Devoured by the Artist’s Fiery Plume: A Red Confession of Raw Surrender
The Paris hotel suite hummed with forbidden heat. Velvet curtains framed the Eiffel Tower’s glow. He lounged on the chaise, the artist-writer, his fingers tracing an invisible plume. I entered, pulse already hammering. His latest words had scorched me—those defenses against critics, that panache rising higher. ‘Your plume,’ I whispered, voice cracking. ‘It defies extinction.’ His eyes locked mine. Dark. Hungry. Skin prickled. Air thickened. I stepped closer. Heart thundered. Sweat bloomed under silk blouse. His gaze stripped me. ‘Tell me your red confession,’ he murmured. Fingers brushed my wrist. Fire shot up my arm. Breath hitched. Desire coiled low, red-hot, devouring reason. I confessed tones—aggressive, wanting to drown in his ink; amical, feverish nights envied; truculent, craving the feast of his style. He rose. Towering. Heat radiated. My nipples hardened. Thighs clenched. Urgency gripped. No turning back. Lips parted. The fever peaked. Everything turned crimson.
His mouth claimed mine. Savage. Teeth nipped. Tongues battled. Hands ripped blouse open. Buttons scattered. Cool air kissed bare skin. Then his palms, rough, possessive. Cupped breasts. Thumbs circled peaks. Moan escaped. Pushed him back. Suit jacket off. Shirt torn. Chest bare, muscled from nights wrestling words. I dropped to knees. Zipper down. His plume sprang free. Thick. Veined. Throbbing. Salt-tang hit tongue. Swallowed deep. Gagged. Loved it. His fists in hair. Thrust hips. Fucked my mouth. Tears streamed. Heart raced feral. Stood. Shoved to bed. Skirt hiked. Panties shredded. Legs spread wide. Plunge. Filled utterly. Stretched. Burned. Thrusts brutal. Bed slammed walls. Nails clawed his back. Blood scent mixed sweat. ‘Harder,’ I gasped. He obeyed. Savage. Unfiltered. Skin slapped skin. Breasts bounced. Core clenched. Wave built. Multiplied. Exploded. Screamed. He roared. Flooded hot. Collapsed. Shuddered. Total possession. Blaze consumed all.
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