Shared Love Language

Alison stepped through the door and found Little Puck waiting with the kind of quiet invitation that needed no words. A few moments later she was in the back room, face down, bare skin against the warm sheet. Puck's palms moved first—sliding oil along Alison's shoulders, down the curve of her spine, spreading heat and pressure that made Alison's breath catch and release again. Skin-on-skin, the slick glide grew slower, then firmer, then unmistakably indulgent as Puck's hands wandered lower. They lingered at the swell of Alison's ass, parted her thighs, traced the wet seam already slick with something besides oil. Soft gasps turned into needful sounds. Puck pressed closer; Alison answered without thinking, arching to meet each new touch, every deliberate thrust of fingers and the slow, wet grind of bodies learning one another. Words dissolved into shared rhythm and skin sliding against skin until they were nothing but breath, wet friction, and release.