gasps. The slap of skin. The dragging stroke of her pussy milking me with perfect rhythm.

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