Koa
There's an art to life's distractions
A pop song indeed, though one with a beat rather than lyrics, steadily thrummed by eager fingers against the heat of her core. He bites his lip as her face contorts, more than willing to press eagerly into her searching hands, to be baited by the supple leg. It won't take much effort from Flora to undo the ties of Koa's shorts, nor to slide them down over tanned hips that all but beg to thrust into her, bridge that mercilessly tantalizing gap between their shared desires.
He shudders at the first true stroke of his cock, momentarily losing focus on her pleasure as a wave of it hits him. But blank lust gives way to an eager grin, heady with the challenge as he steels his body against the siren song of her cunt. There's a fight to it now, an unspoken competition to maintain composure while the other does their fucking best to crumble all defenses - to be the one who is begged for more, instead of the one who begs. And Koa, well, he's a proud young man: he isn't about to let Flora gain the upper hand. His fingers move in time with hers, or maybe hers with his; it's hard to know who's in control now, where the blurred lines of their hormonal instincts overlap and intersect.
But gods, it's hard to keep himself off of her, out of her, especially when she lies beneath him like cool water on a summer day. Left hand still tangled in Flora's hair, Koa presses his lips against her neck, moaning frustration and desire and unbridled need against her supple skin. His thumb still rubs around her clit, but his fingers have vacated her pussy, leaving her open to make that critical move, to round the base they're dancing on and bring the whole thing crashing home.
He shudders at the first true stroke of his cock, momentarily losing focus on her pleasure as a wave of it hits him. But blank lust gives way to an eager grin, heady with the challenge as he steels his body against the siren song of her cunt. There's a fight to it now, an unspoken competition to maintain composure while the other does their fucking best to crumble all defenses - to be the one who is begged for more, instead of the one who begs. And Koa, well, he's a proud young man: he isn't about to let Flora gain the upper hand. His fingers move in time with hers, or maybe hers with his; it's hard to know who's in control now, where the blurred lines of their hormonal instincts overlap and intersect.
But gods, it's hard to keep himself off of her, out of her, especially when she lies beneath him like cool water on a summer day. Left hand still tangled in Flora's hair, Koa presses his lips against her neck, moaning frustration and desire and unbridled need against her supple skin. His thumb still rubs around her clit, but his fingers have vacated her pussy, leaving her open to make that critical move, to round the base they're dancing on and bring the whole thing crashing home.
To somehow escape the burning weight, the art of scraping through
